Normal: The Most Original Thriller Of The Year. Graeme Cameron
this time; Erica draped protectively over the hooker, shushing and stroking her hair as she lay curled on the mat, shuddering from head to toe. Kerry’s babbling was only barely coherent and preoccupied with her need for some “stuff.” Her domestic situation seemed all but forgotten.
Not wishing to interrupt such a tender moment, I left them a pair of microwave mushroom stroganoffs and went to run a bath.
By Monday evening, there were clear signs of disharmony.
The junkie still had not stopped wailing, and had taken to writhing on the rubber floor like a snake with an ache. The perspiration poured from her, and she wiped it across the mat with her arms and legs, leaving an impression that could only be described as a sweat angel.
Erica had taken to pacing now, teeth clenched, arms wrapped tightly around herself as she circled the cage. She turned to face me as I entered, the hatred in her eyes replaced with a look of haunted despair. “You need to get her out of here,” she pleaded. “She’s sick, and she needs a doctor, and this noise is doing my fucking head in.” She jabbed an accusatory finger then; as a gesture from Erica this was not unremarkable, though its direction of travel raised at least one of my eyebrows. She aimed it not at me, but at the wriggling whore on the floor.
I could see her point. I only had to see Kerry for minutes at a time, and she was already getting on my nerves. It was, however, only a temporary annoyance. “She’ll be out of here by the weekend,” I promised.
“The weekend?” Erica regarded me somewhat incredulously. “Are you taking the piss? Do you think I have any idea what fucking day it is today? I don’t know whether I’ve been here a day, a week or a fucking month. I don’t even know how long she’s been here. What the fuck does the weekend mean?”
Ah, what the hell. “Well, today is fucking Monday and it’s just gone ten past six in the fucking evening. That fucking irritating creature will be out of your fucking hair by ten o’clock on Saturday fucking morning. Provided you tone down your fucking language, which is starting to wear a little bit fucking thin.”
Predictably, she told me to go fuck myself.
I’d purposely built the basement under the garage rather than the house so that I wouldn’t feel compelled to run down and check it out during every ad break. I like to keep a little distance between rest and recreation. I did, however, find the developing situation strangely fascinating, and so on Tuesday I nipped into town and purchased a closed-circuit television camera.
Erica had reverted to gently rocking the shivering hooker when I set about installing the camera above the basement door. “Why are you doing that?” she asked as I wobbled atop my stepladder, up to my elbows in power cord and co-ax.
“So I can keep an eye on you and make sure you’re all right,” I explained.
“Oh, right, like you care.” She scowled. “What, you’re not violating our human rights enough so you’ve got to watch us on the toilet now, as well, right?”
It actually hadn’t crossed my mind. “Erica, I have no interest in watching either one of you on the toilet. And if I did, I’d get a much better view if I just stood in there with you so, all things considered, I wouldn’t concern myself too much with that if I were you.”
“Where’s Kerry going at the weekend?”
“That’s none of your business. If Kerry wants to know, Kerry can ask me when she’s stopped dribbling like a baby.”
“What are you going to do to her?”
“Look...” The four screws I was holding between my inturned lips fell out, plink-plinking down each step of the ladder and scattering across the floor. “Shit, now look what you’ve done.”
“How did I do that? I’m over here, locked in this fucking cage.”
I allowed my diminishing patience to show across my face. “Erica, is there anything else I can do for you?”
She seemed to take the hint. She looked around her for a moment or two, deep in thought, before her eyes settled on the quivering wreck in her arms. “Yes,” she finally replied. “We could really do with some soap.”
It took me until just past one in the morning to install the cable, which had necessitated among other things the drilling and filling of two walls and a ceiling. By the time I’d figured out how to feed the signal into the television, it was almost two o’clock and, unsurprisingly, both subjects were asleep. Erica had not yet lowered herself to sharing the bed, and was tucked up most cozily. She had, however, managed to throw Kerry a blanket.
I tuned in over breakfast on Wednesday to find them both awake. I got the distinct impression from Erica’s demeanor that the hooker’s cold turkey had been first to rise. There was no conversation, no sound at all but for a soft, breathy whimper. After three minutes of inactivity Erica rolled off the bed and approached the toilet, whereupon she turned around and glared up into the camera. She gave it a dismissive wave, pointed at the bowl and stagily covered her eyes before taking a step back and hooking her thumbs over the top of her knickers. I flicked over to the BBC breakfast program and ate my toast.
By Wednesday evening, the cuddling and the rocking were history. After refusing a dinner of mushroom tagliatelle, Erica returned to bed to stare silently at the ceiling, while the junkie threw up and paced around the cage, clawing at her own arms with her broken nails. This made for uninspiring viewing, and I soon turned my attention to the sudoku in the newspaper. My glances at the screen became increasingly infrequent, and by ten o’clock I was reaching for the remote, rueing the time and money wasted on such a poor source of entertainment. And right then, swallowing a yawn with my finger poised over the off button, I witnessed a moment that, somehow, I sensed would come back to haunt me.
Unmoving, unblinking, she spoke so calmly and softly that mere seconds earlier, for better or worse, I would have heard only the rustling of my newspaper. “Bitch,” she said, “if you don’t sit down and shut up in the next five seconds, I will come over there and I will fucking kill you.”
Erica had begun to unravel.
* * *
On Thursday at 06:23, Erica graciously prepared her cellmate a bowl of cereal, using the fresh milk I’d provided. Kerry was lethargic and unresponsive, and at 06:46 had to be spoon-fed.
At 09:42, Kerry collapsed into a bout of uncontrollable shuddering accompanied by loud, breathless sobs. Erica wasted no time in slapping her violently across the face and demanding that she pull herself together.
At 13:39, the event was repeated, though this time one slap became two and set off a period of intense wailing. After twelve minutes, the hooker was silenced with a swift kick to the abdomen.
At 13:59, Erica sat on the edge of the bed with her head in her hands and silently wept for seven minutes, before letting herself down with, “Kerry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Which just made Kerry cry harder.
At 18:02, after an uneventful afternoon, I entered the basement and was greeted with the now-standard scene: Erica horizontal and staring, Kerry bunched up in a twitchy little ball. Neither spoke a word to me.
Thursday evening passed without further incident, and both Erica and Kerry were sound asleep by ten. With the dawn on Friday, however, came a perplexing turn of events. The hysterical hooker failed to wake up.
In her place come 6:00 a.m. was a quiet, still, steely-eyed bird of prey. She sat on her haunches against the side of the cage, silently watching Erica as she murmured and stirred, rolled slowly out of bed and headed straight for the toilet. I buttered my toast.
Erica regarded Kerry through sleepy eyes and paused only for a split second before shrugging to herself and snatching up the cereal packet. “Where’s your bowl?” she yawned.
“I’ve already eaten.”
The flat, aggressive tone made her pause longer this time. Finally, she moved to Kerry’s side, knelt down