Punishment aka What Is Mine

THIRTY-SEVEN

Emilie seemed smaller. She had somehow shrunk, and that irritated him. His jaw was tense; he heard his teeth grinding and tried to relax. Emilie couldn’t complain about the service. She got food.

“Why aren’t you eating?” he asked, harshly.

The child didn’t answer, but at least she tried to smile. That was something.

“You have to eat.”

The tray was slippery. The bowl of soup skidded from side to side as he bent to put it down on the floor.

“Promise me you’ll eat this?”

Emilie nodded. She pulled the duvet up, right up to her chin; he couldn’t see how thin she was anymore. Good. She stank. Even over by the door he could smell the urine. Unhealthy. For a moment he considered going over to the sink to see if she’d run out of soap. But then he decided against it. To be fair, she’d been wearing the same clothes for several weeks now, but she was hardly a baby. She could wash her underpants when she wanted to if there was soap left.

“Do you wash yourself?”

She nodded carefully. Smiled. Strange smile she had, that kid. Subservient, somehow. Womanly. The girl was only nine and had already learned to smile submissively. Not that that meant anything. Only betrayal. A woman’s smile. Again he felt a pain at the back of his jaw; he had to pull himself together. Relax. He had to regain control. He had lost it in Tromsø. Nearly. Things hadn’t quite gone according to plan. It wasn’t his fault that it was so cold. May! May and the child had been packed in as if it were midwinter. Surely it couldn’t be good for the child. But that didn’t matter now. The child was dead. He had managed to get back home; that was the most important thing. He was still in control. He took a deep breath and forced his thoughts into place, where they belonged. Why did he have this girl here?

“You watch yourself,” he said quietly.

He hated the smell of the child. He himself showered several times a day. He was never unshaven. His clothes were always freshly ironed. His mother could smell like Emilie sometimes, when the nurses were too late. He couldn’t stand it. Human decay. Degrading bodily smells that stemmed from a lack of control. He swallowed hard, his mouth filled with saliva, and his throat felt constricted and sore.

“Should I turn off the light?” he asked, and took a step back.

“No!”

She was still alive.

“No! Don’t!”

“Then you have to eat.”

In a way it was exhilarating to stand here like this. He had attached the iron door to the wall with a hook, but it could still close if he wasn’t careful. If he, for example, fell, or he lost his balance for a moment and fell toward the door, the hook would slip out of the eye and the door would slam behind him. They would both be done for. Him and the girl. He was breathing fast. He could go into the room and trust the hook. It was a solid bit of equipment; he’d made it himself. A screw eye secured deep into the wall, with an anchor to keep it firmly in place. A hook. Big. It was solid and would never jump out by itself. He walked further into the room.

Control.

The weather had let him down. He had to suffocate the child. That wasn’t supposed to happen. He hadn’t planned to abduct the boy, as he had with the other two. It was smart to do things differently each time. Confusing. Not for him, of course, but for the others. He knew that the boy slept outside for at least a couple of hours every afternoon. After an hour, it was too late. Not for him, but for the others.

It would have been better if Emilie was a boy.

“I’ve got a son,” he said.

“Mmm.”

“He’s younger than you.”

The child looked terrified. He took yet another step closer to the bed. Emilie clung to the wall. Her face was all eyes.

“You smell disgusting,” he said slowly. “Haven’t you learned how to wash yourself? You can’t come up and watch TV if you stink like that.”

She just continued to stare at him. Her face was white now, not skin-colored, not pink. White.

“You’re quite a little madam, you are.”

Emilie’s breathing was hyper fast. He smiled, relaxed.

“Eat,” he said. “It’s best you eat.”

Then he walked backward to the door. The hook felt cold against his skin. He lifted it carefully out of the screw eye. Then he let the door close slowly between him and the child. He put his hand on the light switch and was happy that he’d been smart enough to put it on the outside. He flicked the switch down. There was something peculiarly satisfying about the actual click, a pleasing resistance that made him do it several times. Off on. Off on off.

Finally he left the light on and went upstairs to watch TV.