THE BODY IN THE WINDOW
Ramsey Campbell
Back at the hotel on the Rembrandtsplein, Wood-cock wanted only to phone his wife. He let himself into his room, which was glowing with all the colors of tulips rendered lurid. Once he switched on the light, the tinges of neon retreated outside the window, leaving the walls of the small neat room full of twining tulips, which were also pressed under the glass of the dressing-table mirror. He straightened his tie in the mirror and brushed his thinning hair before lowering himself, one hand on the fat floral quilt of the double bed, into the single chair.
The pinkish phone seemed to be doing its best to deny its nature, the receiver was flattened so thin. He’d barely typed his home number, however, when it trilled in his ear and produced his wife’s voice. “Please do help yourself to a refill,” she said, and into the mouthpiece, “Brian and Belinda Woodcock.”
“I didn’t realize you had company. What’s the occasion?”
“Does there have to be one?” She’d heard a rebuke, a choice which these days he tended to leave up to her. “I’m no less of a hostess because you’re away,” she said, then her voice softened. “You’re home tomorrow, aren’t you? Have you seen all you wanted to see?”
“I didn’t want to see anything.”
“If you say so, Brian. I still think I should have come so you’d have had a female view.”
“I’ve seen things today no decent woman could even dream of.”
“You’d be surprised.” Before he had a chance to decide what that could possibly mean, Belinda went on. “Anyway, here’s Stan Chataway. He’d like a word.”
No wonder she was being hospitable if the guest was the deputy mayor, though Woodcock couldn’t help reflecting that he himself hadn’t even touched the free champagne on the flight over. He squared his shoulders and adopted a crouch not unlike a boxer’s on the edge of the chair as he heard the phone being handed over. “What’s this I’m getting from your good lady, Brian?” Chataway boomed in his ear. “You’re not really in Amsterdam.”
“Not for much longer.”
“But you didn’t want to make the trip with the rest of us last month.”
“Quite a few of my constituents have been saying what I said they’d say, that they don’t pay their council tax for us to go on junkets. And you only saw what you were supposed to see, from what I hear.”
“I wonder who you heard that from.” When the implied threat failed to scare out a response, Chataway sighed. “It’s about time you gave up looking after the rest of us so much.”
“I thought that was our job.”
“Part of the job is forging foreign links, Brian, and most of the people who matter seem to think twinning Alton with Amsterdam is a step forward for our town.”
“Maybe they won’t when they hear what I have to describe at the next council meeting.”
Chataway’s loudness had been causing the earpiece to vibrate, but when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Your lady wife may have something, you know.”
“Kindly keep her out of it. What are you implying, may I ask?”
“Just that the papers could make quite a lot of your jaunt, Brian, you cruising the sex joints and whatever else you’ve been taking in all on your lonesome. If I were you, I’d be having a word with my better half before I opened my mouth.”
“I’ll be speaking to my wife at length, thank you, but in private.” Woodcock was so enraged that he could barely articulate the words. “Please assure her I’ll be home tomorrow evening,” he managed to grind out, and slammed the phone down before it could crack in his grip.
He was sweating—drenched. He felt even grubbier than his tour of inspection had made him feel. He squeezed the sodden armpits of his shirt in his hands, then sprang out of the chair and tore off the shirt and the rest of his clothes before tramping into the bathroom. As he clambered into the bath, the swollen head of the shower released a drop of liquid that shattered on the back of his hand. He twisted the taps open until he could hardly bear the heat and force of the water, and drove his face into it, blinding himself. It was little use; it didn’t scour away his thoughts.
What had Belinda meant when she said he’d be surprised? Could she have intended to imply that he was no longer discharging his marital duty as he should? His performance had seemed to be enough for her throughout their more than twenty years together, and certainly for him. Sex was supposed to be a secret you kept, either to yourself or sharing it with just your partner, and he’d always thought he did both, kissing Belinda’s mouth and then her breasts and finally her navel in a pattern that he sometimes caught himself envisioning as a sign of the cross. Wasn’t that naughty enough for her? Wasn’t it sufficient foreplay? What did she want them to do, perform the weekly exercise in a window with the curtains open wide?
He knuckled his stinging eyes and groped around the sink for the shampoo. Surely he was being unfair to her, she couldn’t really have meant herself. He fished the sachet through the plastic curtains, gnawed off a corner, and tried to spit out the acrid, soapy taste. He squeezed the sachet, which squirted a whitish fluid onto his palm. A blob of the fluid oozed down his wrist, and he flung the sachet away, spattering the tiles above the taps as he lurched out of the bath to towel himself as roughly as he could. If he couldn’t rub away his disgust, at least he could put it to use. He was going to find something that would convince Belinda he’d had reason to protect her from the place—that no reporter would dare accuse him of enjoying—that would appall the council so much there would be no further talk of implicating Alton with Amsterdam.
He wasn’t prepared for the revulsion he experienced at the sight of his clothes scattered across the floor, the kind of trail it seemed half the films on television followed to the inevitable bedroom activity or, on the television in this room, much worse, to judge by the single moist close-up of no longer secret flesh he’d glimpsed before switching it off. He dumped the clothes in his suitcase, where no chambermaid would see them. Having dressed himself afresh, he grabbed the key and killed the lights, and saw the room instantly become suffused with colors like bruised and excited flesh—made himself stare at it until his gorge rose, because as long as he kept his revulsion intact, nothing could touch him.
He thrust the key across the counter at the blond blue-eyed male receptionist before managing to rein in his aggression. “I’m going out,” he confided.
“Enjoy our city.”
Woodcock forced himself to lean across the counter, and lowered his voice. “I’m looking for, surely I don’t need to tell you, we’re both men of the world. Something special.”
“Involving girls or boys, sir?”
The calm blue eyes were hinting that these weren’t the only possibilities, and Woodcock had to overcome an impulse to hit him with the brass bludgeon attached to the key of his room. “Girls, of course,” he snarled, and was barely able to hear or believe what he said next. “A girl doing the worst you can think of.”
“To you, what would that be, sir?”
“What do you think, I—” The man’s opinion of him couldn’t be allowed to matter, not if that interfered with his mission. Woodcock made himself think. “A girl who’ll do anything,” he mumbled. “Anything at all.”
The receptionist nodded, keeping his gaze level with Woodcock’s, and his face became a tolerant mask. “I recommend you go behind the Oude Kerk. If you would like—”
Woodcock liked nothing about the situation, let alone any further aid the receptionist might offer. “Thank you,” he said through his clenched teeth, and shoved himself away from the counter. Seizing the luxuriant handles of the twin glass doors, he launched himself out of the hotel.
The riot of multicolored neon, and the July sultriness, and the noise of the crowd strolling through the square and seated in their dozens outside every café, hit him softly in the face. Losing himself among so many people who didn’t know what he’d just asked came as a relief until he recalled that he had to find out where he’d been advised to go. When he noticed a man sitting not quite at a table, a guidebook in one hand and an extravagantly tall glass of lager in the other, Woodcock sidled up to him and pointed at the book. “Excuse me, could you tell me wh—” He almost asked where, but that was too much of an admission. “—what the Oude Kerk is?”
“Come?”
He’d expended his effort on a tourist who didn’t speak English. The nearest of a group of young blond women at the table did, however. “The Old Church? You should cross the Amstel, and then—”
“Appreciated,” Woodcock snapped, and strode away. One of his fellow councillors had told him about the church in the depths of the red light district—she’d come close to suggesting that its location justified or even sanctified the place. It was farther into that district than Woodcock had ventured earlier. He had to find whatever would revolt his colleagues, and so he sent himself into the night, where at least nobody knew him.
A squealing tram led him to the Muntplien, a junction where headlights competed with neon, from where a hairpin bend doubled back alongside the river. He was halfway across a bridge over the Amstel when a cyclist sped to meet him, a long-legged young woman in denim shorts and a T-shirt printed with the slogan MARY WANNA MARY JANE. He didn’t understand that, nor why she was holding her breath after taking a long drag at a scrawny cigarette, until she gasped as she came abreast of him and expelled a cloud of smoke into his face. “Sor-ree,” she sang, and pedaled onward.
The shock had made him suck in his breath, and he couldn’t speak for coughing. He made a grab at her to detain her, but as he swung round, the smoke he’d inhaled seemed to balloon inside his skull. He clung to the fat stone parapet and watched her long bare legs and trim buttocks pumping her away out of his reach. The sight reminded him of his daughter, when she had still been living at home—reminded him of his unease with her as she grew into a young woman. The cyclist vanished into the Muntplien, beyond which a street organ had commenced to toot and jingle. The wriggling of neon in the river appeared to brighten and become deliberate, a spectacle that dismayed him, so that his legs carried him across the bridge before he was aware of having instructed them.
The far side promised to be quieter. The canal alongside which a narrow road led was less agitated than the river, and was overlooked by tall houses unstained by neon. Few of the windows, which were arranged in formal trios on both stories of each house, were curtained even by net, and those interiors into which he could see might have been roped-off rooms in a museum; nobody was to be seen in them, not that anyone who saw him pass could be sure where he was going. Only the elaborate white gables above the restrained facades looked at all out of control, especially when he observed that their reflections in the canal weren’t as stable as he would have liked. They were opening and closing their triangular lips, which increasingly, as he tried to avoid seeing them, appeared to be composed of pale, swollen flesh. A square dominated by a medieval castle interrupted the visible progress of the canal. In front of the castle, trees were rustling, rather too much like an amplified sound of clothes being removed for his taste. A bridge extended from the far corner of the square, and across it he saw windows with figures waiting in them.
He had to see the worst, or his stay would have been wasted; he might even lay himself open to the accusation of having made the trip for pleasure. His nervous legs were already carrying him to the bridge. His hand found the parapet and recoiled, because the stone felt warm and muscular, as though the prospect ahead was infiltrating everything around itself. Even the roundness of the cobblestones underfoot seemed to be hinting at some sly comparison. But now he was across the bridge, and hints went by the board.
Every ground-floor window beside the canal was lit, and each of them contained a woman on display, unless she was standing in her doorway instead, clad only in underwear. Closest to the bridge was a sex shop flaunting pictures of young women lifting their skirts or even baring their buttocks for a variety of punishments. Worse still, a young couple were emerging hand in hand from the shop, and the female reminded Woodcock far too much of his daughter. Snarling incoherently, he shoved past them into a lane that ought to lead to the Old Church.
The lane catered to specialized tastes. A woman fingering a vibrator in a window tried to catch his eye, and a woman caressing a whip winked at him as he tried to keep his gaze and himself to the middle of the road, because straying to either side brought him within reach of the women in doorways. His mind had begun to chant, “How much is that body in the window?” to the tune of a childhood song. Other men were strolling through the lane, surveying the wares, and he sensed they took him for one of themselves, however fiercely he glowered at them. One bumped into him, and he brushed against another and felt in danger of being engulfed by lustful flesh. He dodged, and found himself heading straight for a doorway occupied by a woman who was covered almost from head to foot in black leather. As she creaked forward, he veered across the lane, and an enormous old woman whose wrinkled belly overhung her red panties and suspender belt held out her doughy arms to him. “Oude Kerk,” he gabbled, and floundered past three sailors who had stopped to watch him. Ahead, across a square at the end of the lane, he could see the church.
The sight reassured him until he saw bare flesh in windows flanking the church. A whiff of marijuana from a doorway fastened on the traces of smoke in his head. The street tilted underfoot, propelling him across the softened cobblestones until he came to a swaying halt in the midst of the small square. Above him the bell tower of the Oude Kerk reared higher against a black sky streaked with white clouds, one of which appeared to be streaming out of the tip of the tower. The district had transformed everything it contained into emblems of lust, even the church. Revulsion and dizziness merged within him, but he hadn’t time to indulge his feelings. He had to see what was behind the church.
He drew a breath so deep it made his head swim, then he walked around the left-hand corner of the building. The nearest windows on this side of the square were curtained, but what activities might the curtains be concealing? He hurried past and stopped with his back to the church.
By the standards of the area, nothing out of the ordinary was to be seen. Some of the windows glowed as pink as lipstick-exposed women, others were draped for however long they had to be. Woodcock ventured a few paces away from the church before a suspicion too unspeakable to put into words caused him to glance at its backside. That was just a church wall, and he let his gaze drift over the houses in search of whatever he’d glimpsed as he’d turned.
It hadn’t been in any of the windows. A gap between two houses snagged his attention. The opening looked hardly wide enough to admit him, but at the far end, which presumably gave onto an adjacent street, he made out the contours of a thin female body, which looked to be pinned against a wall.
He paced closer, staying within the faint ambiguous multiple shadow of the church. Now he could distinguish that all her limbs were stretched wide, and in the dimness, which wasn’t quite dim enough, it became clear that she was naked. Another reluctant step and he saw the glint of manacles at her wrists and ankles, and the curve of the wheel to which she was bound. Her face was a smudged blur.
Woodcock stared about, desperate to find someone to whom he could appeal on her behalf. Even if a policeman came in sight, what would be the use? Woodcock had seen policemen strolling through the red light district as if it was of no concern to them. The thought concentrated his revulsion, and he lunged at the gap.
It was so much broader than it had previously seemed that he had to suppress an impression of its having widened at his approach. He pressed his arms against his sides, his fingers shifting with each movement of his thighs, a sensation preferable to discovering that the walls felt as fleshy as the bridges and cobblestones had. That possibility was driven out of his mind once he was surrounded by darkness and could see the girl’s face. It looked far too young—as young as his daughter had been when she’d stopped obeying him—and terrified of him.
“It’s all right,” he protested. “I only want …” The warm walls pressed close to him, confronting him with his voice, which sounded harsher than he’d meant it to sound. Her lips dragged itself into a grimace as though the corners of her mouth were flinching from him. As he crept down the alley, trying to show by his approach that he was nothing like whoever her helplessness was intended to attract, her large eyes, which were the color of the night sky, began to flicker, trapped in their sockets. “Don’t,” he said more sharply. “I’m not like that, don’t you understand?”
Perhaps she didn’t speak English, or couldn’t hear him through the pane of glass. She was shaking her head, flailing her cropped hair, which shone as darkly as the tuft at the parting of her legs. He knew teenagers liked to be thin, but she looked half starved. Had that been done to her? What else? He stepped out of the alley and stretched his upturned empty hands toward her, almost pleading.
He couldn’t tell whether he was in a square or a street, if either. The only light came between the glistening walls of the gap between the houses and cast his shadow over the manacled girl. Her mouth was less distorted now, possibly because the grimace was too painful to sustain, but her eyes were rolling. They’d done so several times before he realized they were indicating a door to the left of the window; her left hand was attempting to jerk in that direction too. He wavered and then darted at the heavy paneled door.
He’d fitted his hand around the nippled brass doorknob when he caught himself hoping the door would be locked. But the knob turned easily, and the door drew him forward. Beyond it was a cramped cell which was in fact the entrance to a cell, although it reminded him of his own toolshed, with metal items glinting on the wall in front of him. There was an outsize pair of pliers, there was what appeared to be a small vise; there were other instruments whose use, despite his commitment to seeing the worst, he didn’t want to begin to imagine. He lifted the pliers off their supports and paced to the door into the cell.
Despite his attempts to sound gentle, the floorboards turned his slow footsteps menacing. Through the grille he saw the girl staring at the door and straining as much of her body away from it as she could, an effort that only rendered her small, firm breasts and bristling pubis more prominent. “No need for that, no need to be afraid,” Woodcock muttered, so low that he might have been talking to himself. Grasping the twin of the outside doorknob, he twisted it and admitted himself to the cell.
The door screeched like a bird of prey, and the girl tried to jerk away from him, so violently that the wooden disk shifted, raising her left hand as though to beckon him. When she saw the pliers, however, her body grew still as a dummy in a shop window and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, and then her lips. “These aren’t what you think. That’s to say, I’m not,” Woodcock pleaded, and raised the pliers as he took a heavy resonating step toward her.
They were within inches of her left hand when her eyes quivered open. She clenched her hand into the tightest fist he’d ever seen, all the knuckles paling with the effort to protect her fingernails from him. There wasn’t much more she could do, and he had a sudden overwhelming sense of her helplessness and, worse, of the effect that was capable of having on him. The pliers drooped in his grasp as though, like his crotch, they were putting on weight—as if one might be needed to deal with the other. “Don’t,” he cried, and gripping the pliers in both hands, dug them behind her manacle where it was fastened to the disk.
The wood was as thick as his hands pressed together. When he levered at the manacle with all his strength, he was expecting this first effort to have little if any effect, particularly since he was standing on tiptoe. But wood splintered, and the girl’s arm sprang free, the manacle and its metal bolt jangling at her wrist. The force he’d used, or her sudden release, spun the wheel. Before he could prevent it, she was upside down, offering him her defenseless crotch.
He felt as though he’d never seen that sight before—a woman’s secret lips, thick and pink and swollen, bearing an expression that seemed almost smug in its mysteriousness. “Mustn’t,” he cried in a voice he hardly recognized, younger than he could remember ever having been, and grabbed the rim of the wheel to turn it until her face swung up to meet his. Her mouth had opened, and her eyes were also wide and inviting. As they met his, she clasped her freed arm around his neck.
“No, no. Mustn’t,” he said, sounding like his father now. He had to take hold of her wrist next to the manacle in order to pull her arm away from him. Although her wrist was thin as a stick, he had to exert almost as much strength to move her arm as he had to lever out the manacle. Her eyes never left his. The manacle clanged on the wood beside his hip, and he thrust his knees against the wheel between her legs, to keep it still while he released her other arm. He couldn’t bear the prospect of her being upturned to him again. Forcing the jaws of the pliers behind the second manacle and bruising his elbows against the wheel on either side of her arm, he heaved at the handles.
He felt the jaws dig into the wood, which groaned, but that was all. His heart was pounding, the handles slipping out of his sweaty grasp. Renewing his grip, he levered savagely at the manacle. All at once the wood cracked, and the manacle jangled free, so abruptly that the pliers flew out of his hand and thudded on the floor. Only then did he become aware of the activity in the region of his penis, which was throbbing so unmanageably that he had been doing his best to blot it from his consciousness. While he was intent on releasing her arm, the girl had unbuttoned his trousers at the belt and unzipped his fly. As his trousers slithered down his legs, she closed her hand around his penis and inserted it deftly into herself.
“No,” Woodcock cried. “What are you—what do you think I—” She’d wrapped her arms around his waist, tight as a vise. She didn’t need to; he was swollen larger than he’d been for many years, swollen inside the warm slickness of her beyond any hope of withdrawing. Once, early in their marriage, that had happened to him with Belinda, and it had terrified him. There was only one way he could free himself. He closed his eyes, gritted an inarticulate prayer through his teeth, and made a convulsive thrust with his hips. The manacles at her ankles jangled, her body strained upward, and her arms around his waist lifted him onto his toes. Perhaps it was this shift of weight that set the wheel spinning.
As his feet left the ground he lost all self-control. He was a child on a carnival ride, discovering too late that he wanted to be anywhere but there. When he tried to pull away from the girl, the movement intensified the aching of the whole length of his penis, and his reaction embedded him even deeper in her. He groped blindly for handholds as he swung head downward and then up again, and managed to locate the splintered holes left by the manacles. He pumped his hips, frantic to be done and out of her, but the sensations of each thrust contradicted his dismay, and he squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to deny where he was and what he was doing. The jangling of the manacles had taken on the rhythm of the girl’s cries intermixed with panting in his ear. The wheel spun faster, twirling him and his partner head over heels, until the only sense of stability he had was focused on the motions of his hips and penis. Were the girl’s cries growing faster and more musical, or was he hearing a street organ playing a carnival tune? He was beyond being able to wonder; the sensations in his penis were mushrooming. As he strained his head back and gave vent to a roar as much of despair as of pleasure, light blazed into his eyes. He could do nothing but thrust and thrust as the vortex in which he was helplessly whirling seemed to empty itself through his penis as though it might never stop.
At last it did, and the girl’s arms slackened around his waist as his penis dwindled within her. He kept his eyes shut and tried to calm his breathing as the wheel wavered to a stop. When he was sure he was upright, he lowered himself until his toe caps found the boards, let go of the holes in the wood, and fumbled to pull his trousers up and zip them shut. His eyes were still closed; from what he could hear, he thought he might not be able to bear what he would see when he opened them. After a good many harsh, deep breaths, he turned and looked.
The window frame was ablaze with colored lightbulbs. Speakers at each corner of the window were emitting a street organ’s merry tune. In the street which the lights had revealed outside the window, dozens of people had gathered to watch: sailors, young couples and some much older, even a brace of policemen in the local uniform. Woodcock stared, appalled at the latter, then he stalked out of the cell, wrenching both doors as wide as they would go. Even here the law surely couldn’t allow what had just been done to him, and nobody was going to walk away with the idea that he’d been anything other than a victim.
When the audience, policemen included, began to applaud him, however, he forced his way to the gap between the houses and took to his heels. “Bad, bad. The worst,” he heard himself declaring—he had no idea how loudly. From the far end of the gap he looked back and saw the girl raising her manacled wrists to the position in which he’d first seen them. As the lights that framed her started to dim, he gripped the corners of the walls as though he could pull the gap shut; then he flung himself away and dashed through the streets choked with flesh to his hotel.
In the morning he almost went back, having spent a sleepless night in trying to decide how much of the encounter could have been real. He felt emptied out, robbed of himself. As the searchlight of the sun crept over the roofs, turning the luminous neon tulips on the walls of his room back into paper, he sneaked downstairs and out of the hotel, averting his face from the receptionist, gripping the brass club in his pocket rather than relinquish that defense.
He left the whines of early trams and the brushing of street cleaners behind as he crossed the river, on which neon lay like a trace of petrol. He followed the canal as far as the lane to the Oude Kerk. Under his hands the parapets were as cold and solid as the cobblestones underfoot. He strode hastily past the occupied windows and halted in sight of the church.
He could see the gap between the houses, but without venturing closer, not how wide it was. One step farther and he froze. The question wasn’t simply whether he had encountered the girl or imagined some if not all of the incident, but rather, which would be worse. That such things could actually happen, or that he was capable of inventing them?
A movement beside the church caught his eye. One of the women in the windows was nibbling breakfast and sipping tea from a tray on her lap. An aching homesickness overwhelmed him, but how could he go back now? He turned away from the church and trudged in the direction of the canal, with no sense of where he was going or coming from.
Then his walk grew purposeful before he quite knew why. There was something he ought to remember, something that had to help. The face of the girl on the wheel: no, her eyes … Hadn’t he seen at least a hint of all those expressions before, at home? It had to be true, he couldn’t have imagined them. The bell tower of the Oude Kerk burst into peals, and he quickened his pace, eager to be packed and out of the hotel and on the plane. As never before that he could remember, he was anxious to be home.