Unicorn, Part 2 (M/f, M/F)

[flora.weston]

I swiped into the building and went straight down to the basement. The guard at the door directed me to #2, and I went into the observation room, to find Simon and Carol waiting. I saw on the monitor that the subject was kneeling on the floor with her face against the wall.

“Anything?”

“Not a word since she arrived, except ‘I don’t know what you mean’,” Simon replied. “Your Unicorn, I gather.”

“Yes, she is. How long has she been in that position?”

He looked at his watch. “Since eleven. I tell you, it’s a bloody good thing she was right, because this kind of silence wouldn’t have done us any favours if she’d missed anything out.”

I recognised a swell of smug pride. She had clearly forgotten nothing in the four years since we had last met.

“I need something heavy, to test her.”

It was a short walk down the corridor to #2, where I quickly unbolted the door and went in. I saw her visibly snap upright when she heard the door and footsteps, then a slight relaxation when I spoke.

“Stand up and turn around.”

She was a little slow, but since she was probably – no, definitely – horribly stiff I did not comment. She blinked slowly as she looked at me, but otherwise there was no reaction. I pulled out a chair from the table and held it out to her.

“Hold this up and don’t move until I get back.”

Without a word she stretched out her arms and held the chair in front of her at arms’ length.

Simon and Carol were outside the observation room when I came out.

“I need to brief the team properly,” Simon said simply. “Come upstairs and fill in the blanks.”

I had done well at school, having the motivation of time with Richard if I succeeded, and the threat of his disapproval and lengthened absence if I did not. During the school holidays I went to camp, meeting but not befriending other teenagers in the same training, and directly competing against those of the same age. Richard was around for the last few days of each camp, during the assessment phase. If I won, or exceeded expectations, he would give me lavish praise and take me out for dinner, or to the cinema, or for a drive in a succession of remarkably fast cars. If I fell in the middle of the group he would express disappointment and absent himself. If I did not try my hardest, he became fierce, savagely beating, and leaving me locked up in the dark, alone.

When I was older the training progressed from basic martial arts and survival techniques, to more focused specialist skills. I remember in particular the summer they first started teaching us how to maintain stress positions and withstand torture. At first it was difficult to ignore the voice in your head that kept saying the pain would stop if you just moved, or relaxed, or talked, or whatever it was you were trying not to do. But by the end of August we had better control of ourselves and had developed coping strategies for keeping the little voice silent for longer.

Incidentally it was that summer that Richard spelled out my future to me. Although at thirteen I had accepted without demur his decisions regarding GCSE choices, even the dreaded Arabic, I had thought that at sixteen I might be allowed to choose for myself. What sixteen-year-old does not think herself vastly grown up, independent, and free from external influences?

When he arrived back in London I asked him if he had received the papers through from school. He reassured me that he had, and that he had duly completed and returned them. I must have pulled a face, for his eyes narrowed.

“What?”

“You – you sent the forms back?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, I … What did you put?”

“Tone, Amy,” he warned, before continuing. “Maths, of course, History, since you seem so keen on it, and Arabic.”

“Arabic?!” I swore fluently and with feeling, to his obvious astonishment. “But why?!”

“Well, firstly because that’s what you’ll be doing at university, and secondly, because I said so,” he said, a little dangerously.

“What?! No I will not…”

Crack! The blow knocked me sideways, but somehow I kept my balance.

“Don’t you ever answer me back. Ever. You’ll do as you’re told and you’ll like it. I’ll tell you when you’re old enough to make your own decisions.”

I was not happy – in fact I was furious – but I knew better than to argue once he had made up his mind. The decision had been taken, and although I might not like it I could not undo it and I would have to make the best of it. So my only response was a level: “Yes, Richard.”

There was a pause.

“Go upstairs and calm down.”

I knew that if I complied promptly I might reduce the thrashing to come, or even perhaps avoid it altogether, so I moved fast. But as I reached the bottom stair he spoke again.

“Face on the wall.”

This was one of the stress positions we had been practising, and meant I was being tested again. It meant he was still angry. I hesitated where I stood, then proceeded up to my room without a murmur.

Once there, I knelt by the wall and laid my forehead against the wallpaper with my hands behind my back. This is surprisingly comfortable for the first minute, but after that you start to get cramp in your thighs, so you lean more on your face, which in turn starts to hurt. Eventually you’re using all your stomach muscles, neck and back muscles, leg muscles, shoulders too, to keep yourself in position. All this I knew was to come when I knelt down, and that would be before he even came upstairs.