As I climbed into the cage, he stood with his legs apart, one hand casually stroking up and down his crotch.

23

SCOTT

Scott tried to get into a comfortable position. His legs were squashed sideways and there was nowhere to rest his head. The best he could do was draw his knees to his chest and wrap his arms around them, leaning back, his neck bent at an awkward angle.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Casey had spent the evening doing typically terrible things; she’d produced a BB gun, one Scott hadn’t known she had, and shot him as he attempted to dodge within the confines of the cage. The pellets had been metal, ricocheting off the cage’s bars with a loud clang… or slipping through the bars, pinging off his skin, leaving red marks.

They still pulsed, hours later.

After she’d grown tired of the BB gun, she’d left him in the hallway. The front door let in a draft and the heating was turned off. Scott shivered, wishing she’d given him a blanket at least.

He remembered what Gary said in the pub, about how much Scott loved teaching, about not giving up. But surely nothing was worth this. And yet Scott didn’t call upstairs; he didn’t tell Casey to release the videos and photos, to end it.

So apparently it was worth it. Or maybe this was just the sort of man he was. Ready or wanting to be beaten and controlled. Self-flagellating monks came to mind. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to do that.

After a while – hours maybe – he needed to piss, but there was no way he was going to tell Casey. It was late. She was upstairs, perhaps sleeping or perhaps brainstorming new ways to hurt him. Several times Scott had to fight off tears, useless bloody tears, as his bladder ached and his shame grew.

What sort of man let this happen?

He almost laughed. A wilfully blind one. A gullible one.

Natalie, the love of his life, had been gay and he’d had no idea. Or, at the very least, she’d been bisexual. She was having an affair. He’d never suspected any of it. He went back through his memories, sorting like a picture book, looking for signs.

There was Natalie’s reluctance to have sex. She’d always had a lower sex drive than him. Often they found workarounds when she wasn’t in the mood; she’d use her hands, or pose for him on the bed as he took care of himself. He would ask her if she wanted anything, and she’d look at him in a confused way, as though the question was absurd.

What could she possibly want from her husband?

If he pressed, they’d get into an argument. Sometimes it would end in the ugliest way.

Plenty of wives weren’t in the mood when their husbands wanted them to be. Scott had concluded it was work stress. Or maybe it was her writing course. She often worried about her assignments for days, weeks, where that class was concerned; she’d rant and fall into a depression. “I’m never going to make it. The odds are stacked against me.”