The Collector

 All the way down here in the van it was nightmare. Wanting to be sick and afraid of choking under the gag. And then being sick. Thinking I was going to be pulled into some thicket and raped and murdered. I was sure that was it when the van stopped, I think that was why I was sick. Not just the beastly chloroform. (I kept on remembering Penny Lester's grisly dormitory stories about how her mother survived being raped by the Japanese, I kept on saying, don't resist, don't resist. And then someone else at Ladymont once said that it takes two men to rape you. Women who let themselves be raped by one man want to be raped.) I know now that wouldn't be his way. He'd use chloroform again, or something. But that first night it was, don't resist, don't resist.

 I was grateful to be alive. I am a terrible coward, I don't want to die, I love life so passionately, I never knew how much I wanted to live before. If I get out of this, I shall never be the same.

 I don't care what he does. So long as I live.

 It's all the vile unspeakable things he _could_ do.

 I've looked everywhere for a weapon, but there's nothing of any use, even if I had the strength and skill. I prop a chair against the iron door every night, so at least I shall know if he tries to get in without my hearing.

 Hateful primitive wash-stand and place.

 The great blank door. No keyhole. Nothing.

 The silence. I've got a little more used to it now. But it is _terrible_. Never the least sound. It makes me feel I'm always waiting.

 Alive. Alive in the way that death is alive.

 The collection of books on art. Nearly fifty pounds' worth, I've added them up. That first night it suddenly dawned on me that they were there for _me_. That I wasn't a haphazard victim after all.

 Then there were the drawers full of clothes -- shirts, skirts, dresses, coloured stockings, an extraordinary selection of week-end-in-Paris underwear, night-dresses. I could see they were about my size. They're too large, but he says he's seen me wear the colours.

 Everything in my life seemed fine. There was G.P. But even that was strange. Exciting. Exciting.

 Then this.

 I slept a little with the light on, on top of the bed. I would have loved a drink, but I thought it might be drugged. I still half expect the food to be doped.

 Seven days ago. It seems like seven weeks.

 He looked so innocent and worried when he stopped me. He said he'd run over a dog. I thought it might be Misty. Exactly the sort of man you would _not_ suspect. The most unwolflike.

 Like falling off the edge of the world. There suddenly being an edge.

 Every night I do something I haven't done for years. I lie and pray. I don't kneel, I know God despises kneelers. I lie and ask him to comfort M and D and Minny, and Caroline who must feel so guilty and everyone else, even the ones it would do good to suffer for me (or for anyone else). Like Piers and Antoinette. I ask him to help this misery who has me under his power. I ask him to help me. Not to let me be raped or abused and murdered. I ask him for light.

 Literally. Daylight.

 I can't stand the absolute darkness. He's bought me night-lights. I go to sleep with one glowing beside me now. Before that I left the light on.

 Waking up is the worst thing. I wake up and for a moment I think I'm at home or at Caroline's. Then it hits me.

 I don't know if I believe in God. I prayed to him furiously in the van when I thought I was going to die (that's a proof _against_, I can hear G.P. saying). But praying makes things easier.

 It's all bits and pieces. I can't concentrate. I've thought so many things, and now I can't think of one.

 But it makes me feel calmer. The illusion, anyway. Like working out how much money one's spent. And how much is left.

    _October 15th_

 He has never had any parents, he's been brought up by an aunt. I can see her. A thin woman with a white face and a nasty tight mouth and mean grey eyes and dowdy beige tea-cosy hats and a thing about dirt and dust. Dirt and dust being everything outside her foul little back-street world.

 I told him he was looking for the mother he'd never had, but of course he wouldn't listen.

 He doesn't believe in God. That makes me want to believe.

 I talked about me. About D and M, in a bright little matter-of-fact voice. He knew about M. I suppose the whole town knows.

 My theory is that I have to unmartyr him.

 The time in prison. Endless time.

 The first morning. He knocked on the door and waited ten minutes (as he always does). It wasn't a nice ten minutes, all the consoling thoughts I'd scraped together during the night tan away and I was left alone. I stood there and said, if he does, don't resist, don't resist. I was going to say, do what you like, but don't kill me. Don't kill me, you can do it again. As if I was washable. Hard-wearing.