Free Cat and Mouse by Tim Vicary Page A

she told herself. This is my morning walk and I have to make myself see the grass, hear the birdsong, feel the sunlight. Perhaps, when I am out again, I will confront Jonathan more calmly with what he has done, make him understand and stop it.
    Make a new start . . .
    There was a clatter in the corridor outside, and the cell door opened again. Two wardresses came in — one of them the big young slab-faced girl like a coalheaver who had forced her into the bath. This girl, Miss Harkness, took Sarah by the arms, pushing her back towards the window so that a man could come in behind them. A third wardress came in behind him, pushing a trolley.
    ‘What do you want now?’
    The wardresses ignored her. The doctor said: ‘You haven't been eating, Mrs Becket.’
    ‘I refuse to eat anything while I'm unjustly imprisoned.’ The words came pat, she did not think about them. But she had seen the trolley and, despite herself, her thin body began to tremble uncontrollably. This is not supposed to happen. They don't do this any more. The whole point of the Cat and Mouse Act is to get away from the horror of . . .
    ‘Then we must feed you.’
    She did not look at the man at first; all her attention was focused on the trolley. There was a white enamel jug on it, a bucket, two large mechanical devices rather like clothespegs, one wooden and one metal, a funnel, a jar of what looked like glycerine, and a rubber tube. The tube was about half the width of a garden hose and very long. It lay there, curled round and round and round on itself, like a sleeping cobra.
    If I have to face this, she thought, I will. Maybe it's only a bluff anyway and when I refuse they will go away.
    ‘I don't want to be fed, thank you.’
    ‘Then will you eat your breakfast?’
    ‘No.’
    She dragged her eyes away from the trolley and looked at the doctor. He was a well-built young man, not much taller or older than she was herself. He had a solid, square, dependable face, with a luxuriant brown moustache. Sarah could imagine him preening it in the mornings and dabbing at it genteely as he sipped his soup. It was a pleasant, presentable face, like that of thousands of other normal young men.
    The face said: ‘Lay her down on the bed.’
    ‘No!’ Sarah struggled, but the wardresses were ready for her. They each held an arm and backed her towards the wooden bed until it touched the back of her knees, and she sat down. A moment later she was lying on her back. Each wardress held one of her arms immobile with a hand and a knee. She stared up at the young man, who had one of the mechanical clothespeg things in each hand.
    ‘I shall have to use one of these, Mrs Becket. They are gags, to hold your mouth open. The steel one is more effective, but it will hurt, so I would prefer to use the wooden one if you will co-operate.’
    Sarah said nothing. She began to writhe and kick but it did her little good. Miss Harkness, the heavy slab-faced girl, sat on her legs, while still keeping a grip on her arm.
    The young doctor sighed. ‘I'll try the wooden one first, anyway.’
    The third wardress held Sarah's head, and the doctor began to try to force the wooden thing into her mouth. Sarah pressed her lips together as hard as she could. Even as she did it, she could feel the lines of tension spreading out from her mouth, all over her face, and the thought flashed through her panic-stricken mind that she must look like a grim, disapproving old spinster. But the young man peeled her lips back with his fingers, and thrust the wooden gag between them. It banged against her teeth. He changed his grip, and with the wardress's help, used his strong fingers and thumbs to try to lever her lower jaw down. Slowly, horribly, she felt a gap opening between her teeth.
    He thrust part of the wooden gag into the gap, and reached behind him for the tube. But as he did so his grip loosened slightly. Sarah bit the edge of the gag with her teeth, twisted her head violently, and spat it out