The Book of Revelation by Rupert Thomson

washed him, shaved him, took him to the toilet. She was reliable and willing. She did not complain. There was also a naïve side to her that didn’t seem at odds with a name like Maude. She seldom spoke, but, when she did, the others usually found her entertaining. Because we love you. Because you’re beautiful . And, once, he had woken to discover her—it could only have been her—lying against him in the dark, her body pressed to his. Perhaps that was all she asked of him, that physical proximity, that solace. . . .
    The rain was still falling, flecking the skylight’s glass with silver.
    Gertrude, Astrid, Maude. . . .
    The names seemed peculiarly appropriate, suggesting a hierarchy, a secret court, in which each woman played a distinct role. And yet, at the same time, they had that “d” in common. Almost as if they shared the same root. This link between the names acted as a kind of understudy to the far more complex link between the women themselves, a link which he had not, as yet, been able to divine. But, lying there, an idea occurred to him: Astrid’s open hostility towards him, Maude’s downtrodden, almost masochistic nature . . . and Gertrude?—well, he didn’t know, but might it not be true that the three women were all, in their different ways, damaged somehow, and that it was the damage they had suffered that had brought them together?
    His heart was beating loudly now. He moved his face towards the ring that held his right wrist, located his right eye in the narrow bar of stainless steel and gave himself a wink.
    It was a long time before sleep took him.
    •
    They came to him early in the morning, dark clouds above his head, the skylight trembling as thunder rumbled over it. They came and stood in front of him, all three of them, in their usual hoods and cloaks. He grinned despite himself. He had named them, and they did not know. He had discovered for himself a kind of power—a modest power, admittedly, no match for theirs, but valuable all the same. In their new ignorance, the women seemed less daunting.
    “You feel good today?” Astrid said.
    His smile lasted, but he did not reply.
    Gertrude stepped forwards. They had a proposal, she said. If he went along with it he would be rewarded. He looked up at her, imagining her pointed nose, her skin that flushed too easily. And what would his reward be? he wondered. Freedom? It seemed unlikely. Still, he was in no position to bargain.
    “What’s the proposal?” he said.
    On the following night, she said, there was to be a banquet, and they had decided that he would play a special part in it. In fact, the event was to revolve around him—quite literally: instead of arranging the food on a table, they would arrange it on his naked body. They would sit around him, on cushions. It was a wonderful idea, wasn’t it? An inspiration. Before he could react, she informed him he would have to wear a hood throughout the dinner. Clearly, he could not be allowed to set eyes on the guests. That was one reason. But also, if he wore a hood, his identity would be protected. The guests would see him as a beautiful man—beautiful, and anonymous.
    Maude murmured something, but Gertrude ignored her.
    His feet would be chained together, she went on, but his hands would be left free. However, he should not move at all, or make a sound, not unless it was absolutely necessary. He should not speak—obviously. That would break the spell.
    “If you do,” Astrid said, “there will be repercussions.”
    He didn’t need to ask her to elaborate.
    “And the reward?” he said.
    “That will be negotiated afterwards.” Gertrude paused. “Can we trust you?”
    He nodded slowly.
    “Really?” she said. “We’re expecting some important people.”
    “Do I have a choice?” he said.
    •
    That night he dreamed that Milo, a dancer in the company, had died. In the dream he was travelling on a bus through a country that he didn’t recognise. He supposed he must be