No Sanctuary Read online

  Soon she was breathing more easily but her heart continued to race. Though she was no longer cold, she felt shivery inside. She noticed a tingling tightness in her chest and throat—a peculiar cross between pain and pleasure that she associated, somehow, with sliding down a rough hill on her rump. Her skin was crawly with goosebumps. Her nipples felt stiff and sensitive, alive to every touch of her blowing shirt. The inseam of her tight jeans pressed against her like a finger. The denim was moist.

  For a long time, she didn’t move. She simply leaned against the wall, hidden by a thick hedge along the neighbor’s property line, and wondered what was going on with her body. It had to be a combination of fear and excitement—the thrill of doing something forbidden and a little bit dangerous.

  I’d better get on with it, she finally told herself.

  Easing away from the wall, she walked alongside the house. The weeds crunched under her feet. She crouched each time she came to a window. At the rear of the house was an overgrown yard.

  She found a back door. Stepping up to it, she tried its handle.

  The door was locked. Good. If it hadn’t been, she might have given up, figuring that somebody else might be inside. She realized that she hadn’t tried the front door.

  Too late for that now.

  With the screwdriver, she dug into the doorframe beside the lock plate. Bits of wood broke off. Splinters tore loose. Finally, she worked back the lock tongue and opened the door.

  She entered the house.

  The stale air was warm and had a faint, sweetish odor that Gillian found a little sickening, but not so bad that she needed to gag.

  She was in the kitchen. For a while, she stared straight ahead into the darkness and didn’t move. She heard the rush of her heartbeat, the sounds of her shaky, ragged breathing. She tried to hold her breath, but couldn’t. She still trembled. The current sizzling through her body seemed even stronger than before; it made her ache for release, to cry out in terror or quake in orgasm.

  Get moving, she told herself.

  She turned on the flashlight and swept its beam through the kitchen. There was no writing. Maybe John had it all wrong.

  Then Gillian stepped into the hallway. The ancient wallpaper, yellow with age and peeling in places, looked like the canvas of a crazed graffiti artist. So did the ceiling. Amazed, she swung her light beam along the multi-colored words and drawings.

  All the drawings seemed to feature an obese woman. They were as primitive as the artwork of a four-year-old: bloated bodies, pumpkin heads with scrawls of orange hair and faces composed of bright slashes and circles, oval legs and arms, stick fingers. There were pictures with colors scribbled onto represent clothes. In many of the pictures, the woman was naked, with mammoth, pendulous breasts and huge red nipples. Here and there were drawings of a rump that looked like a pair of clinging balloons.

  Must be self-portraits, Gillian thought. She felt a little sorry for the woman, but her pity was mixed with astonishment.

  As if she had discovered a hidden treasure.

  She read some of the scrawled messages:

  Mabel Mabel big as a stable,

  Finished her meal

  So she ate the table.

  I think that I shall never see—

  my feet!

  Blubber. Blub blub blub.

  It is no fun

  To weigh a ton,

  It is no fun at all.

  It’ll take a crane

  As big as a train

  To pick me up if I fall.

  Deader is bedder.

  I have no kids,

  No Mary or Bill.

  It’s just as well.

  I have no kids,

  No Bonnie or Jim.

  If I had kids

  I’d eat them.

  Wingle wangle

  Hang and dangle.

  Why me?

  Gillian didn’t read anymore. She had brought her camera along, intending to take photographs of whatever she might find interesting in the house, but she wanted no reminder of this woman’s torment.

  She didn’t explore the rest of the house.

  She left.

  Would’ve been fine, she thought as she walked home, if the woman hadn’t put such depressing shit on her walls and ceilings.

  What d’you expect? The gal committed suicide. You’re lucky you didn’t find something a whole lot worse.

  Depressing.

  Interesting, though.

  Sneaking in that way, spying into her life.

  Next time, don’t pick a goddamn suicide.

  Next time?

  Gillian wanted to feel that way again, to feel as she did before the gloomy drawings and messages ruined it for her.

  The next day, she called John on the telephone. “Guess what I did,” she said.

  “Finished my history paper?”

  “I had a look inside Mabel’s house.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “I wanted to see what she wrote all over the place.”

  “Yeah. And what did you find out?”

  “She was fat. A blimp. Apparently, that’s what drove her crazy enough to kill herself.”

  “I knew you didn’t go in there. You kidding? She was nothing but skin and bones. Dad said she looked like one of those pictures you see of Auschwitz survivors.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Hey, she was always that way. I used to see her around. She’d turn sideways, she’d disappear.”

  “No way.”

  “Ask anyone.”

  The revelation astonished Gillian. She couldn’t get over it. Though Mabel’s problem certainly seemed tragic, she felt as if she’d made an amazing discovery.

  What if every house held strange secrets?

  And even if they didn’t, there was the thrill of sneaking in to explore.

  That night, after her parents had gone to bed, she broke into the house of Ralph and Helen Norris, friends of her parents who were in Las Vegas for the weekend.

  She felt a frenzy of fear and excitement.

  She searched their closets and drawers.

  Though she made no startling discovery, it didn’t seem to matter. All that mattered was being there.

  She tried their bed.

  She took pictures and notes of every room.

  What else? She wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet.

  She drank a cold beer and ate potato chips at their kitchen table, sitting in the darkness, hardly able to swallow because of her thudding chest.

  Still unwilling to leave, she went into the master bedroom. There was a huge sunken tub. She filled it, took off her clothes, and climbed in. Except for the dim light from the window, the bathroom was dark.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this, she thought. I must be nuts. What if they come home and find me naked in their tub?

  Hi, folks. I’m Goldilocks.

  With a trembling laugh, she slipped down into the deep, hot water.

  The Norris experience had been the start of something big. A life-changing event. The beginning of a series of adventures that led to a weird kind of addiction. It set in motion within her a yearning desire to discover the innermost secrets of other people’s homes. In doing this, Gillian found an immense sense of fulfillment. A needy gratification that was almost sexual.

  The highlight of it all, though—the cherry on top of the proverbial cake—had been bathing in the Norris’s tub. After that, the ritual bath had been the highlight of every one of her intrusions.

  Later. Two years and forty or so intrusions later, she’d tried to reason out, why baths? Why this fetish with other people’s bathing arrangements? That first glimpse of the bathroom itself, the tub and the accessories that went with it: oils, shampoos, talc, deodorants, perfumed soaps. They all played an important part, leading up to the real climax. The shivers of excitement, the thrill of invading the inner sanctum of some unknown person.

  Then. Easing into those hot bubbles.

  As good as an orgasm.

>   The sensual release of some kind of mental climax. Lying naked and up to the neck in some guy’s hot, foaming bubbles, she’d come, no problem.

  Other girls had sex with strangers. Just for the thrill of it. Wham bam, thank’ya ma’am. And goodbye forever. No hassle. No hangups. No long-winded affairs to cool off, or drift into indifference. Two ships that passed in the night.

  For Gillian, it was like: who needs a man when you can have it all in a stranger’s tub?

  You get it off in a hot tub? In somebody else’s bathroom? D’you get all of your kicks this way? Like as in some kind of titillation? The whole experience is a come-on?

  No shrink had heard of this one.

  Climaxing under water.

  Sure we’re not talking masturbation here?

  We’re not? Er, well, Miss O’Neill. Must admit your problem is er ... rather unusual, to say the least. But hey. People get their kicks lotsa ways these days.

  Maybe we should edit all of this down to one root cause. In your childhood, you were deprived of nice hot baths and have felt guilty about enjoying them ever since? A classic example of the “naughty but nice” syndrome!

  It’s not uncommon for people to become addicted to things they like, things with forbidden connotations. Things which are often socially unacceptable. Such as alcohol, drugs, certain foods. Shopping.

  But hot baths... ?

  Mmmm-huh. I think we’ve found the answer to your problem, Miss O’Neill. Deprived childhood and no mistake. Good day to you. Oh, and please leave your check for $3000 with the clerk on your way out ...

  Of course, she hadn’t seen a shrink. First off, her little jaunts had not only “forbidden” connotations. They were illegal. Her intrusions were a criminal act. But she’d been addicted to them for too long to stop now. She knew that. This thing will be with me forever, she told herself. Like some kind of disability

  She’d tried to put a stop to it. Seriously. For weeks at a time she’d abstained. Then, like a reformed junkie offered a free trip, she’d feel the old familiar sequence moving neatly into action. Just like a clockwork train.

  It was all there. Again. The adrenaline rush as she eased open the front door. The sweats, the soaring, nerve-wracking excitement, wondering if the house owner really was home. Upstairs taking a nap? On their way to the Speed-D-Mart for Aspirin? Or Pizza Hut for a takeaway?

  Or would she be met in the hallway by the occupant? Fearful, trembling, finger poised. About to dial 911.

  But she knew that, cool as ever, she’d pass off her intrusion by saying she’d mistaken the house number. She’d express frustration at her own stupidity. I’m sorry ... Whatever must you think of me?

  Yes, she was plausible, she knew that. She had her performance down to a fine art. After all this time she could play to packed houses. Fill theaters up and down the country. Her sudden warmth, charm, ingenuousness, would have people eating out of her hand in no time at all.

  But it hadn’t ever come to that.

  So far, so good.

  But only because she did her groundwork like a true pro.

  Yeah, sure. She was good. Just as well, since her intrusions were food and drink to her now. A major part of the thrill was paying minute attention to detail—at every stage of the game. The reconnaissance, the illegal entry.

  Then, the prize.

  Eating and drinking their food. Watching their TV. Sleeping in their bed. And the kick of it all—entering their private domain. Their inner sanctuary.

  Unknown to them.

  She used their bathroom; their tub; their toilet. And they knew fuck all about it. She invaded their most private places without their knowledge.

  That was the kick.

  Gillian smiled softly. She didn’t need the help of an expensive shrink to work that one out.

  She got off on it is all.

  Hey. Tubs she had known ...

  About sixty-six in total?

  She could write a book.

  Or a screenplay.

  Miss 0’Neill, talented winner of the Golden Goblet Screehwriter of the Year Award, please tell our viewers—your fans—which, in your experience, has been the most fascinating tub of all?

  Her camera and notebook were ready. But instead of taking shots of Fredrick Holden’s artifacts, as planned, she returned to the concrete sundeck and flopped back onto the lounge chair.

  So, which was the most fascinating tub? Gillian thought hard about that one. But, damn it, she decided, she didn’t need to give herself such a hard time. Because, like a flame among dying embers, one occasion stood out from all the rest.

  Yeah. That one on Silverston. West of Studio City.

  No shit, that’s been the most fantastic tub so far.

  She’d done her routine check. No one around. No snoopers. No dog-walkers. No mailmen ...

  The absence of human life, or of any other type of life on that street, come to that, was in itself unusual.

  The house fascinated her from the start. The neighborhood was maybe too upmarket for her liking. But, in some strange way, she knew that the old place needed her.

  And Christ, she knew about need, all right. She was here, wasn’t she? Cruising around, searching for places to satisfy her need.

  Looks like I’ve found it ...

  Too upmarket? Okay, Miss O’Neill, so break a few rules.

  This one’s going to be your special treat!

  It was as if that lonely old house, set back against dark shadows, was crooking its finger and beckoning to her. She imagined its whispering voice, mingling and swishing with the windblown palms lining its path.

  Hey, girl. Come on in. You want tales? I got tales a-plenty to tell—and a thousand secrets to share ...

  That clinched it. The white stucco house, detached and with around two, three hundred yards of driveway leading up to it, was her target for tonight. Tall, dark palms ran either side of the driveway. The rustling trees almost blocked out all of the remaining daylight until they looked like one long, dark, moving tunnel.

  Leading to what?

  The house. Secreted away in the background. Looming like a forgotten ghost; silent and forbidding.

  Scary.

  I must be nuts.

  No possibility of nosy neighbors. Unless they used a pair of step-ladders, the tall yew hedges either side would obscure the driveway from view. And when she’d driven past earlier, she’d seen a For Sale sign sticking up out of next-door’s front lawn. That house had looked dark and empty too.

  The gravel leading up to number 1309 crunched loudly under her feet. This place, with its flaky, white-painted exterior, exuded an air of loneliness.

  But not emptiness.

  The driveway, the gardens, the long green lawn in front of the house, were neat and well-kept. A sure sign that a gardener or handyman had recently been at work. By the time she reached the three shallow steps curving up to the arched front door, she knew there was no one around to halt her progress.

  In some strange way, this knowledge was a certainty.

  Gillian smiled.

  The house was hers.

  Alarm system?

  Yeah. Alarm system ...

  She looked around for tell-tale electronic devices. Wires. Anything.

  Nope.

  Crazy, but true. There were no alarm devices that she could see.

  So, go for it.

  She did.

  Gaining access was easy. In the studded dark wood door a rectangular window gleamed. It was small, narrow and about two thirds of the way up: a nice stained-glass affair showing a white, stylized lily, cupped by two long green leaves. The background was bright blue. A quick glance around assured her there was no one immediately in sight. Taking her small leather tool satchel from her purse, Gillian paused for a moment, head tilted, listening intently to sounds from within.

  Like someone running to open the door.

  The click of a telephone being lifted off the book.

  Nothing.

  She stretched o
ut a length of duct tape and stuck it around the window. She stuck a circle in the center of the window to use as a handle. It’s an old window, she thought with satisfaction. Should drop out okay.

  She set to work with her glass cutter. When she’d finished she tapped the glass. It came away in her hand.

  Easy as drawing breath.

  Too easy?

  She reached her hand through the space and felt around with her fingers. The door handle was just below the space. It was large and heavy and she could move it up and down with her fingers. But the door wouldn’t give.

  A bolt?

  Yeah. She reached inside, felt below the window space and found the bolt.

  Slid it back.

  It moved smoothly, in double quick time.

  Freshly oiled.

  Especially for her?

  The door swung open.

  Briskly, and with a pounding heart, she returned her tools, and the small piece of window, to the satchel, slid it into her purse and picked up her suitcase. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

  Taking her tools out again, Gillian worked quickly, replacing the window in the door and returning her tools to the leather satchel. She placed the satchel into her purse.

  Then looked around her.

  Thirties Hollywood. That was her first impression. Maybe not so big as some of those deco places out in the hills. But in its own faded, still glamorous way, this one was just as tasty.

  White marble entrance hall. Light streaming through looped drapes at the long windows either side of the tall white studded door. A white staircase rose before her. It branched off, right and left, each section winding upward and then back on itself. Both sets of stairs met on a white and chrome balcony, the entire width of the house. Just like the prow of a cruise liner.

  The Busby Berkeley Babes.

  Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler.

  “Yessir,” Gillian breathed. “The place has style, all right.”