Page 54 of The Elements

He has no choice, because I offer him none, and also because I’m an adult and he’s still, technically, a child.

I get out of the car and stand there, waiting for him to exit too, and eventually he does.

Happily, there’s no one else nearby. I have a dread of Hugh Winley appearing suddenly out of the darkness, like Deep Throat in All the President’s Men , still demanding that I go on a date with him.

We make our way toward the lift, and I inhale the universal scent of teenage boy: perspiration, anxiety, and Lynx.

Closing my eyes as we ascend toward the twelfth floor, I breathe carefully, as I always do when I’m trapped in enclosed spaces.

I can tell from Rufus’s expression that he has no idea what he’s doing here and is growing increasingly uncertain.

When I look up toward the rising numbers, I feel his gaze traveling to the opened button on my blouse, where a hint of red bra peeps out from beneath the white.

I reach down, as if to scratch an itch, and allow another button to pop open, pretending I don’t know that it has, and he exhales a little louder before covering it up with a cough.

I lead him toward my apartment and unlock the door, standing back to allow him to enter first. The table lamp I left on earlier offers the per fect glow against the evening light that seeps in through the windows and he steps inside, looking around.

“This is really nice,” he tells me, his eyes widening. He wanders over to the other side of the room, where glass doors open onto a balcony that faces an identical building opposite.

“Thanks,” I say. “Do you like music?”

“Umm, I guess.”

I tell Siri to play a song that relaxes me, a ballad, and he listens for a moment.

“I’m learning piano,” he tells me.

“Oh yes? And how’s that going?”

“It’s OK,” he replies, blushing again, as if he already regrets revealing any detail about his life.

I can tell that he wants to talk to me, but he’s a nervous, anxious fourteen-year-old boy, and every time he says something, he immediately regrets it.

I leave him alone for a moment, going to the bedroom to retrieve the purse I deliberately left on my dressing table earlier.

“Sorry,” I say, holding it in the air when I return. “I forgot this, and I’m nearly out of petrol. Might have to stop at a garage on the way.”

Another lie, of course. I filled the tank yesterday.

“It’s fine,” he says. “But I should probably get home now.”

“Why? No one’s expecting you, are they?”

He looks at me and blinks a few times.

“You said your mother’s going out.”

“I know, but—”

“No, you’re right. I’ve already taken up enough of your time. Although I am a bit thirsty. I might just grab a quick drink. Would you like one?”

He looks around the room. “Umm.”

“I’m pretty sure I have a Coke in the fridge,” I tell him. “Would you like a Coke?”

“Umm.”

I don’t go to the fridge just yet. Instead, I walk toward him.

His skin is remarkably clear. I can tell that he’s the sort of boy who isn’t going to suffer acne and wonder what he’ll look like when he’s older.

Right now, he’s neither a boy nor a proper teenager.

His face has a blankness to it that could develop into anything.

He could be one of those innocent, asexual boys larking around naked in a Henry Scott Tuke painting or a tattooed thug living on a council estate and dealing drugs to children.

But while he’s blameless now, almost angelic, it’s only a matter of time before he matures and not only recognizes his power to destroy girls in pursuit of what he wants but acts upon it.

Right now, as I stand before him, some innocent twelve-year-old girl is lying on her bed not far from here, plaiting the hair of her dolls, looking up at the fairy lights that brighten her room or the luminous stars on her ceiling, completely oblivious to the fact that, one day, she’ll be one of his victims.

“Let me get you that Coke,” I say.

I make my way into the kitchen and take the can from the fridge, shaking it vigorously before returning to the living room and handing it to him.

He looks at it as if there’s nothing he wants less, but it’s in his hands now so he has no choice but to open it.

When he does, it explodes, of course, and his football shirt is soaked within seconds.

He cries out in dismay before dropping it on a side table, where it fizzes over the top, then looks at me in mortification.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, as if it’s his fault that this has happened and not mine.

“Don’t worry,” I say, stepping toward him. “Accidents happen. But look at you, you’re drenched!” He peels the polyester fabric away from his skin. “You can’t wear it home like that. Take it off and I’ll put it on a quick wash and dry for you. It won’t take long.”

His expression changes to one of pure terror. The last thing he wants to do is remove his shirt.

“It’s OK,” he says.

“Take it off,” I insist, reaching down and lifting it from its base, like a mother undressing a toddler, before dragging it higher.

He lifts his arms and I pull it up, bringing it into the kitchen, where I simply toss it on the floor.

I have no intention of doing his laundry; I’m not his servant.

When I return, he’s wrapped his arms around his pale, white chest and is looking down at the floor.

I come closer.

“Look at you. All sticky.” I press my index finger to his sternum before drawing it slowly down toward his navel. “You know what you need?”

“What?” he whispers, his voice cracking in a single syllable.

“A shower.”

“I’m fine,” he tells me, shaking his head quickly.

“You’re not fine,” I reply. “What kind of person would I be if I sent you home like this? Some kind of monster. Just like the Wicked Witch of the West.” I step even closer to him now, and our eyes meet.

I can feel his tension, his fear, his desire, his confusion.

It’s a combination that intoxicates me. I try to recall the name of the child I treated a few weeks ago, named after the Norse god of vengeance, but it escapes me for the moment.

I lower my voice, almost whispering.

“You’re very shy, aren’t you, Rufus?” I say. “Boys your age are usually so overconfident. It’s refreshing to meet one who isn’t.”

Gently, I place the flat of my right hand against his chest.

Vidar , that was it. Vidar .

“Don’t be nervous,” I say, taking his hand now as I lead him toward the bathroom. “You can trust me.”