Judy’s eyes were tranquil and blue, but he managed to release himself back to Abigail.
“Go on,” Abigail whispered, her lips leaning into the contours of his mouth. “What did he say about me?”
“He said he was in love with you.”
She laughed. “Really? Well, I suppose that’s sweet.”
“He said you somehow made him fall in love with you, that you let him be in love with you, that you used him while he was in love with you.”
She laughed again. “How odd! What a strange boy. You don’t believe that do you, Clay? You don’t believe I’d be so cruel?”
Her lips were almost pressed against his; Judy’s teeth were giving little nibbles to his neck, while Belinda was smiling at him.
“No I don’t, but he does. He said he was going to have the last laugh. He said he knew things about you, that he was going to get you.”
“What does he know?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Oh,” she snorted. “Thank you, Clay.” And she kissed him, holding her lips to his for a long cool moment.
She let go and Judy reached her hand over his face and pulled his attention back, her eyes shining with impatience. He glanced at Belinda as his gaze moved; she still smirked.
“What did he say about me?” Judy asked.
“He didn’t say anything.”
“He didn’t even say what a good kisser I am?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Well, shall we see what he’s forgotten?”
Her tongue was in his mouth, swift but gentle. She instigated her kisses, but once there wanted to be dominated. She wanted her head bent back and her mouth barely let up for air. He obliged, and felt Abigail’s hands run down him and her lips on his neck, kissing him, licking him. He had one hand resting in the middle of Abigail’s thighs as she kissed him, he had one hand up Judy’s skirt as he kissed her. Belinda’s foot stroked against his knee. He could feel her chuckle, sense her merriment, and he thought he heard the phrase: “You’re always mine. You will always be mine, won’t you?”
He could remember those words. He saw himself with another man – another tall, muscular man. They were both naked, excited, giggly for each other. They kissed. He was actually kissing a man – something he’d never done. He led the man to a bed and sat him down. He then knelt before him and started to give this man he’d never seen a blow-job. It looked so clear, so real, but it had never happened. They’d done it before, he thought, but they’d never done it before. Clay got him to where there was only pleasure ahead, then let go. The man gave a sigh of disappointment and maybe even a little pain. Their eyes met, looking at each other so delicious, so in lust, so in love.
“You’re always mine,” said Clay. “You will always be mine, won’t you?”
“Yes,” said the man. “Yes, I will.”
And Clay pulled a knife from under the mattress and sliced open the man’s chest. It sprayed blood across the sheets and right over the walls.
He flashed back to reality, flashed back from something that had never happened. His hand was tight on Abigail’s thigh and her kisses were little nips at his throat. Judy’s head was bent back, their tongues dancing together, his hand beneath her knickers and on her bare backside.
They blushed as the cab pulled up to the flat, and slowly disentangled themselves from each other. Clay paid the cabbie for the ride, though the thought occurred – as he saw the sly smile on the cabby’s face – that they should really have got him to pay for the show.
Inside they said goodnight with red-faced reserve, a peck on the cheek like friends after a meal out. Then Belinda, still with a smirk, led him to her bedroom.
She pushed him backwards, kissing him as she went until he dropped to the bed. She straddled him and gave a flick of her red hair, setting her face at just the right angle for one of her Hollywood moments. Her image frozen with her most glamorous smile, her skin smooth, her eyes lit perfectly to show off their intense green beauty.
She squeezed him between her knees and dropped her face to his. He tried to turn her over, but she resisted, hitting his hand away. She bit into his lips, and when she raised her head for breath – raised her head so he could see just how incredible she looked – her lipstick seemed red, as if smeared with his blood.
“You’re always mine,” he said. “You will always be mine, won’t you?”
She blinked and stared at him. “Yeah, honey,” she said. “And you’ll be mine won’t you?”
“Yeah.”
She grinned and they continued to kiss and move in the green light.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
He dreamt he was outside a concrete block of flats on the Holloway Road. It took him a moment, but he recognised it as Nick Turnkey’s building. He smiled and walked to the front door.
The last time he’d visited, the door had been a chipped white – battered by the elements and stained by drunken old men urinating against it. Now it was a brilliant red – but, sadly, still obviously suffering the effects of wind, rain and old men’s piss. It looked like the same door though, just a lick of paint – and that was good. Nick always complained about this door, the fact that anyone could get in if they knew what to do. All someone needed was to punch the lock hard enough and it gave, swinging open for all to enter.
Clay shut it behind him.
As it was essentially a private residence there were carpets in the hallway – but, like nearly everything on the Holloway Road, they appeared dingy and used. There were cigarette burns, a few specks of blood, other stains that were impossible to identify.
He grabbed onto the metal banister rail and climbed the two flights of stairs.
Nick’s flat was number five and Clay stood outside the heavy door and stared at it. He didn’t move, just waited unflinching and tried to make eye contact with anyone the other side of the peephole. There was nobody, yet. Finally he raised his fist and banged three hard blows.
There was no sound in response, just an echo of silence.
He waited a minute, completely passive, a stone man come to visit. Then, he raised his hand again and hit the door three more times.
Now he heard movement, rustling from the other side. He looked straight ahead and was gratified to see a shadow fall across the peephole.
He smiled and banged the door three more times.
He heard the deadlock undone and then Nick swung the door open a couple of inches and glared at him suspiciously.
Nick tried to make himself look as big as possible. He pushed out his shoulders and stood tall as if trying to block out the light behind him. But he still resembled a little boy playing tough.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
“I just thought I’d come and see you,” grinned Clay. “I thought I’d check you were okay.”
“I’m okay.”
“Good.”
They stared at each other. Nick not moving from his place in the doorway, Clay not shifting from outside it.
“Listen,” said Clay. “When I visited before you always had a good bottle of something hanging about. It’s been a long trip and I was wondering if I could possibly have a refreshing dram.”
Nick chewed the inside of his mouth, in annoyance or suspicion or just plain animosity. But evidently his mind didn’t work fast enough to think of a reasonable excuse and so he stepped out of the way.
The flat was exactly how Clay remembered it; a bloke’s flat decorated by a bloke with a lack of imagination. A man who’d proudly state his originality by sticking Beatles posters to the walls. All the walls were a dirty white, and the overall impression was of a particularly dingy student flat.
He followed Nick to the lounge and that was exactly as he remembered it too. An old sofa, old TV and masses of musical instruments. There were guitars: electric, acoustic, twelve-string, bass. There were keyboards; three different types lined up in a row. There was a saxophone, always un-played, and an old drum machine. At the centre was his sixteen-track re
corder, with wires and microphones spooling out from it.
On the wall were shelves creaking with the weight of dozens of black lever-arch files, all crammed full with pages of limp lyrics and clichéd chord changes.
“Have a seat,” said Nick.
Clay dropped to the couch.
“I only got mugs.” Nick nodded his head towards a blue mug on the floor. Even from Clay’s place on the sofa the smell of rum was obvious. Clearly his drinking for the night hadn’t stopped, though he seemed soberer now. “I had a party and lost all the glasses,” he explained.
“Mugs are fine.”
Clay smiled at Nick and hoped he’d go away to get the drink, but instead he just stood there and glared at him.
“What are you doing here Clay?” he asked finally.
“I’m having a drink.”
“Nobody goes across London at three in the morning to get themselves a drink. What if I’d been out? What if I’d been sleeping?”
“I couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d take a walk.”
It was a funny thing to say as he knew of course that he was asleep.
“Who sent you?” asked Nick.
“Nobody sent me.”
“You just left Abigail’s and wandered over here by yourself?”
“Belinda thinks I’m asleep – they all do.”
That was funny too.
Nick stared at him. He leant down and picked up his mug, taking a long gulp. He was clearly no nearer to fetching Clay that drink.
“I’ll be honest with you,” said Clay. “I’m a little curious about what you know about Abigail, and so I thought I’d pop over and find out what it is.”
“Did she send you?”
“No.”
Nick chewed his tongue around his mouth.
“So, what do you know?” asked Clay.
“Oh, I know a lot of things. I know what a bitch she is, I know what a slut she is, I know what a cunt she is. I know what she’s fucking capable of. I hung around a long time and found out all kinds of juicy shit she wouldn’t want public.”
“Go on then, get me a drink and tell me all about it.”
Nick’s suspicion was still clinging on. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because she’s never liked me and I’ve never liked her, and now I’m back it’ll be sweet to have some leverage against her. After all, knowledge is power – and if you have the knowledge, I’d like to have the power.”
“You sure you want to know this?”
“Sure I’m sure, Nick.”
“Okay.” He nodded once. “You might not enjoy it though.”
“I’m sure I’ll live,” said Clay. “You told anyone else?”
“One or two, but it’s still very exclusive. Stay there, I’ll be right back.” He finished his mug and headed to the kitchen.
Clay jumped up and stared around the musical instruments. On the floor was a fresh plastic bag of new guitar strings. He opened it, wrapped them around his hand and then picked up the acoustic guitar. He could already hear Nick put the bottle down and could picture him coming back through the hallway.
He dashed behind the lounge door and waited.
Nick came to the doorway and stopped. He’d clearly expected his guest to be sitting on the couch and was bemused to see him gone. Clay waited for him, the guitar ready.
Nick looked over his shoulder, perhaps to check if Clay had gone to the toilet, then took a step into the lounge.
The guitar came crashing into his head.
He dropped to his knees with a cry. His fists smashed into the carpet, cracking the mugs and sending shards into his fingers. The guitar exploded around his ears, the blow seeming to vibrate from the back of his skull to the trembling of his eyeballs, all the way up Clay’s arms.
Clay stretched the guitar strings between his fingers and strung them around Nick’s throat. He pulled tight, slicing into the musician’s skin.
On his knees with bleeding hands, Nick Turnkey reached frantically to his throat. His eyes bulged, a series of tiny veins and capillaries in the whites exploded into a brutal red. The strings cut into his flesh, his callused fingers tried to prise into his torn neck to pull them back out. His final breath choked in his throat and he fell forward as the last remnants of life faded away. His face at the end was crimson and swollen, covered in a film of tears and snot and blood, his engorged tongue poking out of eerily dry lips.
The D string snapped, but the rest held. Clay strangled him for longer than was necessary, just to be positive he was really dead, just to be sure the strings truly ripped into his vocal chords. He held the strings as a surgeon holds a scalpel – delicate care and expertise combined with power.
Clay unwrapped them carefully from his fingers and then grabbed at those shelves, emptying the lever arch files over the body. He buried Nick in lyrics and tunes, making sure not a single sheet escaped.
He found two bottles of vodka and some cooking oil in the pantry. He poured them over the papers and drenched the body, lighting it with kitchen matches. The conflagration was swift; those dry sheets burnt quickly. It was the kind of sight which would have cheered a Viking.
With a smile and a skip Clay headed to the front door, humming Beatles tunes as he went.
CHAPTER TWELVE
He woke like a man who had been one gasped mouthful away from drowning – his head piercing the water – confused, alarmed, frightened. His eyes were wide and shocked, his heart pounding, his breath thin. He shot from the bed with a silent scream, the ceiling getting closer at a hundred and fifty miles per hour.
There was trembling in every part of him and he swung his feet so they touched solid floor. His hands went to his face, wiping away a mixture of tears and sweat. He felt the air groan and ache from his mouth to his lungs, and was conscious that every pore of his body was covered in cold salt-water. He knew he’d never felt so scared.
Belinda touched him. She soothed her hand across his shoulder blades and must have found his muscles like a badly moulded steel bar. He jumped, but she persevered. She ran her fingers up his spine, then wrapped her arms around him and kissed the back of his neck. He leant his weight towards her. He lifted his head from his hands and let her take care of his tears.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
He gasped for words and she pushed her palms across his chest and massaged his lungs.
“I had a dream,” he said.
“Another one? What about?”
“I killed Nick Turnkey.”
“What?”
“I went around to his flat and hit him with his guitar and strangled him with his guitar strings. I set fire to the place.”
“Oh my God! Okay, be calm – it’s just a dream.”
“That’s what you said yesterday, but look at Raymond. I dreamt I killed him and he ended up killed.”
“How did you kill Raymond?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t remember, it’s faded. But I know I killed him and I know the next day he was dead. And now I’ve killed Nick – what if he shows up dead? What happens then?”
“He could be perfectly fine, Clay.”
“What if he isn’t? What if he’s been beaten and burnt? What then?”
“Clay, you haven’t killed anyone,” she insisted. “You’ve been with me all night, I can promise you that. You haven’t got up to commit a murder without me noticing. You’ve been here, you’ve been with me. Nobody has been hurt, nobody has been murdered – you’ve been sound asleep.”
He clutched her hand. “I’ve got to go round there.” He was determined, but the words still stumbled from his mouth.
“What? Why?”
“I’ve just got to see. If the flat is fine and looks good from the outside and there are no police, then I’ll walk happily away. If it’s burnt and there are police, then–”
“Then what?” she asked.
“Then I guess I won’t sleep again.”
“You’re being insane.”
“A
m I? These dreams are so real, it’s like I can touch in them, feel in them. There’s nothing distant or imaginary, it’s as if I’m really there, really doing it – and the next morning I wake up and someone is dead.”
“But you’re not really there. You’re not really doing it.”
“It doesn’t matter, I’ve got to go. If there’s nothing, I’ll walk away and believe what happened yesterday was a terrible coincidence. But if there is something, then I’ve got to find out what the Hell is going on.”
“Stay here,” she said. “Stay with me. Forget about the dream, as that’s all it is, Clay – a dream.”
“Don’t you listen to a word I say?” He shoved himself from her.
He left her on the bed with a pout and went for a shower in the pink bathroom. The sink, bathtub, shower-head, shower-curtain, wall and floor tiles were all shiny bright pink. Even the radio, there to play pop hits for them to dance to, was perfectly girlie. Unfortunately, he looked horribly out of place in here, his skin wasn’t perky pink, it was dreadful grey.
The water was lukewarm and he stood with his eyes closed, his body still, his mind zooming.
Nick fell hard to his knees, there was a musical thud as he was struck. There was cramp in Clay’s hands, as if his muscles were tight from strangling. There was the smell of smoke from the burning songs. There was a man’s naked torso, himself kneeling in front of him, ready for murder – but he didn’t know who this man was, couldn’t see his face, didn’t know why he was murdering him. Was that another dream? He tried to concentrate on other parts of the picture, but all he could visualise was that man’s body and himself – as if it took place in a void, everything around completely black.
Clay had never been a violent man, had always been too big to necessitate it – people stopped making trouble the moment he looked at them. But now he had all these thoughts, these memories of violence and he didn’t know where they came from.
Belinda wasn’t in her room any more; he walked back in to an empty bed. She’d opened the curtains before she vanished, and there again was the blue sky with the sun starting to rise and dominate.
The Wannabes Page 8
