The Wannabes

by F. R. Jameson

  This time there was something, a light rustle, the sound of a man desperate not to make any sound.

  Clay smiled as he watched a shadow fall momentarily across the peep-hole.

  The door swung open and there stood Jake in his boxer shorts – black with Valentine hearts strewn across them.

  Jake stretched his hand across his yawning mouth, then tried to blink himself into full consciousness. “Clay – what the fuck do you want?”

  “Have you seen Toby Coops?”

  “What? Why would I have seen Toby?”

  “He’s vanished.”

  “What?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Jake flicked the light switch. “Sorry, you fucking woke me, man. What’s all this about? What time is it? Christ, man! – what the fuck happened to your foot?”

  Clay limped into the apartment and stared down, unsure himself. “I had an accident,” he murmured.

  “What happened?”

  Clay attempted to shrug nonchalantly, but that was difficult with all his weight balanced painfully on one foot.

  Jake shut the door quietly behind his hobbling guest. “What’s this about Toby?”

  “We don’t know,” said Clay. “He seems to have vanished.”

  “How can you tell? He could just be in some crappy bar playing fruit machines by himself. That’s what he does, ain’t it? Have you checked every crappy bar in London? Have you?”

  Clay just shrugged.

  “Then why have you come and woken me before you’ve fucking done that?” Jake threw his arms wide in tired astonishment.

  “His place is a mess.”

  “His place is always a mess.”

  “More so.”

  Jake stared at him. Clay just stood still and gazed away from his American friend, taking another look at the split-level opulence of the apartment. He wanted to sit down and tend his foot (what the hell was wrong with it?) but knew he didn’t have time for that.

  Anger was rising in Jake. “So what do you want me to do about it? What do you expect me to do at three in the morning?”

  “Is it that late?”

  “Yeah, there’s the clock – it’s that late, Clay! What are you doing here?”

  “I thought you might know where he was.”

  “How would I know that? I’m not his fucking social secretary!”

  “I thought you’d want to know he’s disappeared.”

  “You’re not even sure he has disappeared!” yelled Jake. “Listen, I know I’m very tired, but what the fuck is this? Why are you looking for Toby? Why, when you can’t find him, do you come to me? I don’t understand. Is this about something else? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Clay looked down at the coffee table; on it lay Jake’s slim, sleek, expensive lap-top. It was jet-black and closed for the night, but even in its dormant state the quality of the item was clear. “Is that what you wrote the script on?” he asked.

  “Yeah. So what?”

  Clay nodded and picked it up.

  “Don’t fucking touch it!”

  Clay swung it into the side of Jake’s head. It gave a triumphant thud, smashing against Jake’s skull then reverberating around the apartment. It buckled from the blow and dropped from Clay’s hand – a bruised remnant of its shiny self.

  Incredibly, Jake was still standing. His eye was cut and his cheek had caved in – he gave a little squeak of pain – but he was still upright in front of Clay. His early days of American Football had obviously given him a sturdiness that belied his frame. He stood there, shaking, clearly stunned. The muscles in Jake’s face twitched and there was a lone drop of dark blood slithering down his cheek, but in that first moment, there was no other reaction.

  Clay jumped at Jake, knocking him down, landing him with a crack to his shoulder blades. His large hands wrapped around Jake’s throat and squeezed.

  Jake gasped, the last sound he ever made, his fingers desperately clawing at Clay, trying to find some way to push him off. He tried to scream, but there was no sound. His eyeballs were suddenly beyond red, a sickening puce – every capillary and blood vessel burst and flooded his whites the colour of death.

  Jake gave one final push against Clay’s chest, a last despairing attempt to knock him away, but it seemed that there wasn’t even a molecule of strength left in his arms. His eyes filled with blood, so that thick trickles oozed out of the corners. His throat was crushed, red bubbles forming at his nostrils and mouth. He clawed his fingers once more at Clay, and then suddenly his arms went limp and just flopped to his side. His head arched back with his neck black with bruises, his face crimson and contorted.

  Clay leapt from the corpse of his American friend and nearly fell over. His right foot wept with pain, as if a spear had been thrust through his skin and now ripped his flesh with every movement.

  He steadied himself and limped to the kitchen. He had to be quick. Surely Flower hadn’t just slept through that. Surely she was awake and frightened somewhere. She was waiting for him, maybe calling the police; the goddamn cavalry were on their way to save her. Lurching like a malfunctioning Frankenstein’s monster, Clay pulled out the kitchen drawers until he found a sharp and shiny butcher’s knife. Then he headed to the bedroom.

  The knife – which no doubt had been used on nothing more exciting than chicken until now – gleamed in the half-light. He was going to cut off her face with it. She thought she was so beautiful, so spectacular – but he was going to show her she wasn’t. Before he killed her he was going to take that face from her. It would be fun. There’d be no more smug pouts, no more fluttering eye-lashes, no more superior looks.

  He put his hand on the wall to retain his balance. There was blood pouring over the top of his shoe, leaving stains on the white carpet. He ground his teeth, pretending his foot wasn’t dragging some way behind the rest of him.

  His hand wrapped around the banister and he pulled himself up the stairs to the upper level, blood smearing the steps.

  At the top he managed to hop and charge forward.

  Clay threw open the bedroom door with a snarl, wanting to scare the stupid bitch – and all he found was an empty bed. The sheets creased, a pillow dented – but no Flower.

  She must be hiding somewhere.

  Unsteadiness in his every movement, he had to keep going. He threw back the bed and underneath was just rubbish – the collected cardboard boxes of a man who never tossed anything out.

  Blood spilled over the side of his shoe as Clay spun round and grabbed open the wardrobe, sending the blade ripping through Jake’s suits.

  Again there was no Flower.

  He careered into the hallway. The bathroom door was open and he yanked down the shower curtain, but again nothing.

  All the spare bedroom had was a small bed with no sheets. He threw the mattress over and she wasn’t cowering there either; she wasn’t in the closet of that room – nothing was.

  Clay roared breathlessly, consumed with anger and hatred and frustration.

  The knife was still in his hand, his whole body shaking with adrenalin. He hopped and staggered and stumbled back to the stairs and then slipped, tumbling down. He banged his face against the sharp steps, landing with a thud on the lower level. The blade came down hard and was embedded in the carpet two inches from his nose. He struggled to wrench it free.

  He stood up slowly, his right foot behind him – a pirate reliant on one leg.

  She wasn’t here.

  The stupid lucky bitch wasn’t here.

  He stared down at Jake’s body and momentarily felt sorry for him.

  Clay hobbled carefully to the kitchen and took some cooking oil to pour over Jake’s red and bruised corpse. He pulled down some books from the shelves and scattered the leaves over his friend. They were all How To... screenwriting books. Clay, having murdered the man, now desecrated his bibles.

  He covered Jake in paper, then grabbed a chef’s box of large matches. The smoke alarm was right out
side the kitchen and he took a moment to slam the knife into it and then removed the battery.

  Clay sat on the sofa and watched the flames take hold. He looked at the blood on the carpet, blood on the walls. Footprints, handprints, fingerprints – all his. He didn’t have time to turn the apartment into a proper inferno. All he could do was hope that Jake’s body burned fiercely enough for his entire home to go up with him. If it didn’t, well, he wasn’t around for that long – let’s see if the police could get him before he went.

  He got up from the sofa just as the smoke turned black. He limped through it and closed the front door behind him. It was painful hopping down the stairs, one hand to the wall, one to the banister.

  Something stopped him on the ground floor. He suddenly had the impression that he was being watched – as if that drunken fancy-Dan hadn’t just passed out, but was standing at the peephole staring at him.

  A voice told Clay that he should quickly kill him, get him out of the way – he was a witness, after all. But another voice – closer to his own – said no, he didn’t want to kill another man tonight. For a moment, there was more pain in his head than there was in his foot, but he managed to get outside without further blood on his hands.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  He woke with a scream that ricocheted through his skull. His eyes bulged, his mouth hung open, he almost choked on the fresh morning air.

  Either side of him lay Belinda and Judy, both naked now. They were absolutely beautiful and, though asleep, each faced him with a little smile.

  He dived down the middle of the bed and dropped painfully to his elbows on the floor. He rolled over and stared at the two women.

  Belinda stirred, but not in a startled way; more as if she’d heard the sweet sound of the dawn chorus.

  There were bruises on his arms that hadn’t been there when he went to bed, and his face was tender. He stared at his foot and it was bandaged.

  A scream came fast to his throat. The dream was on replay as he closed his eyes.

  Belinda smiled drowsily. She looked at Judy and registered no surprise or jealousy – instead she drew closer and ran her hand down Judy’s body, thumb lingering on her hip. It was a sleepy tenderness, and she gave Clay the same delightful warm expression.

  “Hi, honey,” her voice was languid. “What’s up?”

  “What’s up?” he yelled. “What have you done to me?”

  Judy stirred, again peacefully, as if the only noise she could hear came from woodland squirrels foraging nearby. She wrapped her arms around Belinda’s naked body for early morning comfort.

  Belinda smiled at him. “What are you yelling for, darling?”

  “What do you mean, what I am yelling for? Look at me!”

  Judy peered at him with unconcerned curiosity, her eyelids only half-open.

  Belinda ran her hand through her flatmate’s hair. “Well, don’t you remember?”

  “Yeah, I fucking remember! I remember all of it, every fucking thing! What have you done to me?”

  “But if you remember,” said Judy, “why are you yelling? It was so beautiful, I’ve never been as happy as I was last night.”

  “What?”

  “He was drunk,” said Belinda. “He was pissed and maybe he had another of his bad dreams and got confused.”

  He stared at them and they kissed, softly and lovingly on the lips.

  Belinda turned to face him, her pout still gorgeous. “Don’t you remember? We had a few drinks and then we had a threesome. Judy joined us.”

  Judy cuddled into Belinda, nibbling at her white neck, her hand playing with Belinda’s left breast. Belinda’s hand moved in from her flatmate’s hip.

  Judy was a little breathless as she spoke. “We can do it again if you like. I mean, if you really don’t remember.”

  “What?” he said. “What are you talking about? What the hell happened to my foot?”

  Belinda gave him a full yet tender smile he never knew she possessed. “You were drunk, my darling, and maybe a little dizzy with happiness. You went to the bathroom and somehow stepped on a razor blade. It went quite deep and we got it out and bandaged your foot. I’m amazed you don’t remember – did you have another nightmare?”

  “What happened to my face?”

  Judy didn’t look at him, concentrating on Belinda, her voice distracted. “You fell over. We were very scared that you might have hurt yourself, but afterwards–” – she smiled at the memory – “–you proved you were in full working order.”

  He pressed back to the green wall and stood up slowly, gingerly using his right foot. They had their arms around each other, stroking, their mouths kissing, their tongues obviously eager to move down naked flesh – so incredibly alluring in the dawn light. But – as pictures of Jake whirred around his head – there was something in the placid calm of their faces that chilled him on a summer’s day. He leant as far against the wall as he could, getting his strength, frightened to be near them.

  “What happened to Jake last night?” he asked.

  “Sorry?” Belinda’s voice was a breathless whisper.

  Judy was nibbling her way down Belinda’s chest. “We haven’t seen Jake.”

  Clay smacked his palm to the wall. “Yeah, but I have! I saw him clearly. I saw him when he answered the door, I saw him as he questioned me in his front room, I saw him as I brained him with his computer. I looked into his eyes as I throttled him on his carpet. I fucking know what happened, I know what I did, I know what you made me do!”

  They kissed once more on the lips and then gazed at him, their faces side by side, their arms tight around each other.

  Belinda spoke: “You’ve been here with us all night, darling.”

  “I’ve been here all night? Having a threesome I can’t remember? Digging a razor deep into my foot by just standing on it? That’s fucking nonsense. I’ve been out, I’ve killed someone, I’ve killed someone again – and you made me do it!” He was breathless, his brain filling with words faster than he could speak them. “Do you want to know where the razor came from? Do you? I put it in my shoe last night to make sure I didn’t go out, jammed it in there so I’d know I was only dreaming because my foot wasn’t hurting. Except my foot was fucking hurting!”

  Judy trembled in Belinda’s arms.

  “What the fuck have you done to me?” he screamed. “Those dreams were real! I wasn’t here last night or the night before, was I? I was out killing people for you. What did you do? How did you make me do it? Jesus Christ! I killed all three of them – you made me do it!”

  Judy trembled and wrapped herself tighter to Belinda. “You cut your foot on a razor blade on the bathroom floor, you fell over because you were drunk.”

  “You got me drunk last night, didn’t you? You got me drunk so I’d fall asleep. You gave me all that food, all that drink, had sex with me – just so I’d pass out and you could make me do this. Oh my God! What the fuck are you?”

  “Nothing like that happened,” said Belinda. “You were with us all night.”

  “Just like I’ve been with you the last two nights?”

  “Yes.”

  “So if I go to Bayswater he won’t be dead, will he? The flat won’t be burnt? Everything will be normal and Jake will be waving from his window – is that right?”

  “Yeah, honey, Jake and Flower will both be fine.”

  Clay laughed, felt it deep within himself – a hate-filled, triumphant laugh. “That’s right. You sent me to kill Flower, didn’t you? It wasn’t for Jake, I just had to kill him on the way through. You sent me for Flower. Well ladies, she wasn’t there. I killed Jake, but Flower is still alive.”

  The door opened and there, her arms stretched across the frame, was Abigail – her hair ruffled, her head held high, her naked skin as if lit by a red glow. She was incredible – so taut, so supple, so athletic. She was beautiful and sexy and devastatingly cruel, and she knew it to every inch. “Hello, Mister Clay,” she said. “How are you today?”

&n
bsp; He trembled away from her, back down the wall, moving from the doorway which had been his escape. His eyes found it difficult to leave her, but when he did flash a glance to Belinda and Judy, both now boasted smug smiles. He glanced quickly to the floor and saw his clothes.

  His voice trembled but he managed to speak. “I know what’s going on.”

  Abigail arched an eyebrow. “Well then, what’s going on?”

  “I know I killed Jake and Nick and Raymond. I know I killed them all and somehow you made me do it.”

  “Somehow?” She laughed once. “Somehow? To me the word ‘somehow’ is not closely linked with the word ‘know’. One is vague and questioning, the other definite. What do you know, Mister Clay?”

  “We told him he’s been here all night,” said Judy.

  Abigail shrugged. “I think even Mister Clay is thinker enough not to believe that any more. Belinda did a magnificent job convincing you it was all a dream the last two nights, didn’t she? But this time – well, it’s the disappointing third revival of a play, isn’t it? The first two were triumphant, the third is making even the most easily pleased critic think up new swear words.”

  She took a step, swayed towards him, and he backed the corresponding distance away. Her limbs were long and tantalising, her groin was smooth and hairless, her breasts pert, her face stunning and yet so mean. He noticed Belinda’s expression as he moved: she was delighted by his fear.

  “You had a bad dream again, did you? I can’t understand why that happens – you’re not supposed to remember anything in the morning. You’re supposed to be the ideal killer. You can never give yourself away.”

  She took another step and then sat calmly on the bed. Belinda and Judy separated so that she could sit between them, and then they all wrapped their arms lovingly around each other. There they were – gorgeous and knowing it – the blonde, the brunette, the red-head. Licking their lips and staring at him with wide, enquiring, enticing eyes – while he trembled in the corner away from them.

  “What are you going to do then, Mister Clay?” asked Abigail.

  “What do you mean?”

  She looked at her friends. “Aw, ain’t that great? That’s one of the reasons why we’ve always liked you, why we invited you back – you’re really not much of a thinker are you? You don’t strain your brain too hard.”