The Wannabes

by F. R. Jameson

  “I don’t understand any of this.”

  “I can explain, if you like, but first you’ve got to tell us what you’re going to do.” She stroked her hand through Judy’s hair and kissed her forehead. “What are you going to do, Mister Clay? Are you going to stay here with us, or are you going to go out there into the big bad world?”

  “I’m not staying here! After what you’ve done, I’m not staying near you.”

  “Then where are you going to go to, Mister Clay? The police are looking for you out there, you know that, don’t you? If you leave, they’ll find you, and then what will you tell them? What will you tell them, Mister Clay? How will you explain away your bloody fingerprints at the scene of the crime?”

  “I’ll tell them what happened.”

  She laughed. They all laughed; a high cacophony.

  “And you think anyone will actually believe that?” she said. “What we’ve done – what you’ve done – is beyond the realms of most people’s imagination. Do you think the police will believe your tale? And what about your friends, your blessed friends – do you think they’ll listen? This strange story that – even though you were the one murdering in cold blood – it was somehow our fault. Do you think they’re going to accept that?” Her eyebrows arched and she leant her shoulders back, her body long and taut and beautiful. “You could maybe not tell your lovely friends, just count on their good will to get you through, but – let’s be honest – they’ll know the police are after you. They’ll figure out that Mister Clay has been back three nights and there are now three dead bodies. Do you really think they’ll look after you? Do you think they’ll trust you? Do you think they won’t dial 999 the first time you go to the toilet?”

  “I‘ll get myself locked up. You can’t make me kill with bars between me and the world.”

  “Brilliant, just brilliant – and quite chivalrous too. You’d really get yourself imprisoned for years and years for something you blame us for? That is incredible, Mister Clay. I wish there were more men like you.”

  Belinda rested her head on Abigail’s shoulder and gave him a studied gaze of adoration. “I love you. You’re the man I want to be with, and I thought you wanted to be with me too. I’m sorry about what’s happened, but we could only use a very specific man – one who loved me, loved us, cared for me, cared for us – who’d understand there were horrible things we needed to do.”

  “Murder?” he yelled.

  “It’s a sad thing.” Judy’s voice was so soft and young. “But there are some people who need to be murdered.”

  Belinda raised her head from her flatmate’s shoulder. “I love you, I love you so much. Don’t you love me too, Clay?”

  He managed not to answer.

  “This is the best place for you,” purred Abigail. “We’ll look after you, take care of you, love you, fuck you – all three of us. We’ll explain, make it clear. You’ll understand why it was the right thing to do. We haven’t done any real wrong, Mister Clay. You’ve been away a long time, you don’t understand what’s been happening. Stay here and we’ll look after you, take care of you, adore you. Can you imagine that? The three of us at once? Men dream of that, men would pay for that. Some men would gladly kill for it. What do you think, Mister Clay?”

  “And who do I murder tonight?”

  “Maybe you don’t murder anyone tonight. Maybe it’s all over, maybe you just get to spend time with us.” She licked her tongue around her lips.

  “What about Flower?” he said. “You wanted her dead and she wasn’t there – what’s going to happen to her tonight?”

  “Oh Flower.” Abigail shook her head. “She always was the lucky one – poor Jake. Oh well, I guess that’s what he gets for going out with such a talentless slut. But then, maybe we don’t have to do anything with Flower now, maybe her grief will make her disappear for us.”

  “Just like you made Raymond and Nick disappear.”

  “Not quite, but the effect will be just the same.”

  He stared at her.

  “What if I told you it was over?” she asked. “What if I told you that if you go out now, you may not save a life? That you’ll launch yourself into misery for nothing? Can you imagine what it will be like behind bars? All those sweaty criminal men staring at you? You spending your nights dreaming of us – and you will dream of us – but never again being able to touch or see us?” She ran her hand through Judy’s hair and then kissed Belinda. “Can you imagine that moment of betrayal when you go to your ‘friends’ for help? Them suddenly so scared they scream ‘Police’. Can you imagine how that’s going to feel? Or would you rather imagine life with us?”

  Both Belinda and Judy started to kiss her neck. Belinda clutched her small breast, Judy moved her hand between Abigail’s legs, while Abigail rolled her eyes with delight and then fixed him with a gaze that said this pleasure could be his. “We can look after you, take care of you, entertain you. We’ll tell the police we don’t know where you are. We’ll tell them you left and we don’t know where you went. If they want to search our flat, we have places for you to hide. In the meantime, you get to spend your hours with us – in absolute bliss and happiness. What do you think, Mister Clay? What do you think?”

  “I’m not killing for you!”

  She ignored his whimpering, opening her legs slightly and – with a sparkle in her eyes – bringing her friend’s lovely bodies closer to her. “Just stay with us, we’ll look after you, take care of you. Each of us will give you our undivided attention. Do you really want to go out there? Do you want to see your ‘pals’ betray you? Do you want to spend the rest of your life behind bars with a tattooed maniac as an amorous cellmate? Or do you want to stay with us and be loved and loved and loved?”

  They moved together, as if becoming one – a delicious, delightful, deadly package.

  “I love you, Clay,” said Belinda, her eyes still on him. “Please don’t leave. We’ll talk, I’ll explain. We won’t keep secrets from you any more. Just stay, please. Stay with me. I want to be with you. I want to love you. I want to be loved by you. Please, honey, don’t leave me.”

  He was a weak man who frequently gave into the needs of comfort and the appeal of a pretty face. He wanted to be with them, to be with all three of them, to crawl among them and be lustfully spoilt like an old time Roman Emperor. But, when he blinked, all he saw was Jake’s red and choking face, his eyes bulging, a drop of blood running towards his mouth, his arms flailing in a vain struggle for life. From somewhere – maybe imagination now – came the dead faces of Raymond and Nick. They flashed before his blinking eyes like detailed snapshots. They were photos in three dimensions; he could reach out and touch the corpse, trail his hand in its blood, poke it with a stick. He shut his eyes and opened them again sharply. There they were, naked beckoning sirens pouting before him – but even with his eyes open he could still see the dead faces. He could see them superimposed on the three attractive women before him – killed and killers combined. He limped towards the bed.

  The smile grew on Belinda’s face. Judy giggled. Abigail flicked her hair in approval.

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” he said.

  He reached for his clothes, and Abigail’s foot caught him. She was far stronger than she should have been and kicked him back against the far wall. He smacked into it, dropping to the floor with a grunt, his clothes still in his hand.

  Abigail stood up, lithe and sexy, but the expression on her face was as cold and cruel as a cutthroat razor.

  Belinda reached out her arms to him. “Please don’t go, Clay.”

  “Please!” echoed Judy.

  “I love you, you can’t leave me,” Belinda pleaded. “Can’t you see I love you? I know I’ve done bad things. I know that you don’t understand what’s been going on – but please believe that I love you. I love you and don’t want you to leave me.”

  He didn’t even look at her – Abigail held his attention, tall and marvellous before him.

  “
Where are you going to go to, Mister Clay?”

  He swung to his side and crawled to the bedroom door, his trousers and shirt in one hand, his shoes in the other. Abigail followed him, she chased him. She hadn’t touched him – yet – but he cowered, lowering his head.

  “What are you going to do, Mister Clay?”

  He was a big man yet he scampered along the floor, his limp tail between his legs. His head down, tears in his eyes, snot dribbling from his nose, he scurried in terror.

  He couldn’t move as quickly as he wanted. He was in the jaundice hallway and the front door was ahead, but he couldn’t seem to gain on it. She was beside him, hands on hips, a confident swagger.

  “Come on, Mister Clay, you must have some answers.”

  He reached the door, stretching out his hand, pawing at it. He tried to shield his face from her glare, to turn away from it – but her look was frying him, those dark eyes hot and furious. He turned his head slowly to her, his hand to his mouth – the snot and saliva running over his fingers.

  She stood magnificent, her long powerful body and high imperious head, a smile cut into her lips. Behind were Judy and Belinda, their arms around each other, still enticing him to stay.

  “We’re here for you,” said Abigail. “You’re ours and we’re yours. It’s not safe for you out there, it’s not safe after the things you’ve done – and it was you who did them, no matter what wild story you might tell. Here you’ll be safe, here you’ll be looked after, here you’ll be loved. Stay with us, darling Mister Clay. We want you to stay with us, we want you to be with us forever.”

  He whimpered once and reached for the lock.

  She frowned at him, but made no move.

  He was blocking the door himself, and had to shift round to get it open – but not one of them moved, not one of them stopped him. He wanted to go fast, but seemed to be horribly slow.

  His gaze went to Abigail, peering at him with hatred, then Belinda, tears in her eyes; then Judy, a look of total disappointment.

  He tried to be swift, but didn’t want to touch Abigail – and so carefully had to squeeze himself between the open door and her legs.

  Belinda leant her head on Judy’s shoulder, as if about to wail in heartache. “I love you, Clay,” she murmured.

  The door was open, just enough to fit his sturdy, shattered frame through. And he crawled – shoes in one hand, clothes in the other – wailing into the sunlight.

  “Mister Clay!” Abigail called.

  He didn’t turn his head back, just closed his eyes and saw Jake’s face again.

  “We’ll be thinking of you when you sleep,” she said. “We’ll be thinking of you then.”

  He gave a final jump and heard the door click behind him. He lay on the warm pavement of Soho, naked, hugging the bundle of clothes, weeping like a small child who has seen too much.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Climbing up from the fast-food wrappers of the gutter and – with a slug-trail of tears on his cheeks – he managed to stagger into his clothes. Even with a wall between, he could feel them watching him – their penetrating stare, their harsh judgement. A tremor grabbed his clammy skin, like someone was not just walking – but dancing – over his grave. He knew he could just go back, ring the bell, that they’d smile as they opened the door to him. But he looked at his hands and saw a murderer’s hands, a monster’s hands. And with another shudder he limped away from their Technicoloured apartment.

  He waited for a bus on Shaftsbury Avenue, this big, strong looking fellow – his red eyes a running tap of tears. Two bored teenage girls tried to talk to him, asking what was wrong. Perhaps they wanted to comfort him, but he gave them a fuck-off snarl. They had pretty, fresh faces – but all he saw was two become three and Belinda’s, Abigail’s and Judy’s features hovered instead. And on top of them were the faces of his three dead friends. The girls walked away yelling insults, calling him a creep and a loser – cruel adjectives that were correct but got nowhere near the actual truth of him. He just stood and wept, with people ignoring him while wondering how long their bus would be.

  The bus arrived and he paid with change he found in his pocket, then hobbled the steps to the top deck, stumbling along the aisle as the vehicle moved. Still the tears ran. His foot throbbed, his hands trembled, his mind ached. The sun was getting high, the rush hour was over. The bus, the streets, the pavements were all strangely quiet – those at home too smart to leave their garden and those at work too smart to leave their air-conditioning. It was just him and the bus and some cars and a few hundred lonely pedestrians.

  His memories didn’t let him go. He could remember lurking outside, helping the drunk. He could remember Jake’s expression as he answered the door and when he hit him with the laptop. He could remember the lone drop of blood trickling down his friend’s face, the feel of his throat between his fingers. He could remember a knife, looking for Flower. Worst of all, he could remember the rage beating through him.

  And then there was a man, a beautiful man, a man he was extremely attracted to but also hated. He knew that he’d invited him over just to kill him, that he’d been working up his nerve all day. He greeted the man with a kiss and thought that was funny as it was such a cruel kiss, it actually tasted like blood. He pushed the man to the bedroom without letting him speak, kissing him the whole way. He didn’t care what the man had to say, didn’t want the man saying something nice and sparking a conscience and possibly shattering the whole plan, didn’t want the man saying something deeply stupid and him being unable to hide his contempt. He wanted the man to think he liked him, that their problems were over, that this was a night of pure lust. He wanted the man to be naked and vulnerable. He sat the man on the bed and curled himself into a ball on the man’s lap, letting the man adore him. Then he got down on his knees in front of him, adoring the man in return. And, just as the man clutched at him in his normal needy and pathetic way, he looked up and asked:

  “You’re always mine. You will always be mine, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” said the man, his voice dumb with gratitude and pleasure. “Yes, I will.”

  Then Clay reached for the knife and there was blood all over.

  He shuddered in the bright light. A lot of that memory was more real and immediate than what happened last night, but it was somehow more of a dream – vaguer, less clear. He couldn’t recall where it was, couldn’t pick out any identifying features. He didn’t know this man, couldn’t even make out his face.

  Who was he? What had happened? When did it take place?

  The bus terminated at King’s Cross and he limped towards Camden, sweat rising on his skin and then steaming off to the sky. He felt dirty, grimy. Girls and boys went by, immaculate in the white sunlight, not a bead of perspiration allowed, not a crease in their foreheads. There was no way he fitted in; he hobbled past them, looking exactly what he was – a guilty man running away. His legs tried to move faster, to get out of the scorching rays, but his foot throbbed and he gasped at the blue sky.

  When he finally reached Toby’s building he had to stop and collect himself at the front steps. He was so warm and pained and needed a few moments of deep breath to compose himself, some stillness to stop his brain racing away.

  How was he going to walk into the home of a good friend and say that although he was a murderer, it wasn’t really him? He stared at the building, at the white front door which looked cool to touch.

  Maybe he should commit suicide; perhaps that was the best way out. He couldn’t kill anyone else if he’d done himself already, so really it was the only way to make sure he couldn’t harm again. He looked at his hands, trembling all over. He was strong enough to murder three friends with them, to knife a man he couldn’t recall – but seemed to be too weak to actually slice himself open and save everyone more pain.

  No, he wasn’t too weak, he was just waiting. He wanted to find out what was going on, how this was happening – and to do that he needed help. Afterwards, he’d do what
ever it took, but for now he had to know. And that meant looking a friend in the eye and watching the fear and hatred rise.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  His finger pressed the doorbell. There was a long pause that came – he guessed – from the ring piercing Toby’s dream and Toby hoisting his head from his pillow and trying to wonder what it was.

  He rang the bell again, and knew Toby would be lying there baffled as to why he was being disturbed so early. He knew Toby would be considering ignoring it.

  Pleading with Toby to get up, he pushed his palm into the bell. He held it there until there was human noise. There was a rumble of locks and a grand swing open, then Toby’s face was before him, almost regal in its annoyance.

  “Hullo.” There was an apology in Clay’s voice.

  “Hello,” said Toby. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Thank Holy God for that.”

  “I have something I need to tell you.”

  “Oh dear.” Toby crinkled his brow. “More bad tidings? Come in.”

  In the morning Toby moved in the way you’d expect a boulder to move if it ever learned to walk. There was a stiffness that suggested he wasn’t really made of muscle, a solid clumsiness that said he’d rather be rolling along. He turned in the hall and stumbled back down it, almost bouncing off the walls. Clay shut the door behind him.

  Toby offered him a coffee but he declined, and just sat in the lounge waiting. Clay heard the sound of a lighter igniting and smelt early morning cigarette smoke drifting through. Even this merest whiff of tonic seemed to work, and Toby entered the lounge looking a younger, fresher, healthier human being than seconds before. It was as if he’d been bunched up on himself and now felt good enough to unfurl. Toby half-smiled at him, but it was a look that carried anticipation of bad tidings. He was sipping nervously at his coffee.