The Wannabes

by F. R. Jameson

  What if those three witches could find out where the others were? What if he was wrong?

  He checked into a cheap little hotel in Noho. The room wasn’t much more than a cupboard with a single bed. There was a rail for clothes, a tiny bedside table with an old battered clock-radio. In lieu of a mint on the pillow, somebody had kindly left a fun-size Mars bar.

  Clay turned to his friends. They weren’t in the room with him, there wasn’t the space for all of them and so they lingered back in the hallway. Clay pressed his hand down on the bed and it felt like masonry with an eiderdown stretched across it.

  The anxiety was clear on Toby’s face. “So, what do we think they’re up to now?”

  “I don’t know.” Clay sat on the hard bed. “I guess they’re waiting for me. I was thinking about how they did it – not the actual murders, but making me forget the next day. There must be another spell. So many things they can do, so many fucking unnatural things. Belinda held my hand all day and I thought she was easing my mind. I think now she was probably wiping it. Do you think they’re nervous about where I am, what I’m doing?”

  “They’re bound to be,” said Flower.

  “I don’t know. They’re so confident. They’ve killed three – four – people and they’re so sure it was right to do it. That’s where they are now: they can kill and be righteous about it. Think it was deserved. Oh God. I loved her, you know, really loved her.”

  For a moment it seemed as if Flower was going to come and join him on the bed, comfort him. But instead she shifted her feet awkwardly and stayed back in the corridor, Toby’s hand in hers. ”We can all get love wrong,” she said.

  “I always thought the three of them were bitches,” said Toby. “There was that catty superiority to them, that fucking madness of deluded self-belief. Smugness, that’s what it is. You’re correct, it’s righteousness – sheer unbending self-righteousness. Everything they do is right because they’re the ones doing it.” An expression of disgust crossed his face. “You were always a hopeless sucker for Belinda. I can remember asking you, years ago, whether you thought she’d still be your girlfriend if she made it big. You said ‘Yes’, but of course she wouldn’t. She’d be shagging some star the moment she got the chance, and you’d just be one of the little people she was once upon a time forced to dally with. And she ran every relationship like that – they ran every relationship like that – everyone was dispensable, easily discarded if necessity demanded it.”

  Clay stared at him. “When did you ask me that?”

  “When you were having problems with her.”

  “Just before I disappeared?”

  “Yeah, I suppose.”

  “Maybe I should have listened to you, maybe I should have paid more attention – who knows where we’d all be now if I had?”

  “It’s not your fault,” said Flower. “You can’t blame yourself. It wasn’t you.”

  Toby pinched thumb and forefinger at the bridge of his nose and blinked his eyes. “Listen, Clay, I’m sorry you’re dead. I know that sounds stupid, but I need to say it. I’m sorry I never mourned you. I just thought you’d gone away. You know, you’d got pissed off and done a wander. I missed you. I thought a lot about you – where you were, what you were doing – but I never lamented you, I never grieved you and I’m sorry about that.”

  Clay attempted a smile. “Thank you.”

  “Do you have any idea where you’re buried?” asked Flower. “What they did with the body?”

  “No. Maybe they should have buried me alive, then I’d know.”

  “I’m sorry,” the tears rose in her voice. “It’s just that everyone should have a marker in death – a gravestone, a plaque, a favourite cherry tree they’re scattered beneath. My great grandmother was lost at sea, and it was apparently an annual ritual for my great grand pa-pa to go down to the coast and hurl a dozen roses into the water. I don’t know how much peace he got, but at least he had it. With you, there’s nothing.”

  “Why don’t you pick out somewhere?” suggested Clay. “I don’t know, once a year lay a dozen roses outside The Murdered Bastard.” He smiled. “Appropriate, ay?”

  Flower shook her head. “You weren’t a bastard.”

  “Yeah, but my hands have done terrible things. That place will do, despite the name – it’s where we spent most of our time, it’s where we had most fun, it’s where we were most innocent.”

  Something that sounded like a strangled chuckle emanated from Toby. “Innocent? Yes, I guess we were. It’s hard to believe though, isn’t it? Back then – when we were spreading gossip and telling each other about sex and blow-jobs and drugs – that we were actually innocent. To puritan country folk we’d have looked like the talkative end of Sodom and Gomorrah, but we were babes. If you compare it to what’s happened now, God, we were innocent.”

  “Are you okay?” asked Flower.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” Clay took a deep breath. “Look, you better go. I want to try and sleep soon and you need to be somewhere safe.”

  Toby nodded. “Are we still sure sleep is the right idea?”

  “What else am I going to do? If everyone hides it’ll be fine.”

  “Okay.” Toby looked unconvinced, and frightened.

  “Do you think we’ll see you again?” asked Flower.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, if we don’t, it was charming knowing you.”

  “Same here,” said Toby.

  Clay smiled. “Likewise.”

  He hugged them in the doorway, all holding their breath. Flower crushed herself to him, holding back her sobs. Toby clutched around his shoulders. They let go gradually and then both of them stepped back and away from the room.

  Clay nodded to them one last time and shut the door.

  He lay on the bed with his eyes open. He’d poured back the sleeping draught and wondered if he could die again. Was it possible to overdose on across-the-counter sedatives? If so, what would happen if he was rushed to hospital? What would they do when they felt for his heartbeat, and found that, even though he was breathing, he didn’t have one?

  Except when he reached to his chest he found he did have a heartbeat. Something was making a boom-di-boom sound. He wondered whose heart he was using.

  Anxious, he turned over, trying to get comfortable. He lay on top of the sheets, in his clothes – foot still aching – waiting for sleep.

  They were probably waiting too. In their flat, not far away, playing with magic.

  How had they ended up like this? Desperation, he guessed. They hadn’t lived the lives they hoped for and had been passed over too often. They wanted the power over their own fates that other people seemed to have. But maybe that was too kind; maybe they’d never been pure, maybe they’d always been corrupt. Toby was right, they were superior bitches and this gave them the chance to demonstrate it. He’d just been too in love with Belinda to notice. Too blind. Too fucking stupid.

  He lay on his back, thinking of Raymond, Nick and Jake. What went through Raymond’s mind when he saw him? The utter surprise of him being there, the shock of being beaten by someone who was supposed to be his friend. What about Nick? Didn’t he suspect? Didn’t he have an inkling of what might happen? He thought of Jake. He’d been suspicious, had looked at him warily – but had not been quick enough in mind or step to avoid being killed. Jake would still be alive if he’d just been a little more cautious. But then, even in heightened stressed out circumstances, you don’t really believe a good friend has come to kill you.

  Clay thought of himself, his surprise when the knife broke his flesh, when love was betrayed and that horrible spiral which begins at the end of your life starts spinning down.

  He was on his side, starting to lose his grip on consciousness. It hadn’t been all bad with Belinda. There’d been good times. A reason for love. He thought of her smiling, of her biting her lip, of them kissing. There was the way she tossed her hair back, the shrug of her shoulders, her wiggle. They held hands, held eac
h other, made love. Fond memories of lazy mornings, lying together and talking. She smiled when they said Hullo. She’d run her hand through his hair as they said goodbye.

  And now here he was in this anonymous room, a room that reminded him of one he’d seen a lot in the last two years.

  But his thoughts of her still made him smile. He remembered her saying “I love you”. He could almost hear her voice saying, “I love you”, could breathe her nearby breath as she whispered it – “I love you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  He stood in front of Angel tube and it was closed for the evening. He knew it wasn’t a dream. This was happening. Every cab which passed was real. Yet he couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t prevent himself doing whatever it was he was going to do.

  But what was he doing here? Who lived near Angel?

  Lizzie’s sister, that’s who. Lizzie.

  They’d obviously read his mind, found out where she lived. They can’t have any idea he’d told her to hide though. But had she hidden? Toby and Flower were going to look after her; had they had enough time? Had they been able to make her leave? He tried to spot a clock, but there was nothing. It was clearly late, it was quiet – they must have had enough time to get Lizzie out.

  That was fine then, he could limp to the house, break a window, hunt around for her – but she wouldn’t be there and it wouldn’t matter. Let them send him there. He wouldn’t harm anybody. Lizzie couldn’t be touched. There’d no fresh blood dripping from his hands.

  And then he remembered – Lizzie’s sister. She’d answer the door. It’d be her he’d kill to get to Lizzie. And he’d have no choice in it. He’d strangle her, break her neck so she didn’t scream. But Lizzie wasn’t there and this poor woman would die for nothing.

  He sank his full weight down to his feet but still kept moving. In desperation, he tried to reach out and grab a lamppost – but his hands were stiff and frozen, already tensed to throttle. He didn’t trudge, none of that weight he bore down had any effect on his step.

  Clay moved purposefully towards his destination.

  Upper Street was quiet. The house was the next turning, on the right.

  He wondered if he could say something to her. The moment she answered the door, maybe he have enough strength to bark, “Run!” Just say one word, but with enough fear and meaning that she’d take that advice from a relative stranger. Could he make her flee and save herself?

  Only a few hours before, he’d been sitting in that house as Lizzie grieved. Now he was going back to kill someone else she loved, and in the morning she’d wail again.

  The corner was close and there were no passers-by, no one he could ask for help, no one to stop him. A cab went past but it was hopeless – he couldn’t wave at it, he couldn’t leap in front of it. All he could do was keep striding towards Lizzie’s sister’s house. Once there, he’d commit bloody murder.

  His feet reached the corner, but didn’t turn. They kept moving, kept on going.

  He wasn’t going to the house of Lizzie’s sister! He wouldn’t wake her and then put her brutally to sleep; her sister was safe.

  Where was he going then? Who was he going to see? He tried to think. There was nobody else who lived down this way, no-one he knew.

  His feet kept moving, clearly knowing the way. His right foot hurt, it was bleeding again. Where were they sending him? Who was he going to see?

  What if they’d managed to find Toby’s hiding place? What if through some incantation they’d managed to read somebody’s mind?

  Toby, Flower and Lizzie would all be there. Maybe he’d set everyone up for their deaths. Maybe he’d hidden them away and was now going to show up to slaughter them. He trembled, but kept moving. Surely they’d be asleep by now, lying helpless as he arrived. Maybe not. Toby would stand guard, he’d be vigilant. But what good would it do? He was bigger than Toby, could easily overwhelm him and then kill the others. He had no choice, no control – he was going to murder his remaining friends this summer’s night.

  He turned a corner. There was still nobody on the streets, no-one to stop him. Why was everywhere so quiet? Why was there no-one to plead to for help? He could move his lips, form words. He mumbled to himself, a garbled version of The Lord’s Prayer. There was no answer, no response. He just kept moving.

  He was like a shark on the pavement, unconcerned by anything but his next spilling of blood. He turned again, into a road of large terrace houses.

  They probably thought they were safe here, probably believed there was no way he – anybody – could find them. They were wrong, there was no limit to what those bitches could do. He leaned back so every ounce was heavy on his feet, but the effort still didn’t slow his pace.

  He hoped Toby was ready, hoped Toby was armed. He prayed that Toby would kill him properly.

  And then he stopped. He was facing a house on the other side of the road. It was one of the few with a light still on, with a sign of life.

  There was a girl in the kitchen window, making herself warm milk in the microwave. She wore a T-shirt and was ready for bed. She was incredibly attractive – honey coloured hair, hazel eyes and a full pouting mouth. He’d seen her before but had never met her. She was familiar to him, but they’d never been in the same room. Where did he know her from? Where had he seen her before?

  He took a step across the road. Happily making herself a bedtime drink, she hadn’t seen him in the darkness.

  He moved closer. She was whistling, had no idea he was coming.

  His foot hurt – he hurt all over – but he kept going.

  She pushed a hand back through her hair and her beautiful skin caught the light.

  He needed to stop, had to stop.

  The microwave beeped and she reached for the mug, but it was clearly too hot and she crinkled her nose and put it on the side.

  What could he do? He was going to kill her.

  She danced on one foot as she waited for it to cool.

  Suddenly, he remembered her. She was in that magazine Judy had shown them, the up-and-coming starlet who was playing one of the parts in the TV show – Jemima O’Connor.

  He was so close, only a few yards from her now.

  She was still languidly dancing, practising some moves while waiting for her drink.

  Couldn’t she see him yet? Didn’t she know that she had to run? He tried to make his steps smaller, but kept going. Flower had a part in the TV series and they’d failed to kill her, so now they were going to kill one of the other actresses and then maybe tomorrow they’d get the third.

  He was only a few feet away from the front door, seconds from reaching out and ringing the bell, drawing him to her. Could he warn her? Say something? He thought he could speak, but it didn’t seem he could even move his mouth any more.

  Only a step away. Tears filled his eyes and a terrible trembling ran over his skin and there was nothing he could do. He concentrated, yet still moved forward.

  Then he stopped. Just as his finger reached up for the bell, just as his mind roared with every effort to stop himself, momentum suddenly died and he went limp. He collapsed, fainted, yet remained conscious the entire time.

  His head hit against that girl’s front door and then he fell backwards to the street. He lay there and stared at the stars, still aware, happy not to be moving. He wanted to move, could feel his feet itch to go forward – but he lay there and didn’t get up.

  They couldn’t make him stand up again.

  He lay on the road, staring at the stars with a smile on his face. He wondered if that girl had heard a sound and would come out to see him, but nothing happened and he lay there. Then, finally, he seemed to drift, seemed to move – but away now, away from that girl, away from any harm he might cause.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  He returned to true consciousness, opening his eyes onto deathly light.

  Abigail was straddling him, making use of an unconscious erection. She pumped herself up and down and laughed as his dozy gaze flick
ered into the waking world. She screamed with joy as his eyes moved, as they focused on her, as the fear and revulsion grew. Her mouth twisted up and she reached out her finger and dug the nail into his eye.

  He winced and tried to move, desperate to raise his hand to hit her away. But nothing happened. He was completely immobile, lying on something cold. Abigail was using his body, twisting her hand into his face, as if he was no more than her play-thing.

  She moved faster, bringing herself close to climax.

  He was numb – his mind didn’t command, his nervous system didn’t respond. He was a corpse in nearly every way now: his breath was frozen, he was unable to move, he couldn’t even react when people touched him – or even fucked him.

  She went faster and faster, one hand scrunched through her hair, one hand stroking and digging her hard nails into his soft face. Her mouth gasped open in desire and then her two front teeth sank into her bottom lip. But her eyes shone darkly. They were cold and cruel, and she looked at him as if she was the butcher and he was the puniest lamb of spring.

  She came with a triumphant cry, her palm wide across his mouth, her nails in his cheeks. She fell forward so her head was next to his, her hair suffocating him. She wrapped her arms tight around his neck and bit into his face like a viper.

  Through her strands of hair, he saw that he was in the dining room, laid out on the table. He wasn’t strapped down; he just wasn’t able to move. Behind his head was a pillow. He guessed it wasn’t placed there for any reason of comfort, but just to give him the torture of seeing more.

  Spread across the carpeted floor were dozens of candles – large and ornate, small and practical – giving the room a funereal glow. Other candles stood on little tables and some floated in bowls of water. Their light changed the room – the walls no longer looked a friendly red, but the colour of spilling blood, which seemed to be running off, dripping down, pouring out from some terrible unseen gash. There was no longer the artificial hue of paint, it looked thick and viscous – as if they’d smeared the walls in his blood and now it was flowing.