The Wannabes

by F. R. Jameson

  Judy sat in one corner, naked, her leg slung over the arm of a chair. She was chewing an apple and had her hair in pig tails, but didn’t look cute anymore; she was older, wrinkled.

  In the opposite corner was Belinda, likewise naked – no fig-leaf for modesty. She was staring at him with – what was it? Care? Affection? Love? She looked as if she liked him, as if she was proud of him, as if he was someone who meant a lot to her. She flashed a smile and then laughed at how easy it still was to fool him. She cackled at the enjoyment she got from making him think she actually cared.

  She got up and walked to the head of the table, then gently pushed her fingers through his hair and started to massage his scalp.

  Abigail raised her head and then kissed Clay full on the lips. Strangely, he responded, his mouth and his eyes seemed the only part of him that he could move.

  “Thank you,” purred Abigail. “I was beginning to feel terribly left out. You see, you’re actually much more mine than you are theirs. They helped, they did their part – but you’re my creation, my darling, my pet.” She climbed off him slowly, then lay her head on his chest. “My beautiful, wonderful creature.”

  Belinda’s hands continued to work gently into his skull. He could hear Judy crunching her apple.

  “What have you done to me?”

  “Oh, honey,” said Belinda. “Don’t use that tone of voice, please. We made you Jesus Christ, you should be grateful.”

  “What?”

  “We resurrected you,” smiled Abigail. “We brought you back from the dead. Do you know how few people have done that? There’s the Messiah, Lazarus and yourself. Death is death, Clay. You should be grateful, glad for all we’ve done for you.”

  “But you killed me!”

  “We were at the end though, weren’t we, Clay?” Belinda’s hands kneaded his scalp. “I’m sorry it had to happen, but we were finished and you always said you’d do anything for me – and so I decided you would.”

  Abigail licked his chest. “What were you going to do without her, Clay? Where were you going to go? Who were you going to see? You loved her too much, were besotted by her, struck constantly with adoration. You may have gone away and found another girl and married and settled down to have kids – but you’d always have been haunted by her.”

  Belinda leant forward so he could peer at her beautiful green eyes. “I’m your great passion and you’d soon have realised she didn’t match that, that she wasn’t as attractive as me, as spectacular as me. And you’d have dreamt about me and longed for me and started to hate her. You’d have hated her because she wasn’t me, you’d have disliked your children because they weren’t our children. You’d have sickened for me and taken your life with you. Well, I saved you from that. I made sure I was always special to you, and you were always special to me.” She kissed his lips. “And I’ll always feel grateful for what you’ve done for us.”

  Judy joined them at the table. She sat up on it, leaning her elbow back against his knee. She finished her apple and smiled at him.

  They’d prepared for him, their hair and make-up was pristine, the candlelight glowing against their skin. But they all looked old, they all looked the wrong side of their prime. They looked what they were – three women who needed the right make-up, the right lens, the right shine to make them perfect. Except, because they were nonentities, because this wasn’t the movies, they had to make do with what reality could provide – and it wasn’t good enough any more.

  Three women who’d shrivelled on the inside, and now it was starting to mark their skin.

  “What have I done for you?” A snarl was slashed into his voice. “You’re still in the same crappy flat, you’re still nobodies, you’re still nowhere.”

  Judy crossed her legs and swung her foot backwards and forwards, casually but knowingly. “That’s just luck. That’s bad, bad, bad, bad luck. That will change.”

  “The public are idiots,” said Abigail. “Ignoramuses. You try to give them something good, give them quality – and they just stay in and watch the latest reality show. What are those? Talentless morons without wit or personality, saying and doing nothing of worth – but the whole thing presented like it’s interesting. Well, it isn’t, but the people watch it, and what we do – despite its quality, because of its quality – is ignored.”

  Belinda still fixed on him; her eyes possessed a cold shine that he’d never seen before. “You know how talented we are, Clay? You may hate us now, you might be angry with us – but there’s no denying our talent, is there?”

  He tried to shake his head, but it wouldn’t move. All that went from side to side were his eyeballs. “You’re not talented,” he said.

  Belinda’s fingers dug a little harder into his skull, but her placid visage didn’t alter.

  “None of you is remotely talented,” he told them. “You’re average, that’s all you are. You look good, you make the right noises, but when it comes to talent – you’re just mediocre.”

  “How would you know?” asked Belinda. “You’d never been inside a theatre before you met us, how could you recognise good acting?”

  Her fingers dug into his skull, her look of attentive care now smeared with hatred. He was glad, it helped him hate her too.

  Abigail gave a glance of cold-eyed disgust even as she lay compliant against him.

  Only Judy still tried to play her role, the innocent sex-bomb – her legs crossed, front foot swinging. Though even she couldn’t conceal her loathing of this pathetic thing in front of her.

  Belinda’s hands moved harshly through his hair, seeming to tear into the flesh and draw blood. But what did that matter? What was a little more blood now? How was anyone going to notice in this room?

  He couldn’t move. There was another spell on him, one that paralysed his muscles, but presented him with the torture of having his eyes open, disgusted by all he saw. “You know what I think?” His voice was confident, even as Belinda ripped into the softness of his scalp. They stared, uncaring. “I think the reason Raymond didn’t cast you was that he knew how bad you were, guessed your performances would be rubbish. He was scared of you, knew what you could do – knew if you found out you’d do something terrible. So why didn’t his fear make him cast you just so he could have a simpler life? Just so he’d have a chance of making it to old age? I think that despite what he knew, despite his fear – he thought you’d ruin it and he didn’t want it ruined. That’s why. It wasn’t to spite you, it wasn’t to punish you for what you did to me. He did it because he knew you’d be no damn good.”

  “It doesn’t matter why he did it though, does it?” Abigail’s mouth worked down to his naval and he couldn’t prevent his traitorous body being aroused. “He’s not here to do it any more,” she said. “That was a very efficient job, my lovely. You were beautifully forceful.”

  “Fuck you!”

  She kissed his belly. “You’re welcome.”

  “What are you going to do now?” he demanded. “The cast are still alive, and even if they weren’t, Lizzie Jones knows enough to stop you. What are you going to do?”

  Judy shrugged. “There are other parts, other roles. The only way we’ll get beaten is if we beat ourselves.”

  Belinda was tearing his skin up and down. The fact she continued to smile made it more sadistic.

  He tried to shake his head again, to relieve some of the pain, but failed. “All those deaths and you’ve got nothing for it. You haven’t got the roles, haven’t got the fame. They’re all dead for no reason, aren’t they?”

  “There’s a reason,” said Belinda. “They deserved it.”

  Judy nodded. “Raymond and Jake were both mean to us.”

  “They didn’t give us what we deserved,” Belinda said. “So we gave them what they deserved.”

  “And Nick,” sighed Abigail. “Well, Nick – I don’t know what happened to him. He used to be so reliable, used to love me so much. But I couldn’t control him any more, and he may have told you all kinds of th
ings if we’d left him alive.”

  “Besides, he clearly wasn’t happy.” Judy’s voice was soft. “He was probably glad you called by.”

  “And who knows about the others?” Abigail kissed his chest. “Those vapid little actresses you’re so concerned about. Who knows what might happen to them? It’s a dangerous world, full of so many possible accidents.”

  “What accidents?” he said. “I’m not going to kill for you again.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly made a stand.” Abigail eyed his errant erection. “It is amazing. Who knew you had that in you? I’m astounded you were able to break my spell. Maybe you’re a lot stronger than I ever gave you credit for.”

  “You’re not even that good at witchcraft are you?” he sneered.

  “What?”

  “This has all gone wrong, hasn’t it? Every aspect. You can’t have wanted me to remember what I was doing, you can’t have expected the vivid dreams. I’d obviously get suspicious, paranoid, stop sleeping. You can’t have guessed I’d remember what you did to me – even if it took me a little while to put together. You must have thought you’d always be able control me, that I wouldn’t have any free will, that I couldn’t stop you. You were wrong though. You weren’t good enough. You’re just as mediocre as witches as you are as actresses.”

  The pout on Belinda’s face was vicious, nearly matched by the snarl on Judy’s.

  Abigail kept calm. “Mediocre? I’m a necromancer, you stupid fool! I brought you back from the dead. I had you kill three people. How is that mediocre? How is that not phenomenally good?”

  “No,” he said, wanting to but unable to shake his head. “It’s not good enough. You haven’t got anything from it, you haven’t been rewarded for your trouble. Despite your efforts, it’s all gone wrong. It’s the same with acting – you could take those lessons, go to those auditions, let yourself be pawed by those men who might help you – but it’s still got you nowhere. You’re still hampered by the fact that you’re not quite good enough.”

  Belinda bit him, piercing her teeth into his lips. “I was always too good for you,” she whispered. “I always deserved better.”

  He felt blood roll down his chin and drops of it dribbled from her lips. Her hair, her mouth and now her jaw all matched the flowing colour of the walls.

  Abigail stood straight and rolled her neck until she was comfortable, then gave him a wide, friendly smile – the smile of a charming hostess. She sashayed to the cabinet in the corner and pulled out a dark wooden box. It was ornate, with carved symbols and words he wouldn’t have understood even if he’d seen them properly. She carried it in front of her, now wearing a glorious grin, and rested it next to him on the table. She laughed, the light giving shadow to her thin cheeks and hollowing out her dead eyes.

  She held up the box and flicked it open. He glimpsed inside: it was a sliver of red flesh, no bigger than a segment of orange. It lay in a small puddle of blood.

  It was beating.

  “You’re supposed to keep a bit of it,” she told him. “You’re supposed to keep some safe so the spell will work. I checked it while you were away and it had withered and died – rotted just like the rest of you. But now I’ve brought you back, now I’ve given you life again, it’s become healthy, alive. You call me mediocre, Mister Clay – well, I show you this.” She moved it close to his ear. “That beating sound you hear, that’s this little piece of heart – your heart. I’m not mediocre, I’m extraordinary. I’ve done things no one else will ever do.”

  He looked at that pathetic piece of meat and felt tears which were as thick as blood. “So what?” he spat. “You’ve still got nothing. You’re still not good enough.”

  “We’re good enough,” said Belinda. “And we have your heart to prove it.”

  Judy stroked his thigh. “Yes. It’s you who’s average, you who’s the nothing. What have you ever done? What talent have you ever had?”

  “You’re nobody, Clay.” Belinda’s hands were soft again. “You were good looking, you were a ‘nice’ guy, but you were nothing – nothing at all.”

  “We still believe.” Abigail leaned over and kissed his nipple. “Do you believe in yourself, Clay? No. You can’t even do that, can you? There’s nothing to believe in.”

  Judy leaned down and kissed him at the top of his leg. “Really, you should be grateful to have known us.”

  “There’s nothing you can say to hurt us.” Belinda’s voice was delicious. Her hands were gentle now, careful on his aching head. “We have faith, belief. What do you have, Clay? You can’t even move. You’re just our little play-thing to do with as we please. We’re beautiful, talented, spectacular – and you are nothing. You are going nowhere. No one even mourned when you died, Clay. We have belief, confidence. We know – with or without your help – that we’ll be recognised as special.”

  His eyes closed. Belinda’s soft hands stroked through his hair. Abigail’s warm lips kissed his chest. Judy enthusiastically moved from his legs to his groin. The three of them kissed him, caressed him – not out of lust or love, but simply because he was theirs and they could. Just because they believed they could do anything to him and he couldn’t stop them.

  But surely he had belief too? He had his own strength. They’d wanted him to kill that girl and forced him to walk to Angel to beat her to death. But he hadn’t done it. His will had stopped them. It was the same now. Again, he was under a spell, again they thought too little of him to worry that he might break it.

  They kissed him and his mind went giddy with somersaults.

  He tried to concentrate. He thought of his fingers, lying there so cut off from his control, as if his neck was broken and all his limbs were now useless at his periphery. He tried to move them, but all he could feel was the cold of the table and their warm kisses filling him up.

  He thought of his little finger. If he could just get it to drum the table once, that would be good, a sign he could break the spell. But there was nothing, no sign. He couldn’t feel his finger, wasn’t sure where his finger was, or even if he had one. All he could feel was the table and their sweet, seductive kisses.

  Once upon a time they’d carved him open and ripped out his heart.

  He focused on his hand, frustrated by his finger. Aiming larger. More powerful. He wanted to grab, punch, beat, strangle. He’d never been a violent man – but unwillingly he’d killed three people and right now was in the mood to kill three more. He thought of his hand, trying to form a fist, trying to get it to rise from the table, trying to get it to flinch, to respond to his will.

  Belinda kissed down his face to his throat. Those familiar lips. Abigail’s lips were warm – letting him know she was adoring him now, when they both knew it was really his place to adore her. Judy’s kisses were eager, as if an amateur in the kissing game and willing to be educated. Even now he could slip away, it was still possible for him to fall as they kissed him – to stop thinking, worrying, caring about anything but the pleasure they could give.

  That’s what they wanted. They wanted him to switch off, to give himself over to lust for them. Once he did, they could do anything to him. They could make him do anything for them. They were so beautiful, so sexy. They were kissing every inch of him. Making him hard and his mind soft. And he knew that if he let himself give in to pleasure, that would be all he’d ever feel again. All he’d know for the rest of his existence would be their lustful bodies. He wouldn’t remember his own death. He wouldn’t remember Raymond or Nick or Jake. He wouldn’t have a clue about the next unfortunates they made him kill. All he’d know was breathless endless delight.

  He concentrated on his hand. He thought he could feel his fingernails – the dead part of the live flesh. He tried to send a tingle back from the cuticles – but all he could feel was them.

  Their kisses were sweet, soft. How many men have three women at once? Three willing and beautiful women, who had waited years for his return. Their tongues, lips, sighs – the pressing of their breasts,
legs, stomachs, moist public lips against him – were infecting him, mushing up his brain, so he’d do whatever they wanted.

  He visualised his hand. It was no longer laid out on that table, it was resting somewhere warm and comfortable. He was on a large bed, pandered to with everything he could possibly desire, his fantastic, to-be-envied harem doing everything and anything he desired. He saw his hand. It was lying on softness, as if stretched out for a manicure on a floating cloud. It would be easy to drift away, pleasure is always preferable to pain – and they were going to give him immense pleasure.

  He thought of Raymond Jones, his eyes wide open and shocked as he lay on his kitchen floor. There was Nick Turnkey, the guitar strings digging deep into his throat, blood streaking down his neck. Then Jake Monroe, his skin and eyes a horrible matching red.

  And there was Flower Honeysuckle and the death they thought she deserved; and Jemima O’Connor and the end they were going to take to her.

  Abigail was nibbling at his stomach. It was as if she was inside, like she wasn’t just kissing his skin but had burrowed through and was now lapping away at his flesh. They weren’t outside him any more, they were within him, part of him. Each of them was slipping their way in, so they could infect him, contaminate him, make him absolutely and utterly theirs.

  Clay squeezed his eyes tight. The sounds their lips made, the touching of their fingers, the pressing of their thighs – they were no longer external sensations, they were doing it to his flesh, to his bones, to his mind.

  It couldn’t happen. He couldn’t fail like this, no matter how much he wanted to. They were in his body, they were in his head. They whispered to him, not words as such, but sounds of desire and pleasure and temptation. Sounds that let him know how much his body was going to tingle with delight if he just let them work their magic.

  His whole being was enraptured, as if every part of him was feeling that moment before ejaculation. That beautiful moment, that is necessarily fleeting, but you want to last forever. The whole of him was seized with total pleasure and they were going to let him feel that for the rest of his existence.