Emmanuelle burst into tears, not that that was going to make one jot of difference. “I’d slide my gangrenous stump of a penis right between those soft lips of yours and shoot my poisoned semen down your throat and...”
The priest never saw what hit him, but it was done with such force that he flew off his chair, instantly letting go of Bradley’s arm, and they went sprawling to the floor.
The waitress who had been clearing up behind the counter looked over.
“Fuck you!” Emmanuelle screamed.
For a second or two, Bradley sat there bewildered. He rubbed at his wrist.
On the floor, the priest garbled something but it sounded nonsensical. Emmanuelle’s broken coffee cup lay in pieces by his side.
She was panting, was very red faced, conscious that the waitress had put down her cloth and was making her way over.
“Where the hell did that come from?” Bradley asked, going over to her.
Emmanuelle dragged him away. “Let’s just get out of here.” They headed towards the exit.
“Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!” the waitress called. She had a knife in her hand.
“Keep walking, don’t look back,” Bradley ordered.
“Mademoiselle!” the waitress shouted again, louder this time so that for a brief second Emmanuelle did hesitate, but Bradley pulled her out the door, followed soon by the waitress who did her best to catch up with them.
On the floor, the priest lay still for a while before eventually sitting up. He put his hand to his ear; there was blood leaking from a wound in his head, from his mouth. He reached inside his cassock, pulled up his book, searched through the pages.
When he found what he was looking for he crossed his legs, put the book on the floor and grabbed his crucifix, holding it up above him.
“I curse your head, I curse your hair. I curse your brain, I curse your thoughts. I curse your mouth, your nose, your tongue, your cheeks, your teeth. I curse your shoulders, your limbs, your legs, your hands, your feet. I curse your breasts. I curse your penis. I curse your womb.”
The waitress came back through the door; she had lost them, they were too quick for her. She watched on enthralled as the priest continued.
“I curse your bodies from the top of your head to the soles of your feet before and behind, within and without. I curse your bodies, I curse your souls. May you rot while you live for you will certainly rot when you are dead. I will wait for you at the gates of hell and I will forever laugh as God is my witness.”
The waitress turned the latch. She felt a warmness between her legs, an itchiness in her breasts, she felt hot, she felt electric.
The priest ripped the cross from him, threw it to the floor and then spat upon it. He looked up, saw the woman at the door and the way her hand was working feverishly between her legs. He lay back and lifted up his cassock revealing his throbbing member.
The waitress laughed as she approached, removing her underwear as she did; she’d never been so wet before. The priest smiled. He knew damn well it was only a matter of time before her laughter became screams but that was for later. For now, he would take some pleasure. There was plenty of time for pain.
At another table, a red-headed boy smiled and applauded before undoing his own trousers, sticking his hand inside his underwear and beginning to yank his own penis backwards and forwards, all the time laughing to himself.
*
Bradley and Emmanuelle sprinted along the road then down the steps of the Varenne Metro station. They quickly went through the barriers, down the steps and onto the platform.
“Are you sure this is the right one?” Emmanuelle asked.
“Does it matter, let’s just get the first one, wherever it goes,” Bradley replied.
They didn’t have long to wait, a minute or so. As the people getting off filtered past them, they pushed their way on and sat down amongst the other passengers. Just two tourists amongst many.
She rested her head on his shoulder. “That was an odd way to end the day, wasn’t it?”
“You could say that.”
She smiled. “Perhaps we won’t visit that gallery then?” She reached over, squeezed his thigh. “Maybe we shouldn’t go out at all tonight, we could just spend the evening in the hotel room, the two of us. Order room service, some wine?”
Bradley frowned.
Emmanuelle stared at her fiancé. “What’s wrong? I thought it was a great idea, but if you’d rather not...”
He turned, smiled then leant down and kissed her. “I’m fine honey, really I’m fine. The idea of us spending some quality time together alone is a wonderful idea.”
They kissed again. Emmanuelle reddened slightly, smiled embarrassedly at the woman sitting opposite her.
“Imagine the possibilities of what we could get up to,” she whispered into his ear, gently nibbling on his lobe.
Bradley turned away, stared at his reflection in the window. “Yes,” he agreed. “Imagine the possibilities.”
But there was something else he was thinking, something he thought better kept to himself. Something that she had said back in the Museum, words that he just couldn’t seem to shake.
He pulled her close.
Beautiful people forever damned...
Through me the way to the suffering city; Through me the everlasting pain; Through me the way that runs among the Lost. Justice urged on my exalted Creator:
Divine Power made me, The Supreme Wisdom and the Primal Love. Nothing was made before me but eternal things And I endure eternally. Abandon all hope - You Who Enter Here.
(Words Written Above The Gates Of Hell)
Canto III, Dante’s Inferno
Acknowledgements
A great big thank you to the following:
Stephanie, David, John, Tracie, James and Adrian; Leonardo; Robert Walker; Greg James; Sylvia Shults; Emile-Louis Tomas Jouvet; Fiona; Jason, Mandy, Gary; Simon Marshall-Jones; Phil and Sarah Stokes; Martin and Helen; Paul and Marie; Johnny Mains; Doug, Barbie, Simon and Nick; Kenny; Declan; Jim; Pete; Liz
An extra special thanks to the Phobophobia authors.
To the staff of Forbidden Planet (London).
And to my family.
Dean M Drinkel
Paris, France
December 2011
www.ellupofilms.co.uk
www.darkcontinents.com
www.forbiddenplanet.com
Biography
Dean M Drinkel’s short stories have appeared in diverse publications such as “Literal Translations”, “Estronomicon”, “Theaker’s Quarterly”, “Morpheus Tales”, “M is for Monster” and “Monk Punk”. His short films “The Crumps”, “Fou”, “Ruby”, “The Imp Of The Perverse” have screened at the Cannes Film Festival. His plays have been staged in various theatres throughout England. He was runner up for the 2001 Sir Peter Ustinov Screenwriting Award with his feature film script “Ghosts”. He is currently working on a dark fantasy novel set in the South of France and a horror film set in Paris. He recently compiled & edited “Phobophobia” for Dark Continents Publishing.
Through A Forest Dark Page 7
