‘Whore, bitch, bitch on heat . . .’
‘Sex-hungry little slut, filthy temple whore . . .’
‘Open your thighs, bitch: you know you want it . . .’
‘Go on, finger your clitty . . . Feel the heat . . . Aren’t you just longing to have my meat inside you . . .?’
She shook her head, held it in her hands, trying to reach into her deepest self and tear out the invading thoughts, cast them away from her and be free. But the soft, venomous, insidious voice hissed on inside her head:
‘Pretty little bitch, smooth-buttocked, firm-thighed whore: I’m going to have you . . .’
‘Soon, soon . . . Look, you’re all wet between your thighs, you dirty little slut . . .’
‘You know you want it . . .’
And it was true. She was ashamed to feel the spreading moisture, the damp crotch of her knickers sticking to her most intimate places, the subtle titillation of the crumpled fabric rubbing against her hardening clitty. She knew the words were a lure, a deception of some kind. She knew in her heart that they emanated from some source of evil: that same source, she sensed, that had pursued her across England and which remained with her, tormenting her, refusing to let her go, to let her live her life in peace.
She was in an almost constant state of sexual arousal, tortured day and night by erotic impulses she could not control. Every man she saw, she now saw as a potential sexual partner. She wanted to stroke their pricks through the fabric of their trousers, grab hold of them and feel them hardening, lengthening in her hand. She longed to unzip their flies and take out their love-shafts, teasing and masturbating them to within a hair’s-breadth of orgasm, then holding back and watching their tormented faces, mouthing ‘Please, please . . .’ She craved that power; craved the delicious despotism of the hot, wet crotch over the starving prick.
Night after night, she had gone early to bed and lain down on her bed, naked, in front of the long mirror on the front of her wardrobe. Head and shoulders propped up on pillows and cushions, she drew up her knees and parted her legs wide, so that the image of her dark glossy muff stood out vividly against the light gold colour of her tanned skin.
And night after night, she had abandoned herself to the voice that whispered to her of pleasure, pleasure, pleasure . . .
Lovingly, she ran her right index fìnger down the length of her snatch, at first so lightly that she merely brushed the dark fleece with her fingertip, and then more insistently, more wickedly, diving down into the plump flesh as though her finger was a knife, sinking into a soft and deliriously juicy fruit.
Carefully but greedily, she parted the flesh and exposed the glistening treasures within: moist pink-ness, as sweet as honeydew, and in the very heart of the oyster, the pearl – a little sphere that seemed to grow and pulsate and radiate its own life.
This pearl had become the centre of Mara’s universe. How often, on these long summer nights, she had stroked it, teased it to the far-off accompaniment of a voice she could not quite hear, raucous breathing filling her head . . . She could almost feel unseen fingers plucking at her flesh, hot breath caressing her breasts.
And each time she came to orgasm, the same fiery eyes seemed to bum into her, and she imagined she could hear that evil, wonderful, obscene, seductive voice breathing its message of terror and shame . . .
And anticipation.
‘Little slut, little princess, little temple whore: I shall have you. Soon now. Very soon. And you’ll never be alone again . . .’
Mara looked up from her reverie and was surprised to discover that she had been daydreaming: it was noon and the sun was high in a perfect, eggshell-blue sky. It all looked so innocent and so impossibly pure: so English! The whole of the scene belonged to a world in which unseen evil spirits were wholly out of place. And yet, all this was happening to her.
She allowed herself a little ironic half-smile. This was a strange sort of a place: why, she’d be believing in Dracula next.
There had to be some escape from this persecution. Maybe it was all in her mind. Maybe she was going mad. She needed time to think, fresh air to clear her head, some sacred place to purify her and drive out the thoughts that were destroying her peace.
She picked up a light summer jacket and slung it around her bare shoulders. As an afterthought, she put on the Egyptian amulet Gareth had given her: ‘It will protect you,’ he had said. ‘And somehow it looks just right on you.’
It felt right, too. She had always had a special affinity with ancient Egypt and Egyptian magic. The minute the cool stone amulet had touched her skin, she had felt calmed, whole, peaceful. And right now, she could use all the peace she could get.
Hunt hated garden parties, fetes, summer ‘fayres’ and all the other Merrie England nonsense so beloved of English villages and provincial towns. Morris Men, maypoles and guess-the-weight-of-the-cake competitions reminded him painfully of his days as a cub reporter on the Macclesfield Bugle, and he’d sworn he’d given them up.
And here he was, queueing up with the rest of the rabble to pay his 50p and see the big cheese himself – The Right Honourable Sir Anthony Cheviot MP – cut the ribbon and get his gleaming bridgework on page three of the local paper.
Hunt was feeling unusually jittery. He felt guilty about not reporting the incident with Viviane to the police – but then again, what would they have made of it? ‘You see, officer, she bumped her head and when I touched her to see if she was OK, my hand went straight through her. Oh yes, and then she dematerialised completely.’ They’d put him in the funny farm for sure.
The odd thing was, there was nothing in the papers about it, nothing on the news about a young woman disappearing. Nothing at all to disturb the seamless fabric of an English afternoon.
The more he looked into this case, the more he was convinced that something very weird indeed was going on.
He had a cursory wander round the stalls, exchanged small-talk with a few local dignatories and drank a couple of pints of Sam Smith’s in the beer tent, but he didn’t manage to glean any useful information about Cheviot. Blimey, he thought, these Yorkshiremen are tighter than a crab’s arse.
Sir Anthony and Lady Cheviot arrived – the regulation ten minutes late – and ribbons were cut and pleasantries exchanged with the Mayor and Mayoress. No chance to get anywhere near – this guy was as slippery as an eel. For the next half-hour, Hunt kept one step behind him, following him round the stalls and waiting for his moment. It didn’t come until Cheviot’s glossy black car arrived to take him back down to London. Cheviot paused for a moment to shake hands with his constituency agent, and Hunt saw his moment. There were few people around – now was the time to strike.
He pushed through the small huddle of onlookers, briefly flashing his Press card for the benefit of Cheviot’s burly PA-cum-minder, who instinctively tried to bar the way.
‘Sir Anthony – can we have a word?’
‘About what, precisely? This really is an unpardonable intrusion.’
The man’s voice had a mesmerising quality, and Hunt found it intensely difficult to tear his gaze away from Cheviot’s piercing grey eyes. It became almost impossible to articulate the questions he wanted to ask. It took a supreme effort of will to get the words out:
‘About . . . your involvement with a certain young lady in London. And another here in Whitby. About certain . . . incidents . . . which you might not wish to discuss here, in front of all these good people.’
‘No comment,’ snapped Cheviot.
‘Of course,’ sighed Hunt, irritated but hardly surprised. He tried again, a little more insistently: ‘What does the name Anastasia Dubois mean to you, Sir Anthony?’
Cheviot was not even slightly fazed. Hunt realised that he was sneering at him.
‘I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Mr . . .?’
‘Hunt, Andreas Hunt. Morning Chronicle. Can I just ask you . . .’
‘Listen, Mr Hunt.’ The eyes were steely now, and narrowed.
And as they gazed deep into Hunt’s blue eyes, they seemed to rob him of the power of speech, to paralyse him and leave him open-mouthed and idiotic in the MP’s wake. ‘If you wish to arrange an interview with me, you’ll have to contact my Press Secretary at the House of Commons. And now, perhaps you’ll do a great service to the good people of this fine town and go back to London, where slime like you belong.’
A brief stare at Hunt – as cold and as bleak as a January night on the North York Moors – and Cheviot turned on his heel and climbed into the black limousine. Hunt was pretty sure it was the same one he’d seen three nights ago, in Miller’s Yard.
Hunt stood and watched the retreating limo, and desperately wanted to kick himself. What had gone wrong? What had robbed him of his native cunning, his famous journalistic expertise? He was baffled. It felt just as if some unseen force had drained all the energy out of him. He was still weak, still shivering.
Let’s face it, he’d blown it, and in a big way. What the Hell happened to the big showdown he’d planned? Now he’d have to start all over again, keep on trying. And maybe blow it all over again.
He was thinking of leaving, when he caught sight of the fortune-teller’s tent at the far side of the field. Maybe, just maybe, it would contain that same, unforgettable girl. Maybe it would have been worth his while coming to this horrible garden fete, after all.
The fortune-teller’s tent seemed to have few customers. It looked deserted, but as Hunt approached the door, a soft and somehow familiar voice drifted out:
‘Come inside. I won’t eat you.’
It was a pleasant, silky voice and Hunt reckoned that, even if it didn’t belong to the girl he was looking for, its owner would probably be worth meeting: so he ducked inside.
It was one of those old hexagonal bell-tents that Boy Scouts used to go camping in, in the days of wide-brimmed hats and knee-length shorts. Inside, it was hung with eastern draperies and there was an old Afghan carpet on the ground. The place smelt strongly of joss-sticks, and a faint smoky haze hung on the air, dimly lit by the filtering daylight and a few flickering candles, tastefully arranged.
The fortune-teller – ‘Madame Zara’ of course (couldn’t they think of any other names?) – was heavily veiled and swathed in luxurious Eastern fabrics: brocades, silks, satins, all in sensuous shades of burgundy and purple. Her face was hidden behind layers of silver-spangled tulle, save for her handsome, night-dark eyes, which peered at him intelligently and (he guessed) with some amusement as he sat down hesitantly on the rickety folding chair.
He wondered if she could read the disappointment on his face. Dark eyes: not, then, the girl who had taken him to Heaven and back, just those few days ago, and then disappeared like an opium dream from an addict’s trance. And, like the addict, Hunt was disturbed to realise that he still craved his fix. The craving simply wouldn’t go away.
Still, now he was here he might as well have his money’s worth.
‘Tarot, palm or crystal ball, darling?’
The voice was as smooth as double cream, poured temptingly over a cold silver teaspoon.
‘Not Tarot.’ The memory was too strong, the fear lingering at the back of his brain. So many strange things had happened over the last few days, and he couldn’t risk setting off some psychological trigger, buried deep in his troubled brain. Somewhere, in the darkest recesses of his cynical journalistic mind, hidden in a place so dimly lit he could barely perceive it, lurked the deep, ancestral fear that stalks all men in their worst nightmares.
The fear of going mad.
‘Then let me read your future in the crystal. You have an interesting face. I feel sure I shall see a fascinating life in the crystal.’
‘How much?’
‘Only one pound fifty. And it’s all for charity, of course.’
‘Of course.’ He handed over a heap of small change, and felt a whole lot better. The thought that he was paying some woman (who was probably the grocer’s wife and hadn’t the faintest idea about fortune telling) to read his fortune in a lump of glass, seemed so prosaic that a slight smile twitched at the corners of his rather saturnine mouth. He wondered what she’d manage to come up with, and prepared himself to be thoroughly entertained.
She slipped the midnight-blue velvet cover from the crystal, and passed her ringed hands over the smooth surface. Funny, but Hunt could have sworn it began to glow slightly in the semi-darkness. Amazing what you could do with a bit of subdued lighting and auto-suggestion.
‘Before we begin, show me your palm. It will help me to pick up on the correct vibrations, tune into the images of your future which lie imprisoned within the glass.’
He obeyed, enjoying himself now. She wasn’t half bad for an amateur, a real little actress. She took hold of his hand and turned it palm upwards, lightly caressing his fingers and making him shiver slightly with pleasure. She had the touch of an experienced whore: she’d definitely missed her vocation.
‘You are an ambitious man. Impatient sometimes, a perfectionist. Is that true?’
‘Yes, it’s true . . . but can’t you be a little more specific?’ Hunt was willing to stake a tenner that she couldn’t.
‘You are a seeker after truth. And a man of great passion, inexhaustible sexual energies. A man whose passions sometimes lead him into danger. You enjoy danger, perhaps too much. As to the specific, I must look deeper, into the heart of the crystal.’
‘So – will I lead a long and happy life, then?’
She paused, in a way which unsettled him. Why didn’t she just give him the usual crap about ‘you will meet a blonde-haired girl and have three children?’
‘You have an unusual life-line. Unlike any I have seen before. I can’t quite make it out. But an interesting life, I do not doubt. Now, let me look into the crystal. Come, look into it with me, share the visions.’
Now this was unusual. A fortune-teller inviting her client to look into the crystal. What was she going to do – hypnotise him? But he decided to go along with it, just for the kicks.
Unconvinced he peered into the glass ball as the woman passed her hands over the surface again and again, all the time muttering a low-voiced incantation which he could not quite make out. He began to feel a little light-headed, but still saw nothing. Why didn’t she just get on with it and tell him any old bullshit?
‘See: there – can you make it out?’
He blinked and rubbed his eyes, but there was no doubt about it: something seemed to be stirring deep within the crystal. At first, it seemed that a cold blue fire was burning there, a seed of fire and ice combined, beautiful and ever-changing, but so very far away. It seemed to draw him into the crystal, calling to him silently, and he knew that he must follow.
The blue fire gave way to a swirling red mist, through which Hunt could at first distinguish nothing. But as he watched, it began to clear and he realised that shadowy figures were moving beyond the mist. As the mist thinned and parted, leaving a vignette of clarity within a swirling red frame, he realised with fascinated horror that he was looking at the image of himself and one other.
The two figures were naked and sweating, their golden skins perfectly matching as they writhed and intertwined in a silent dance of lust. Although the male figure was facing away from him, Hunt would have known instinctively that it was himself, even if he had not recognised the familiar birthmark in the small of his back. He was looking down on his own self, and his own self was busily screwing a beautiful girl with firm tits, glossy dark hair and satin-smooth thighs dripping moisture. He could feel every stroke of his hard penis inside her, and he realised that his own penis had hardened in sympathy.
But who was the girl? He could not make out her face, hidden by her long black hair and by his shoulders as he pumped away at her. Oh, the ecstasy as he felt the thrusts of this other man who was himself, felt the slick, warm wetness of the girl’s tight vaginal walls, subtle and firm as a hand closing around his hardened tool.
And then the man moved slightly t
o one side, and the girl’s face was revealed. Her eyes were closed as she climbed towards ecstasy, but he knew her instantly. It was the girl from the fortune-telling booth on the promenade, the girl he had been seeking for the last week. But what was the significance of this ‘vision’? Could it be just some fevered daydream, born out of the wishful thinking lodged deep in his own brain? And if it was more than that, what could it possibly mean?
He glanced up at the veiled face of Madame Zara.
‘What does it mean?’
‘Don’t look away. You must keep looking . . .’
He returned to the strange vision in the glass, strangely detached and yet inextricably a part of what he saw. As though in a dream, he felt his other self climbing towards orgasm, and he could feel the girl’s joy and excitement too, felt the blood pumping round both their bodies, felt the juices rising within them, ready to rush out and unite them. The girl’s fingernails, long and red, were digging painfully into his back . . . no into the back of the other Andreas Hunt . . . but he didn’t care, he just wanted to come. He wanted to feel that hot white jet, abandon himself to the thrust and pump and spurt of that engorged prick which was, and was not, his own.
But, just as the crisis seemed within reach . . . no going back now . . . he saw the girl’s face again, and it was changing, changing subtly from approaching ecstasy to something very different.
Approaching terror.
As he watched in horrified fascination, the girl’s face contorted into a parody of its former serene beauty, each muscle clenching in terrified apprehension. She was staring wildly in front of her, at something so horrible that her mouth opened in a soundless scream.
And the man who was also Andreas Hunt felt and saw her terror and twisted his head round to look behind him. But the face which turned towards Hunt was not his own: it was a terrible, strange, unearthly face – handsome and yet unspeakably evil. And the eyes, those terrible eyes . . . two burning red coals set in a waxen skin, hot coals that burned into him. And that smile, the cruel smile that twisted the corners of that implacable mouth. And the mocking laughter . . .
Kiss of Death (Modern Erotic Classics) Page 10
