"I get all that. And you're right. Of course you're right. But don't you ever want more?"
"More?"
"Don't you ever crave excitement?"
Ray looks away. Examines the room. My foot massages his muscled thighs. All the other dignified diners remain completely unaware.
"If I gave you a pass to do whatever you want, with whoever you want, maybe just for one night, would you take it...?"
My husband explores my face for clues, searches for a punch line. "No. I wouldn't."
I pull back my neck and laugh. "Of course you would."
My husband's face remains blank.
"Why wouldn't you?"
"You're all I need, Kat."
We both look up.
"How was your meal?"
The waitress gathers our plates. She is probably in her twenties. There is a pink streak in her long blonde hair that falls to her slim waist. My husband dares to hold her eyes. His ears burn red. "It was lovely. Thank you."
Her smile is bright. Her eyelashes flutter. "Care for dessert?"
"Oh I'm sure my husband would love something for dessert."
My laugh is suggestive. I massage my husband's crotch as I discuss the dessert options with the young, pretty waitress.
"Don't blame you," she says. Her look passes from me, lingers on my husband. "Sometimes you need to be naughty, don't you?"
My eyes follow her backside as she leaves to get some menus. I turn back to my husband.
"You don't want me to ask her to come back with us?"
He shakes his head. His restless hands and his watery, hungry eyes tell me that he'd love me to ask her to come back with us, but I also know he wouldn't do it. My husband is too faithful, too doting.
"Okay. But you promise me something?" I ask.
"Yes?"
"Promise me you'll take me back to the hotel room and fuck my brains out?"
My husband stands up. My feet drop to the floor. He smiles. "Now that I can promise."
Sunday 22nd June 2019
Sheena
Even though the rules society imposes on us are amended on Sundays, it is still, by any stretch of the imagination, a reasonable time to call. Still, I lie naked on my bed, the duvet rolled in a ball next to me.
I'm aware of the vibration on the bedside table next to me. Still, my eyes focus on the still blankness of the ceiling. My arms remain in a straight line by my side. The phone stops vibrating. I smile from the corner of my mouth.
I know who it is. I'll let her phone back. She will. She desperately wants to let me know what happened.
Minutes later, when the phone rings again, I stretch out my arm. Put the receiver to my ear. Don't even bother to check the screen.
"Hello, my darling," I slur. "How did it go?"
"It didn't work."
She breathlessly told me about her plans after yesterday's meeting. It took quite a while for the women to disperse, for the room to empty, for us to be alone. Excited chatter echoed around the room. We needed to drag chairs from the kitchen to seat the twenty-two attendees. I stood at the front of the room, in my element, talking to the masses.
"We're all agreed that we do not share anything we discuss in this room with anybody outside of this room?"
"Absolutely. Agreed."
"And what should you do if you can't commit to that vow?"
"We should stand up, walk out of the door and keep on walking."
"Good," I said. "So we can trust each other."
With my head bowed and my hands clasped behind my back, I paced up and down in a straight line. "That's the difference between us and them..."
Closing my eyes, I sensed them glancing at each other. A woman on the front row - I'm not sure which one - plucked up the courage to ask what I referred to.
"They can't be trusted. You never know what they're scheming..."
The women muttered their hearty agreement.
"But you need to try and find out what they're up to, what they're planning..."
"How do we do that?" Apinya asked.
We have an unwritten agreement that Apinya asks probing questions when she suspects nobody else will. This was probably the first time she got it right, bless her.
"You should check their phone on a regular basis. I say regular because they'll delete most of the messages because they're worried you'll read them. Check for suspect names in the contact list. Is your husband getting all flirty with a George? Don't worry, your husband probably hasn't turned gay. George is most likely a Sharon or a Tracey..."
A couple of ladies released a knowing chuckle."But I don't know the password on his phone."
"Me neither. God knows I've tried enough times. The bastard didn't choose our wedding anniversary or my birthday, I know that."
The laughter spreads.
"Do they sleep with their phone next to them?" I asked.
"He's glued to it. He'd much rather sleep with his phone than with me."
A few others nodded.
"Wait until they're asleep and then tap the screen with their thumb. You won't need the password that way."
I allowed this to sink in. The women agreed that it was a fantastic idea. However did you think of that? I jerked my head up; one of the ladies on the front row flinched.
"But don't go thinking they won't try exactly the same thing. People are, by nature, possessive and paranoid. Katherine, you'll back me up on this, won't you, darling?"
Kat, staring at the dusty floor, nodded her head.
"Just leave your phone around for them to pick up. Don't put a lock on it..."
Predictably, a few women appeared aghast at this suggestion. "I don't want my husband checking my messages!"
"Let him," I replied. "After all, he won't find anything. That way, he'll trust you more than ever."
"He'll find plenty on my phone," one of the loudest protested. "And not just all the topless photos!"
With my hands on my hips, I thrust my pelvis forward. "Delete all messages. Delete all provocative photos. Delete anybody on your contact list who shouldn't be there. We discuss everything here. If you make private plans, then do it in person. Don't leave any traces. We can't afford the risk of ruining what we've got going here. Are we able to make this commitment for the sake of the group? Speak up if you're not."
I looked around the room. I could have stuck an apple in the open mouths. None of them dared utter a word.
"I'm in. Makes sense to me. If it's for the good of the group."
I looked up at Kat's smiling face. My lips parted. Apinya added her commitment. The rest quickly followed; none of them wanted to be the last to commit.
Once the room emptied, a flushed Kat told me about the posh restaurant she'd booked, about the hotel room, about her plans to seduce her own husband.
I don't say anything to her now. I let seconds pass. Ensure that all she can hear down the line is my slow, steady breathing.
"How hard did you try, Kat?"
"Believe me, I tried. Pretty much offered another girl on a plate for him. Offered him a threesome. That's a male fantasy, right? She was serving us at the time."
"Did he know you were genuine, darling? Or did he think it was a trick? Did he think you were trying to con him into saying he'd sleep with another woman? These men are shrewd."
She thinks about this. Problem is, she isn't sure she was genuine. I'm not sure dear Katherine is aware of her limitations, is aware of just how far she has progressed. Before I met her, she was a frumpy housewife. Does she really envisage that she has suddenly transformed into a sex vixen? What would she have done if her husband upped and left the table to go shag some other woman? Realistically, did she want him to fail her challenge?
"I made it pretty clear, Sheena."
Clipping at a fingernail, I let her know I'm distracted, that she does not have my full attention.
"Did you book the hotel room, like you said you would?"
"Yes."
My friend has impressed me. If wha
t she says is true - and, let's be honest, she wouldn't lie to me - then she really has come a long way. My hand drifts. The tips of my fingers circle my pink, stiffening bud. "So did he take you back to the room and fuck you, darling?"
There is a gulp down the line. "Yes. Harder than he's fucked me for years, Sheena..."
My fingers pinch harder. "Then the thought of fucking another woman did excite him, Kat. He was probably thinking about her when he was inside you. You realise that, don't you?"
I hear her throat tighten. I wonder whether this thought repulses her or - more likely - thrills her.
"Maybe-"
"So he is like all the other men, Kat..."
"No. He has urges. We all do. But I offered an opportunity to him on the plate and he didn't do anything about it, did he?"
Of course he didn't. Nobody had a lower expectation of Ray than I did.
"So what are you going to do about it now?" I ask.
"That's the thing. I've made a decision-"
"Decision?"
"It's like you said."
"Remind me what I told you, dear. Sometimes I have an awfully short memory..."
"Put it this way - part of me was relieved when he didn't take the bait-"
"And another part?"
She blows out air. "Another part was gutted. It made me realise, Sheena, that I really am bored. I'm brain-numbingly bored. I don't think I can keep living like this for much longer..."
"So I repeat my question. So what are you going to do about it now?"
"What you told me to do, Sheena. I've decided that if my husband doesn't want any fun, then I'm going to find my own excitement..."
"Good girl," I say. "I'm proud of you."
I end the call just as my hand drifts lower down my body.
Wednesday 3rd July 2019
Bernard
Hippocrates said that walking is man's best medicine - well, for me, his prognosis is spot on.
Walking helps me think. That doesn't tell the full story because - God - I don't need any help thinking. I dissect and ruminate and reflect about anything and everything - my dead dad, Apinya, and now, more and more frequently, about Rose. What I should say is that walking allows me to think logically, to crystallise my thoughts, to actually find solutions rather than more and more problems.
Apinya's lips tasted so deliciously sweet when I kissed her goodbye; I was tempted to stay a while longer, but she ushered me out of the door. A pleasant chill filled the air when my sturdy walking boots dug into the grass at the bank of the river, but as the miles passed my calves pinched and I held up my hand to protect my eyes from the sun. Looking down at the village from the peak of the mountain, I was struck, once again, by a single, comforting thought - does any of this really matter?
The drawn curtains of our house bat away the sun. Shutting the front door behind me, the coolness in the hallway soothes my sun-kissed cheeks. My body deflates as it disappears within the depths of the sofa.
The eerie silence tells me that Apinya must be out.
The magic thing about the home is that it feels good to leave, and it feels even better to come back. Again, this is true of me. I love my home - my palace - but I appreciate it even more when I've gone out and come back.
I didn't deliberately deceive Apinya into thinking that my beloved wife, Diane, had passed away; I just never corrected her. Written words are often misconstrued, aren't they? Apinya asked if I was still married; I said my wife was no longer around. Strictly speaking, we were still married at the time - the divorce papers were still in transit. Apinya flooded me with sympathies; I didn't push them away. Frankly, I didn't have the courage to tell her I returned home from the office one day to find a Dear John note left on the kitchen table. Diane had already packed her bags and moved in with her personal trainer. It went without saying, of course, that Mr Fucking Motivator had younger, bigger muscles. Diane really had upgraded to a newer, superior model. The main reason I didn't correct Apinya, though, was because I was ashamed to tell her I didn't do anything about it. I didn't fight to keep my wife. By now Apinya must know that Diane is still alive, of course; we've just never discussed it. It gives me hope, in a way. Apinya must have a heart - somewhere - for allowing me to hang the family portrait on the living room wall.
What was that?
Despite the clarity of my thoughts this morning, I haven't been able to shrug off this feeling of impending doom. I fretted that something was going to happen to Rose; she's certainly keen to venture into the lion's den. Maybe it isn't Rose? Maybe it's me?
My eyes rise to the ceiling. What was that noise? Is Apinya actually in? Maybe she's just having a sleep. But then, she never takes daytime naps. My forehead furrows. This doesn't feel right. I push my hands flat down against the sofa. I'm already on tiptoes as my socks sink into the thick, carpeted living room floor. I move out into the hallway, flinching when the pine stairs creak. With each passing step, as I move higher, the noise upstairs grows louder. Clearer.
Standing in the hallway, I consider scurrying back down the stairs, a mouse disappearing into his hole. Nobody knows I'm here. I could pretend I never was. My father's crinkled face invades my mind. He shakes his head.
I push open the bedroom door. Our bedroom door.
Somehow, I'm not shocked. It is exactly what I expected.
My wife has a house guest, of course. Only, he isn't here for tea, biscuits and a chat. This isn't a fucking coffee morning. My wife's knees dig into the silk, burgundy bed sheet, freshly washed on the weekend. Her guest has made himself at home - he is buried deep inside my wife from behind. Apinya jerks her head to the side. Judging from her flushed cheeks, she is getting quite the workout. Her quivering upper lip says nothing. Her wide, unblinking eyes are (have I possibly got this right?) accusing. Turning her head forward, she no longer looks at me, but instead stares at her reflection in the mirror. She doesn't utter a word.
Her deep, unadulterated moan tells me I've outstayed my welcome.
I turn. Leave the bedroom. Our bedroom.
I grip the wooden banister as I climb down the stairs, threaten to rip it from its hinges. I plunge back into the sofa; this time my face sinks into my upturned hands. I can hear myself, though I'm desperate not to. I'm quietly sobbing, just like I used to in the privacy of my bedroom after Dad scolded me for being weak, for being too feminine. When I remove my hands, my vision is blurred and dotted; it takes a while for the portrait on the wall to stop moving from side to side. Maybe I'm imagining Diane's pitying look? That isn't sympathy. That look says oh you poor, pathetic old man; no wonder I left you.
I spring from the chair. Stomp towards the back of the house. Unlock the garage door. Turn on the light, introducing a whole realm of possibilities. I start opening and slamming cupboards, pulling and shutting drawers. I'm not sure what I'm looking for until I find it. Perfect.
I know there is a smile on my face as the palm of my hand massages the smooth, angled length of the wooden baseball bat.
My dad always condoned me for being shit at sport; he said it was a waste of money buying me a bat if I was never going to use it. Well, fuck you, old man! I'll make sure you get your money's worth from the purchase, alright?
The house shakes like an elephant on a rampage as I charge up the stairs. This time, I don't hover in the hallway like some sort of dirty voyeur. Stretching out my leg, I kick open the bedroom door.
I recognise the young man (and he is young, probably half my age. Why do they do this to me?). He works with Ray. Is it Rob? Who is this punk? I really don't care. He slowly turns. Casually. I'm an irritant. I'm interrupting him. Getting in the way of his session. With my wife.
He starts taking me seriously when his eyes drop and he takes in the baseball bat, firmly gripped in my right hand. I bare my teeth. Raise my eyebrows. His jaw literally fucking drops. He removes his hands from my wife's snake hips like suddenly she's contaminated, holds them up in the air instead to show he means no harm. The man with his dick in my wif
e means no harm? I shake my head to tell him that simply won't do, squire.
I turn to Apinya. The colour has seeped from her cheeks. Her brow is covered with another layer of sweat. She fucking says something now.
"No, Bernard! Don't do it!"
And I don't do anything for a while. I just stand there, in the middle of the bedroom, my legs slightly parted (not as wide as my slut wife), my feet pressed hard against the floor. I just let the lovely couple wait. I let them suffer. Let them squirm.
The wooden baseball bat drops to the floor with a loud crank. It bounces a few times before rolling on the laminate floor, rests against the fitted wardrobe, away from harm. Both bodies on the bed deflate. Both bodies on the bed release an audible sigh of relief.
It's all over.
I take two rapid steps forward. My clenched fist strikes the man on the side of the jaw. His open mouth spits out blood and dirty phlegm. A woman screams. I take a handful of hair and pummel the man with a barrage of uppercuts. Grabbing his kicking feet, I pull him off the bed and then drag him down the wooden staircase, his bruised head banging against each step.
I sink into the sofa for the third time. For the first time, though, I have a bloodied, unconscious body lying at my feet. I glance at Diane on the wall; I can't help but notice her smile. I push away my father's image from my mind, but I know he is no longer embarrassed, he is no longer ashamed.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I dial a number. The voice on the other end of the line is deep. Confused. I don't think I've ever called him before; I don't belong in his social circle, not really. I'll always be an outsider in one way or another. I fire out the words quickly and concisely. I ask if he can help.
There is a pause, and then he says yes. He can help.
"Thank you, Ray," I say.
The line goes dead.
Thursday 4th July 2019
I AM HERE TO KILL YOU Page 16
