The Girl In His Eyes: a dark psychological drama

by Jennie Ensor

  He returned and put the camera on the coffee table.

  ‘Shit, this is so scary.’ She flopped back on the sofa, dispatching the cushion to one side.

  Finally, the credits started to roll. He took the remote and pressed eject.

  ‘OK, Em, are you ready?’ He took off the camera’s protective case and switched on the lights. ‘We need five or six really good shots of you.’

  ‘Wait one minute.’ She fussed around with a compact, dabbing candyfloss-coloured goo on her lips. Her cheeks were already flushed.

  He pointed to the wall behind, a perfect backdrop, white enough for good light reflection. ‘Stand over there, sweetie, and look into the camera.’

  She got up immediately and posed quite naturally, one leg bent against the wall, arms loose at her sides, smiling nicely. Click.

  ‘Can I look?’ She skipped over to peer into the camera. The result was fine. Better than he’d expected.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘let’s have a few more. More attitude, this time. Think of Rosie whatever-her-name-is.’ What was her name, Emma’s current favourite model? ‘Rosie Huntington-Whiteley, that’s it.’

  He knelt on the sofa, digging his elbows into the top of it to steady the camera, and zoomed in on her face. The modelling contests she watched on TV must have rubbed off, he thought, as she slipped with ease through a range of poses and expressions. She probably would make a good model – she had no shyness whatsoever in front of the camera.

  ‘Em, that’s great. Monica will love these, I’m sure. But we need a few bikini shots. You have to show them you’re nearly grown up, not some dopey twelve-year-old.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t have a bikini. Only my costume from the pool.’

  ‘No, that won’t do. It’s fine for swimming, but it’s not exactly fetching, is it?’ Mock despondently, he scratched his head. ‘I know. Why don’t you take off your things and I’ll take a photo of you in your underwear? That’s the same thing, pretty much. Better, in fact. It’ll add a touch of spice. That’s important, these days.’

  She giggled, as if he’d told her a risqué joke. ‘OK, then.’

  His heart was going like the clappers, it would burst out of him any second. Christ, she was going to do it. Pursing her lips, she pulled off the wool sweater and cotton top together, revealing a simple blue cotton bra. Padded, by the look of it. A moment’s hesitation then she quickly pulled down the zipper of her jeans and stepped out of them. She looked at him with a coquettish smile. Her panties matched the bra. They only just covered her pubic hair.

  ‘Will this do?’

  ‘You have a fabulous body,’ he said.

  Her eyes fixed to his, as a shy horse inspects a stranger at the fence. It wanted the sugar in your hand, only it didn’t trust you enough to let you come near. He came around the side of the sofa, settled himself on the arm, and raised the camera. She was going to do whatever he asked. His groin strained against the tight denim.

  ‘Come on, give me some raunch. Pretend you’re a naughty girl. Yes, like that.’

  Click, click. Click, click, click.

  ‘Pull the strap down a bit. Let’s see a little more – that’s it. Don’t be shy. Give me that teasing look again … perfect.’

  Paul looked at his watch. ‘OK, that’s enough.’

  Emma strode to the pile of clothes on the floor.

  ‘Hey, no need to be in such a hurry to get dressed.’ He gestured to the sofa. ‘Come and sit down for a sec and look at these. We might need to repeat one or two shots.’ She perched awkwardly on the edge of the seat beside him, clutching her cotton top in one hand. He held the camera close as the photos skipped by in the viewfinder, aware of the fascination and pleasure passing over her face. He reached the last photo. It was extra special – he would treasure that one. Her eyes shone with the knowledge of her beauty and its impact on him. Her parted lips and slightly raised eyebrows seemed to dare him to do something.

  ‘You’re a natural model, Em. Like the ones in Glamour magazine, but better.’

  She looked pleased, but a little uncertain, one hand still holding on to the cotton top. He put the camera down on the coffee table. He had to act quickly.

  ‘Take your bra off, sweetie.’

  ‘Why? We’ve done the photos.’

  ‘Please. Just for me. Let me see how beautiful you are. I’d like to see what you look like underneath, that’s all.’

  Stubbornness crept into her voice. ‘No, I don’t want to.’

  ‘Please, Em. I just want to look. You have a beautiful body.’

  She stared, about to bolt.

  ‘Go on,’ he cajoled. ‘I won’t do anything, I promise.’

  She sighed in protest but let go of the top. Then she pulled down her bra straps, dragged the fasteners to the front, and unhooked it, placing it on the seat beside her. And there, before him, were two perfect, creamy peaks, their tips darkening to a dusky mauve.

  His breath drew in. Her breasts weren’t quite as small as he’d expected, just big enough for a first bra. But he hadn’t realised how lovely they were. She always kept them hidden under her baggy tops.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said.

  Hardly daring to breathe, he leaned across and brushed his lips against her velvet earlobe, then the downy rim of her ear. When he touched her mouth with his lips she jerked her head away, looking at him wide-eyed, as if she’d just been kicked. Her eyes were bigger and darker than he’d ever seen them.

  ‘It’s alright, sweetie,’ he whispered. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

  He reached out and felt the softness of her breast. She didn’t move. Her eyes seemed so big in her pale little face.

  ‘Don’t be scared, Em. I’m going to give you the most wonderful feeling you’ve ever had.’ He could almost hear her murmur of delight.

  ‘No, I want to go home.’

  She removed his hand and tried to stand up. He pushed her back down, firmly enough that she’d know he meant it. She tensed, protested. He wondered if she would yell and if he should put his hand over her mouth. He had the fleeting thought that he ought to give this up now and let her go – this could only end in disaster.

  But he couldn’t stop. His need filled him, a desperate, insane need that went beyond any boundary. This time, he would do what he craved. Slowly, gently, without hurting her too much. Soon, he was certain, she would enjoy it. This dark angel would surrender to him.

  ‘I’ll never forget this,’ he said. ‘Not for as long as I live.’

  It was over. He wanted to hold her close for a little while longer. But they had to leave now.

  ‘Put your clothes back on, sweetie. Don’t you want to have a wash in the bathroom before we go?’ She didn’t seem to hear him. A cloudy dribble was making its way down her thigh. ‘Sit up, that’s a girl.’

  Emma looked bewildered. He left her sitting on the sofa, naked, hugging her knees.

  In the bathroom, he quickly examined the mess of red scratches on his lower back. Luckily, most weren’t deep. They would heal before Suzanne had a chance to notice – if he was careful. He would leave his T-shirt on in bed for a while.

  He washed himself quickly. The joy and exhilaration were fading. In their place, a heaviness, pressing down on him, trying to suck the air out of him. He heard a voice from somewhere.

  Scumbag. You shouldn’t have done that.

  He stood for a few moments, holding on to the basin. A voice in his head? This wasn’t like him. He wasn’t one of those nutters who heard voices. He was sweating royally now, his heart all over the place.

  Come on, he silently replied. This isn’t fair. She wanted it too. The blush on her cheeks, the hot little breaths. They were evidence, weren’t they? He’d intended to loiter on the edges, stay a gentleman to the last, but it had been easier than he’d imagined to break through that little barrier – perhaps she’d tried it before, with one of the boys at school. She hadn’t pushed him away, had she? Not after that first bout of resistance,
that sudden attack with her nails. She’d let him slide in to taste those sweet depths.

  They wouldn’t see it that way, would they? The people she told. They would make out he’d done something wrong.

  Shit.

  Paul turned on the tap and lowered his hands beneath the gush of water. He tried to think straight, to get control of himself. What had he done? He shouldn’t have let himself go like that. Christ, he was a fucking idiot. He was pushing his luck to think he could get away with it a second time. After all these years, Laura had never said anything to Suzanne as far as he knew – yet it was always there, lurking in his mind, the thought that one day she might break her promise and expose him. Lately, since her visit, the thought had pressed down on him more than ever, waking him in the stillness of the night. And now, he’d gone and strung a second weight around his neck. They could get him for this. They could well and truly hang him up by the balls. What would happen now, for Christ’s sake?

  Emma will go blabbing to her mother, that’s what. She’ll tell her mother, and all her friends at school, that she was raped by the man who was meant to be looking after her.

  When he came back into the living room, Emma was dressed. She sat on the sofa, head lowered, both arms wrapped around the bag on her lap. The lace of her trainer trailed across the carpet.

  ‘Don’t look so miserable, Em.’

  She didn’t respond. A smudge of pinkish gloss hung below her bottom lip. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief and wiped it off.

  ‘I want to go now,’ she said in a small voice, not looking at him.

  He checked his watch: 5.11pm, Jane would be back at home soon. He switched on his phone in case she called.

  ‘Before I take you home, Emma, I want you to promise me something.’ He waited for her to look up at him. ‘You must promise not to tell anyone about this.’

  Her eyes flickered slightly, as if assessing the seriousness of his request.

  ‘You promised you wouldn’t do anything,’ she said. ‘You lied.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to do that. I’m sorry.’

  Why did you then? her eyes demanded. But she stayed silent.

  He moved so his face was level with hers.

  ‘Emma, you mustn’t tell anyone about what we did just now – not even your mum. If you tell her, or anyone else, do you know what I’ll do?’

  She moved her head slightly.

  He thought quickly. What the fuck could he do? It had better work, whatever it was.

  ‘I’ll show your mum the photos. And I’ll put them on social media. They give it away, Emma. They show how much you wanted me, how you were trying to tempt me. Your face was full of it. No one will buy that it was all just meant for some model agency. You know what your mum will think about you then, don’t you? What all your friends will think? That you’re just a little slut, gagging for it. You wouldn’t want that, would you?’

  Her mouth opened. She blinked rapidly.

  ‘I swear, I’ll never tell anyone.’

  ‘Remember, Emma. I meant what I said. Keep quiet, or you’ll regret it.’

  She nodded, her face white.

  Thank God he’d got through to her. It was bad to talk to her like that, but now she wouldn’t tell on him. If his luck held out, no one would ever suspect a thing.

  On the way back, Emma stared out of the window. Despite his efforts to lighten the mood, her silence was unbroken, a cloud of poison filling the car.

  He knew that it was his fault she was like this. It wasn’t how he’d planned their last moments together. He wanted his cheeky, high-spirited girl back again. Not this sourpuss, off its milk. But he hadn’t done anything so very bad, had he? He’d only given her a foretaste of what she would experience later. She would be back to her old self soon enough. One day, years from now, she’d probably brag to her boyfriends about this older guy who had taken her swimming, and taught her a thing or two outside the pool as well.

  He turned in to Jane’s road. Kids were playing with their bikes on the pavement. Suddenly, Emma looked at him.

  ‘You lied about the photos too, didn’t you? You don’t know anyone in a model agency, do you? You just said that to get what you wanted.’

  A knife twisted in his heart. What could he say to that?

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find an agency soon. Really. You have talent, looks—’

  ‘I don’t care about modelling anymore,’ she said, quietly, looking ahead through the windscreen. ‘You can keep the photos, I never want to see them.’

  He pulled up in front of Jane’s. Behind the curtains, the windows were unlit.

  ‘Goodbye, Em. I’ll miss you.’ He squeezed her hand. It was cold, lifeless.

  She pulled her hand free and stepped out of the car. The door clunked shut. The finality of the sound struck him, made his throat clench tight.

  This was it then, the moment he’d been dreading. He watched Emma open the gate and walk down the path to the house. He waited for her to turn her key in the lock and go inside, then he drove home.

  12

  Laura

  28 March 2011

  Baked beans, 99p a can. Laura put three tins in her basket and hurried on to the breakfast cereals, ignoring the stacked freezer of ready meals. She chose Sainsbury’s own brand porridge oats, the cheapest per kilogram, and made a quick calculation.

  Three tins of baked beans, a packet of oats, four bananas, four apples, a wholemeal loaf, a packet of potatoes, a carton of apple juice. It wasn’t quite ten pounds. She had just enough money for some eggs, and maybe a bottle of shampoo.

  At the supermarket checkout, she handed over three five-pound notes and took the change.

  The day was cool and drizzly. She glanced at the betting shop as she passed. A man in a cheap suit hurried out and strode off, humming under his breath. Perhaps she could bet thirty pounds on a horse or a football game, and win hundreds. Except for office raffles and wagers with her brother, she’d never bet on anything in her life. Then a woman of around sixty, with wispy dark-rooted blonde hair and a depressed expression, came out and trudged along the pavement, head down.

  Laura hurried on along North End Road, wondering how long she would be without a job. Hopefully she wouldn’t end up filling in the empty hours with visits to the betting shop. Rachel had phoned last night and had tried to be encouraging, told her it wouldn’t be much longer before she found a job, but they were only words. Rachel’s advice was to apply for a wider range of jobs, to lie about her employment experience, and to change the dates on her CV so there weren’t any gaps in her work history. Well, anything was worth a shot, though she hated having to lie. It was eight weeks since she’d last worked, and each week that went by was more dispiriting than the last.

  She slowed at a café and glanced at the daily specials board outside – shepherd’s pie for £3.99. It was the sort of dirt cheap place she’d never normally go into, where everything was fried and the air stank of stale chip fat. But it was warm and bright inside, and there was a vacant table in the corner.

  Studying the menu, she took out the last note from her purse – a fiver.

  ‘I’ll have scrambled eggs on toast, please.’

  ‘Anything to drink?’

  ‘A cup of tea, please.’

  The waitress, a girl of eighteen or so, smelling of cigarettes, departed without enthusiasm. Laura looked around at the plastic tablecloths and picture-less walls. A calendar showed a topless blonde leaning over a sports car. Two rough-looking men in casual jackets argued at a nearby table. Behind them, a white-haired man in a hair-strewn coat hunched over a crossword.

  She ate her meal quickly, feeling guilty for succumbing to temptation. The eggs were hot and fluffy but lacked flavour. As she sipped her tea, her thoughts turned to her worsening financial situation. It was on her mind constantly these days. She’d managed to pay the rent for February out of her last wage. But March’s rent, due in advance on the first of the month, was still unpaid, and soon April’s rent
would be due. She’d applied to increase her overdraft at the bank but had been refused. She had no credit card and no way of getting credit without a job.

  A rack on the wall held The Sun, a month-old copy of Hello, and two local newspapers. She picked up the less tatty newspaper and took it back to her table.

  The employment section was less than a page long. Experienced receptionist wanted for a busy doctor’s surgery. Gardener wanted for a large estate. Mini-cab drivers, lorry drivers, construction workers – nothing she had the remotest chance of getting, apart from the part-time jobs for cleaners, shop assistants or pizza delivery staff, all of which stated variations of ‘experience and references essential’.

  An advertisement in a small box at the bottom of a column caught her eye:

  Girls wanted for stylish gentlemen’s club. Previous experience not essential. Good money available.

  She pictured herself in a black dress, carrying a silver tray of Singapore Slings into a high-ceilinged, dark, wood-panelled room, delivering drinks to aristocratic types and retired company directors lounging on high-backed armchairs, smoking cigars, and talking in muted tones about the best investments, accompanied by some chap in a black jacket playing Cole Porter on a grand piano.

  But no, of course it wasn’t that sort of place. It was the other kind of gentlemen’s club, where near-naked girls strutted about to stir the lust of city chaps.

  The ‘good money’ was tempting, certainly. But she didn’t want to go down that road. She’d never worked in such a place and had never known anyone who had. Gentlemen’s clubs, as far as she knew, were sleazy places full of cocaine-snorting louts and desperate girls who would do anything for money.

  She put the newspaper back.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said, after paying the woman behind the counter, ‘you don’t need any staff do you, by any chance?’

  The woman regarded her with a gaze that was both curious and pitying, her plastic gloved hands temporarily coming to rest on the sandwich she was preparing.