I've had girlfriends, of course. I can't say I've ever been in love with any of them, but I've said the words. Done the right things to back up the words, too. But there's always been something missing. There's always something wrong with them. Usually, it's just that they're not quite beautiful enough. That probably sounds a bit awful, but you'd understand if you knew me a bit better. I may not have much to give, but I always treat women well - I deserve someone perfect. Just as importantly, they deserve someone like me - someone who will love them and stick by them. Not like James.
Bastard.
Samantha was pretty - my last girlfriend. Quite pretty, anyway. She was a bit of a whiner, though. Always moaning about one thing or another. Pretty, though. Prettyish.
We went out for a curry just before we split up. Good place. Local. Hers was too hot for her, even though I warned her it would be, but she wouldn't send it back, wouldn't order a different one. She just picked at mine from across the table. In the end I just swapped dishes. It was pretty hot, to be fair, but I stuck with it. Why couldn't she? I swear... a conversation with her, sometimes, it's like having someone read out the comments from some blog online.
I couldn't stay with someone like that. She could obviously see I was going to dump her, so she suggested it, first.
Anyway.
I got a few A-levels, left school, got a job in a bank. This was back when people didn't do an intake of breath when you said you worked in banking. The bank was alright, but I hated having to go on the tills, having to deal with customers. I'm not good at small talk, and too many of them expect that. Same reason I hate going to get my hair cut.
The bank thing only lasted a year and a half, or so, and then I moved onto something else. Can't remember what it was - it wasn't that long ago, but I've had a fair few jobs since then.
I got myself a job in a bar. This was around the time I left school. I remember, cause I was working in the bank during the week and did the bar at the weekends. Just a town centre pub, you know.
Anyway, I got talking to Julie. Well, she got talking to me, to be fair. She was out with her friends, and they were all getting rat-arsed, and she was just drinking Diet Coke because she was on antibiotics. Turns out you can drink on antibiotics, you know. Most of them, anyway. Course, I didn't know that, then. Not that it would've made any difference - a barman tells you something like that, you're going to think he just wants you to get drunk.
So, it's kicking out time, and Julie comes up to me and asks if I have to stay behind to clear up. Well, I did, but I said no, so she asked if I'd walk her home cause her friends were all going on, but it's no fun when you're the only sober one. I cleared it with the boss, and grabbed my coat.
I don't know why she wanted to walk home - she lived miles away! And her house was near a bus stop. It would've only taken 15 minutes or so on the bus. Still, we had a good chat, and I actually got to quite like her. She flirted a bit, I think, and she'd shoulder-barge me when I said anything she considered outrageous.
We got back to hers, and she kissed me on my cheek and thanked me for walking her home. I turned to go, and she called me back, asked me if I'd like to come in for a coffee.
"No funny stuff," she said. "Just coffee."
Well, I don't drink coffee - never have - but she said come in, anyway, so I did, and then she said - just came right out and said it - "Just to make it clear, I'm not having sex with you, tonight."
Well, fifteen minutes later, she did. We did, I mean. She started it, but I was happy to see what happened - she was my first, you see. You always remember your first.
Anyway, it was pretty terrible. I was pretty terrible. I'd learned everything I knew about sex from discarded magazines in the woods, and pub talk, and it became abundantly clear that my education was severely lacking. Still, I got it over with, and she was very patient, even though it was obvious she wasn't enjoying herself as much as she'd hoped to. I got better over the years, of course, but I never saw Julie again after that night. Shame. She was nice.
And that, pretty much, is the story of my ongoing success with women.
Everything changed, though, about four years ago. I had a run of bad luck and found myself out of work. There were no decent jobs around, so I applied to work as an assistant at a local funeral home - helping tidy up, and answering the phone when the receptionist was on a break, stuff like that.
I'd been there for about six weeks when she came in. Rose.
She was perfect for me. A little under five foot seven, petite, with gorgeous red hair. As I said - perfect. I couldn't help but smile at her, as I saw her laid out on the embalming table.
Something stirred, and I have to admit I felt a little odd. I didn't really understand the feelings coursing through me, and I remember feeling a little dirty. But good dirty, you know?
It wasn't my turn to lock up that night, but the reposing room needing prepping for a family visit the next day, and I volunteered to stay behind and finish it off. No-one argued.
After everyone had left for the day I waited for twenty minutes before heading downstairs, where the bodies were kept. Where she was.
I think that on some level I knew what I was going to do, before I even acknowledged it to myself. I guess that's part of what made it exciting. I can still remember every detail - as I said, you always remember your first.
I carried her to the preparation table - there was a lightbulb hanging bare from the middle of the ceiling above the embalming table - its harsh glare was unflattering on her pale skin, and I wanted her to look her best, and the prep table was lit more softly. She would have thanked me, I'm sure.
I kissed her, first. Her lips were cold, and a little dry. I could've put lipstick on her, I suppose - we have a make-up kit so people are seen at their best during viewings - but I chose not to. I'm not sure if it's because I was worried on some level that the make-up would be discovered, or whether it's because she was a natural beauty, and didn't need a mask. A bit of both, I suspect.
The kissing lasted a while. She didn't respond, of course, but it's actually quite an erotic sensation to keep kissing the lips of someone who's just lying there, over and over again. Try it, next time you get the chance.
Nature took its course, and the kissing led to the usual sensations down below, and I think I surprised myself by how soon I was ready to take things to the next level. I pulled her sheet down, slowly, and made sure to honour every part of her. Thank goodness she'd died of a disease, and not been hit by a train, or whatever - cuts and bruises would've really spoiled the mood.
There was some white petroleum jelly in the cupboard under the sink, and that's what I used for my first time. I probably slathered on a little too much, but I didn't want it to go wrong.
I'm not going to describe every detail of that night. That would be wrong. Disrespectful. Suffice to say, it was better than I could have possibly dreamed. The clean-up afterwards was a little awkward, took quite a bit of time, but it was worth it. These days I use KY and condoms, of course, which solves that particular problem.
Afterwards, I put her away, and prepped the reposing room before leaving for the night.
I had to smile the next day, when her husband and sister came in to see her, and he commented that she looked at peace - happy, almost. That was when I realised I'd done the right thing.
There have been plenty of others since Rose. On some level, I think none have quite measured up to her, but I'm aware that might be because the first is always special, and I also didn't have a condom reducing the sensations.
And five weeks ago, Samantha came to our little home. Perfect little Samantha. Five-four, short cropped hair, elfin features. She's our new receptionist, and everyone loves Sammie. Quite right, too.
Two weeks ago I asked her out for a drink. She said no, but not in a nasty way. She let me down gently. See? She's perfect for me. And she doesn't have a boyfriend - I've checked - she's probably just a little shy.
That's why I've been parking outsi
de her house the past few nights. Tonight's the night, I think. I'm ashamed to admit that I considered taking her by force, but the thought repulsed me. Got me a little excited, too, if I'm going to be truthful, but the repulsion was greater. I'm no rapist! That's a disgusting thought. No. I'll only be with someone who wants to be with me, or someone whose time has come, someone dead. It's a damn shame Samantha doesn't want to be with me - it'll have to be the latter.
How to do it - how to snuff out that beautiful, fragile light - had been a concern. I don't want to spoil her, the way she looks. Chloroform is the way to go, followed by a quick injection of air – you need a big syringe, but she’ll die of an embolism really quickly. And she won't suffer, won't suffer at all.
This is quite exciting, isn't it? It's always good to try new things. I hope it'll all go ok - after all, you always remember your first.
TORTURER’S MOON
by
COLIN HARVEY
On the first Sunday afternoon in March, Tom and Linda Goodman packed a picnic basket in the boot of their car, and took the children to the Torturing.
They joined the long line of traffic snaking slowly up Lords Hill. Above them, a contrail bisected the broad blue heavens of the winter sky. Shane piped up, “Is that the Bristol to Newark flight?” He had a typical nine-year-old’s obsession with the supersonic service.
“Doh! How far off course would they have to be?” Abi said with all the lip-curling venom a teenager could deliver, flicking back her long blonde hair. “It’s a London flight, divvy!”
Tom screened them out, watching an ominous indigo cloudbank to the west.
“Minger!” Shane yelled, face a gargoyle reflection of Tom’s.
“Scuzz-bucket!”
Only when a shadow fell across the window did the kids stop bickering. The passing Inquisitor asked, “Everything all right?” His mellifluous tones sounded all the more sinister for being so quiet.
“Fine, thanks, Father,” Tom said, looking up into fierce grey eyes, hawk-nose and a white goatee. “The children are a little excited.”
“So I hear,” the Inquisitor said with a slight smile. He marched on, his black and crimson robe flapping in the breeze like a crow with a bloodstained beak.
When the Inquisitor was out of earshot Tom said, “It’s good of The Knights Inquisitor to be so concerned.” He ignored the jolt of Linda’s elbow in his ribs. “After all these years, even though they might be stretched to the limit by society's wicked ways, they can still hold a Mass Confessional and Penitence once a month in each county.” He could almost feel Linda’s stare scorch his face.
Linda murmured, fingers twisting the hem of her jacket, “The kids should see that there are consequences.” Her voice was dangerously level. “You know as well as I do how much we need a strong moral lead in society.” She leaned closer to him, but said loudly enough for the children to hear, “can you imagine how things might be if we didn’t have them to keep the tides of dissolution at bay? Immorality, perversions of all sorts-”
“Oh, spare us, please.”
“-the old living in fear, like they did before the war against the Godless. The children should see all of that.”
“Even if it means delaying taking the caravan down to Wales for half-term?” he muttered back.
“Especially if it means delaying the holiday!” Flaring nostrils and dilated eyes hinted at inner fury. “It rams home that duty is important.”
“Oh, yes, your duty-”
“Why's it called a Torturer's Moon, Dad?” Shane piped up.
Tom and Linda each took an audible breath to calm down.
“It's this time of the month when you can see the moon by day.” Tom tooted his horn, and the car in front moved forward. “Judge Jeffreys used it to strike fear into the hearts of wrongdoers at the Bloody Assizes. He said that God had decreed that the moon would be seen by day as a sign of judgement when the last days were coming.”
He concentrated on not rear-ending the Triumph sports car ahead as they meandered up to the Field of Judgement, which tomorrow would return to grazing cattle.
A steward waved them into position, and as they pulled the hamper from the boot, the kids ooh-ed and aah-ed at the hundreds of pieces of kit on display. Over each marquee the twin banners of the Union flag and the cross of Royal Order of the Knights Inquisitor of St. George snapped in the breeze.
Tom looked around, half-hoping half-dreading that he would see someone he knew. No-one, he thought. Sighing with mingled relief and disappointment, he held up his knife and one of his knee-pads, the rusty spikes of the pad dull in the sunlight. “With a little imagination, I could have passed as a torturer when we first met,” he said to Linda with a wicked grin, though the spikes were designed for nothing more sinister than gaining purchase on a thatched roof. He shrugged at Abi’s look of disdain. “Maybe not.” Dropping the knife and pad, he slammed the boot shut.
Tom followed his wife and daughter’s gazes, and smiled at the ceremonial torturer at the main gate. The man was a black-clad wall of flesh and leather standing nearly seven feet tall, arms folded across his chest, muscles highlighted by a sheen that Tom suspected came from oil. A broadsword hung from his waist almost down to the ground.
“He looks like the guy on the cover of The Sword of the Torturer,” Shane whispered. He’d read it perhaps a dozen times.
“They never had anyone like that on the gate when we were your age,” Linda said. Her tone was disapproving, but her eyes shone.
“Did you have anything that wasn’t prehistoric when you were our age?” Abi muttered. “No doubt the Witchfinder-General, ankle-length skirts and iron maidens?”
“We met at a show like this,” Linda smiled, as if she hadn’t heard her daughter’s sarcasm, and Abi rolled her eyes. “They’ve made it more like a funfair now.”
She’s right, Tom thought. The clenched fist to scare the weak, hot-dog stands and test-your-saintliness-quotient for the children’s hearts and minds. No one ever said the Order were stupid.
To one side of the show was an Army recruiting tent. Two squaddies chatted up a couple of lanky young girls in Goth outfits, one of whom leaned up against a tent-pole. She turned and surveyed Tom with kohl-lined eyes then losing interest, looked away. On the other side a funfair blared Kylie, and staring back, Tom hummed, “I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky…”
“She’ll be lucky not to be accused of Satanism,” Linda said, and glared at Tom. "Wipe the dribble off your chin."
"Meow," he replied.
The family wandered through the crowds. The wind was bitter, and huge columnar heaters filled the spaces between tents, the hot air above their gaping muzzles dancing like a mirage in the desert.
Open-sided caravans sold toffee apples, cups of tea, t-shirts, even Babushka dolls. Linda clucked. "I don't like these. What are they doing selling Godless artefacts?"
"They're pre-Revolutionary, these dolls," Tom said. "They weren't Godless then."
"They have Inquisition ones, Mum," Abi said. "How twee is that?"
Tom decided not to say that he liked them; liked the idea of layers within layers. Very symbolic, he thought.
At the History of the Order stands, old-style iron racks echoed to the screams of volunteers. Nearby, cats-tails hung in a neat line next to an iron maiden. They passed a modern stainless-steel rack with a fat old man on it, another --younger-- man standing at one end.
The second man paced up and down, running his hands through his hair. He opened then closed his mouth, and held his hands out, imploring the torturer. At the inquisitor's blank-eyed look the other man snatched them back, and turned away shaking his head in obvious distress.
Naked, the folds of the older man’s flesh hung down. He screamed for mercy, and Linda tutted. The sweet, savage sound of his bones and joints cracking echoed across the stillness, followed by the man’s choked-off scream.
Moments later, the younger man shouted for help.
“Oh!” Linda wrinkled her nose.
“Someone's lost control of themselves. How,” she searched for a word that wasn't too judgemental, “…unfortunate.”
“Jilly Robert’s dad says,” Abi said, “That those who can't take the pain shouldn't seek to gain.”
“Good for Jilly Robert's dad,” Tom said.
A medic came running.
The Inquisitor called to him, “The suspect dislocated his shoulder. I think it brought on a heart attack!” The Inquisitor was young, maybe performing his first unsupervised interrogation, or he'd have kept it quiet. Instead a crowd gathered as word spread faster than an electric current.
The medic fumbled the shackles loose, then pounded on the old man's chest. “Take over!” He told the Inquisitor, and pulling a hypodermic and small bottle from his bag, filled the hypo. He injected the patient, waited thirty seconds and checked the man's pulse.
He looked up at the young torturer, and shook his head.
The torturer slumped, face twisted in anguish.
The second man had stood by, chewing on a knuckle. When the medic shook his head, he turned to the crowd, arms outstretched. “Oh, torture is so good for the soul, isn’t it?” His voice was ragged, gravelly with emotion. “Tell that to him!”
The crowd started to edge away. “No one wants to risk being linked to sedition,” Tom muttered, leading Abi away. His guts roiled again in sympathy and he bit off a whimper, fighting a rising tide of bile.
The young man wailed, “What’s the matter with you all?” He shook off the young torturer’s hand, and dodged a constable who had wandered over. “Are you all sheep?”
The crowd answered silently by scattering in all directions.
The Inquisitor with the goatee who had spoken to them at the gate passed on his way to the disturbance. He leaned close to Tom as he passed and murmured, “We don't torture people for hypocrisy. I think we should. It's the worst crime of all…” leaving Tom to stare at him in alarm.
The goatee'd Inquisitor had the young man led away, still struggling and shouting until he was out of sight, when his shouts ceased abruptly.
Vivisepulture Page 8
