Laura

by Amy Cross

  “Sounds like a productive use of your time,” she says, crouching down to examine the section nearest the floor. “You're obviously a man who's got his priorities straight.”

  “Damn right I am,” I reply, unable to stop staring at her cute little ass in that dress. God, the things I could do to that ass if I could just get her out of the dress. The zipper on the front has been tempting me all night. “Do you want another drink?” I ask finally.

  She turns to me, and I swear she suddenly doesn't look drunk at all. In fact, she looks stone-cold sober.

  “Do I seem dry to you?” she asks.

  “Dry?”

  “Or wet.”

  I can't help smiling, and perhaps blushing slightly.

  As she gets to her feet, the creases in her dress creak slightly. She hesitates, before stepping toward me, and again there's a faint creaking sound coming from her legs. Now that we're in my apartment, she seems so much calmer than before, and she's not stumbling at all. If I didn't know better, I'd start to think that she sobered up in an instant. Finally she stops right in front of me, and I swear she looks like she's lost in thought for a moment. The tag on her zipper, meanwhile, is glinting in the low light, almost begging me to slide it down.

  “Do you still not recognize me?” she asks.

  “I don't know. Should I?”

  “Probably. It might have been wise for you to have recognized me earlier in the evening, before you brought me back here.”

  “Is that right?” I ask with a nervous smile. “And why's that?”

  “You haven't changed, have you?” she replies, looking me up and down for a moment. “That's the most amazing thing. Ten years, and you haven't changed one bit. I'd have thought with all the booze and cigarettes you're constantly knocking back, that you'd have aged more than any of them. But basically, you look exactly the same. You must have phenomenal genes.”

  “I, um...” Pausing, I realize that I'm not entirely sure what she means. “So we haven't met, right?” I ask. “Before last night, I mean. We've never met before.”

  I wait for an answer.

  “Have we?”

  She steps closer, and at the same time she reaches up and touches the zipper at the top of her dress. For a moment, I think she might actually be able to pull it down to let me see some more skin, but then she seems to change her mind. One thing's pretty certain, though, even to me. She knows exactly what she's doing.

  “Where's your bedroom?” she whispers.

  “My bedroom?”

  “It's not a trick question, Nick. Come on, don't be dense. You know what you want, don't you? You're a man. You've got all the right equipment, in full working order.”

  Swallowing hard, I step out into the hallway and gesture toward my bedroom door. She comes after me, smiling that strange, knowing smile of hers, and then she pushes the door open and takes a look inside. After a moment, she steps through into the darkness, and a few seconds later she switches on the lamp next to my bed.

  “It's a bit of a man-cave too, I'm afraid,” I tell her as I follow. “I tend to be -”

  “Shut the door,” she says, turning to me.

  I hesitate for a moment, before turning and pushing the door shut. I've got this tingling sensation in my chest, and I keep telling myself that I can't possibly be this lucky. At the same time, when I turn back to L, I find that she's staring at me with a very calm, very focused expression. She's also biting her bottom lip.

  I'm in.

  This is really happening.

  “You just look so much the goddamn same as before,” she continues finally. “It's insane.”

  “And what exactly does that mean?” I ask, stepping toward her. Maybe I should make a move, although I'm worried about getting it wrong. I tend to be quite clumsy sometimes, especially when I'm excited.

  “I don't know what it means, Nick,” she says, lowering her voice almost to a whisper. “Not exactly. I suppose maybe it means that I was right to start with you. Well, not exactly start, but that's a long story. Certain people have been in denial for quite a while.”

  I can't help smiling. L's being pretty mysterious, and I'm not sure I entirely like that. At the same time, I can't afford to be picky, and she's hot enough for me to go along with pretty much anything she wants. I just want to get some action, and I don't care if she's a little drunk.

  “Well,” I say with a grin, “maybe we could -”

  Suddenly she grabs me by the collar and pulls me toward the bed. Before I can say anything, she turns me around and pushes me down against the duvet, and then she stands watching me for a moment. Her face seems completely blank and expressionless, and I think some of the thick black mascara around her eyes is starting to run a little.

  “Right,” I say a little breathlessly, not daring to get up, waiting instead for her to come and join me on the bed. “You seem to know what you want. I like that in a girl.”

  She tilts her head slightly. “You do?”

  “It's good to be decisive,” I continue, figuring that I should just go with the flow, even if she's a little rough with me. “You see what you want and you go get it. That's admirable. It's very modern.”

  “I suppose so.”

  I wait, but she seems lost in thought for a moment. To be honest, more than anything, I want her to take hold of that zipper on the front of her dress, and I want her to slowly pull it down, and I want her to be not wearing any underwear. The zipper is even glinting slightly in the low light, as if it's taunting me. One thing's certain: L is in complete control right now.

  Finally, I haul myself back a little further on the bed, while still keeping my eyes fixed on her.

  “I've got protection,” I tell her, wondering if perhaps that's why she's hesitating. “In the drawer next to my bed. Lots of different types. Ribbed, not ribbed, flavored... I don't really know what's best.”

  “Building a little stash, huh?” she replies.

  “I guess.”

  “Saving them for a rainy day?”

  “You could say that.”

  Again I wait, but again she seems to be simply staring at me.

  “What is it?” I ask, checking my chin in case I've spilled something. “Are you okay?”

  “I'm just looking at you,” she replies calmly.

  “Is that right?”

  She nods.

  “And why's that?” I ask with a smile.

  “I just can't believe that I'm finally here with you,” she explains. “I've waited so long.”

  I don't know what she means, but I grin anyway. She seems a little intense, although intense is fine with me.

  Suddenly she climbs onto the bed, and she crawls on all fours until she's right on top of me, staring down at my face. She seems kind of weird, but I can handle weird. I can even handle kinky. I'll go along with pretty much anything, so long as I get some action. I've never been fussy.

  “Right, then,” I say, feeling a tightening sense of anticipation in my chest. Her zipper is dangling now, just begging to be pulled open. “Here we are, I guess.”

  “Yes, Nick,” she replies. “Here we are.”

  She tilts her again, while keeping her eyes fixed on mine.

  “You always wanted this, didn't you?” she asks.

  “You mean this evening? I guess so. I mean, you're very beautiful. To be honest, I couldn't help wondering why...”

  My voice trails off. Maybe this isn't the moment to be self-deprecating. I've read that girls don't like that.

  “Um,” I continue, “so...”

  “Damn,” she says with a sigh, “I left all my make-up on. Do you have any tissues?”

  “By the bed.”

  “The obvious place. Could you be a doll?”

  “What exactly do you -”

  “Grab a couple.”

  I hesitate, before reaching back and pulling some tissue paper from the box on my bedside table.

  “They're dry,” I tell her. “Maybe -”

  “They'll be fine,�
�� she whispers. “Just get a little of it off for me, would you?”

  I hesitate again, before figuring that I should do whatever she wants. Reaching up, I dab a piece of tissue paper against her cheek and rub, and sure enough some of the thick, reddish make-up starts coming away.

  “You've sure got a lot of that on,” I say with a nervous smile, as I wipe some more away. “It's almost like a mask.”

  When she doesn't reply, I simply continue to clean more and more make-up from her face. It's as if she wants me to see the real her before we get on with things, and I guess I can understand that. I'd like to think of something witty to say, something to make her laugh, but nothing comes to mind so I simply continue to dab at her make-up, wiping more and more from her cheek until, suddenly, I see that the flesh below seems kind of discolored, almost like a kind of gray-green-yellow kind of shade.

  “Um,” I say, trying not to sound as if I'm bothered, “I think this might be mixing in some weird way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It's starting to look...”

  My voice trails off as I wipe away more of the make-up. There's definitely a dark, discolored patch of skin on her left cheek, just below the eye, and it seems to be quite large. After a few more dabs, I move the tissue paper away, while trying to work out what – exactly – I'm seeing.

  “Is something wrong?” she asks.

  “No, I just -”

  Before I can finish, a cold drip falls from her red-lipsticked lips and lands on my chin. Actually, it's more than cold. It's icy.

  “I'm fine,” I continue, hoping to laugh the whole situation off. Figuring I should just be tactful, I start wiping some of the black mascara from around her left eye instead.

  At first, this goes much better, but after a moment I realize that the area beneath the mascara is dark gray, and that there seem to be small holes in the flesh around her lower eyelid.

  Again, I pull the piece of tissue paper away.

  “What is it?” she asks calmly. “What do you see?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You look troubled.”

  I shake my head, although I can't stop staring at the strange patch. It's almost as if something small has burrowed through her eyelid, leaving several holes behind in the grayish flesh. She must be wearing some kind of weird new make-up that doesn't look quite how she intended.

  “Are you starting to recognize me now?” she asks. “Is that it?”

  “Recognize you?”

  “Come on, Nick, you're a lot of things but you're certainly not an idiot.”

  “I don't know what you -”

  Stopping suddenly, I realize that once again she reminds me quite strongly of Laura. Not that she can be Laura, of course, because Laura is long gone, but at the same time the resemblance is becoming more striking with each passing second. I want to laugh and dismiss the whole thing, even though there's a sense of doubt crawling through my chest. Just as I'm about to make some kind of funny comment, I see that her hairline looks a little unusual, as if it's lifting slightly from the top of her forehead.

  How did I not notice that before?

  “It's okay,” she says, with a very faint smile as another cold drip falls from her red lips. “Take it off.”

  “Take what off?” I ask.

  “Don't be shy.”

  I hesitate, before reaching up and taking hold of her black hair. Now that I'm touching it properly, it's so obvious that she's been wearing a wig this whole time.

  “Take it off, Nick,” she continues. “What are you scared of?”

  “Nothing,” I reply. “I'm not scared of anything, I just...”

  I pause, and then I realize that I have no choice. Obviously this L girl likes to play games, so I take a firmer hold of the wig and pull it away. As soon as I do so, her real murky blonde hair comes into view, dropping in thick, matted strands that quickly frame her face.

  It's her.

  It's Laura.

  Now that the wig is gone, I see the truth so clearly.

  There's a strong salty smell, too, and I can't help noticing that while her wig was immaculate and neat, her real hair is disgustingly dirty, with knotted wet strands stuck together.

  “That's better,” she says calmly. “It's not right for there to be secrets between friends, is it?”

  “What are you...”

  My voice trails off as I stare up in horror at her smiling eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” I stammer finally. “You were... We thought... Elliot said... I thought you were gone forever.”

  “Ten years,” she replies. “It certainly felt like forever, when I was down there in the dark. You have no idea how cold and lonely I was.”

  She grins, and a couple more icy drips fall from her mouth, splattering against my face.

  “I think maybe we should get up from bed,” I tell her, trying not to panic. “Why don't we go into the front room and talk? I'm sure you've got a lot you want to talk about, right?”

  “Talk? I don't want to talk. Besides, we're so comfortable right here.”

  Reaching down, she takes my right hand and moves it onto her waist.

  “Aren't you comfortable?” she asks. “I sure am.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but suddenly I realize that I can feel something wriggling beneath the fabric of her dress. I keep my hand resting on her waist, even though I'm starting to think that something is really wrong here.

  “You've been looking at me all evening,” she continues, taking hold of the zipper at the front of her dress. “Don't even try to deny it, Nick. I know exactly what you've been wanting me to do with this, ever since you first walked into that bar. You're very easy to read, even for a guy.”

  “I'm actually okay with not doing anything,” I stammer, as something sharp pokes against my hand from beneath her dress. I suddenly feel very, very sober. “We should -”

  “I think it's time for you to see,” she purrs, and I can't help watching as she starts slowly pulling the zipper down, opening the front of her dress. “This is what you like, isn't it?”

  I try to tell her that there's no need, but the words catch in my dry throat. Several drops of ice-cold water fall against my face, but all I can do is watch as the zipper moves further and further down, revealing the first hint of her breasts.

  “Oh God,” I whisper, “I think -”

  Suddenly I spot something wriggling in her cleavage, and a moment later several thick, pale little worms tumble out and land on my chest.

  “What the hell are those?” I gasp, as a rotten, salty stench starts to fill the room.

  “This is what I've got for you,” Laura replies, pulling the zipper down further.

  Flinching, I see more and more maggots and worms falling away from the putrid flesh of her chest and belly. Some of the skin has been eaten away entirely, and I can see little creatures wriggling and squirming on the inside of her rib-cage. Grayish water is dribbling out too, as she pulls the zipper all the way down to her crotch and reveals a festering nest of worms and maggots all jostling against one another while slimy liquid dribbles out and oozes onto the front of my pants.

  “What's wrong?” Laura asks, just as I look back up at her smiling face. “Do I smell a little fishy?”

  Before I can answer, she leans down and forces her mouth against mine, kissing me so firmly that I can't pull away. I try to struggle, but I can feel small, wriggling creatures slopping out from her mouth and into mine, and I'm powerless to stop them as they fall down to the back of my throat. At the same time, more and more icy water is rushing into my mouth, and I can't manage to push Laura away. I press my hands against her rotten chest, but she's far too strong and now there's a sharp pain in my chest as more and more cold water rushes into my lungs. I try to breathe, but water is running into my nose too, and I feel as if my lungs are about to explode.

  This can't be happening. Elliot said she was dead!

  Part Seven

  LYNN

  Chapte
r Thirty-Seven

  Today

  “Nick was supposed to die of lung cancer,” I mutter, watching as the coffin is slowly lowered into the ground, “or liver failure, or some kind of horrific drunken accident. Not...”

  My voice trails off as a blast of cold air rushes across the cemetery, rustling the leafless trees behind us.

  “Not drowning in his bedroom?” Jonathan replies, with a hint of skepticism. “Drowning in seawater, with various worms and grubs already setting up home in his -”

  “I get it,” I reply, feeling a shudder pass through my body. “I mean, I don't get it, not really. I don't understand any of this.”

  Hearing the sound of someone gently sobbing nearby, I turn and see that Sophie is wiping her eyes. She looks utterly distraught and alone. Elliot is watching her from a little further away, but for some reason he hasn't gone over to offer her any comfort. I don't know what's going on between those two these days, but they don't seem to have spoken since they arrived – separately – at the funeral. For the first time ever, it's as if they're no longer friends.

  “Where's Her Ladyship?” I ask, turning back to Jonathan.

  “Victoria?” He sighs. “She didn't feel up to leaving the apartment today. She's very upset, of course. She insisted on sending a large bouquet of flowers.”

  “No kidding,” I mutter, looking at the flowers and seeing the huge, almost ludicrously over-sized set of red and white carnations that Victoria and Jonathan provided. “So did the police not have anything else to say?” I continue. “It's been a week since Nick was found, they should have had time to figure out what happened.”

  “My understanding is that they've recovered some CCTV footage from the night he died,” Jonathan replies, as some of the other mourners start heading away from the graveside. “Apparently Nick was in a bar for several hours.”

  “Sad, but no surprise.”

  “And he was chatting away to a girl.”