by Guy N Smith
Again, he saw just her silhouette, she made sure that the beam did not reveal her features. Probably one of those college students out to earn a few extra quid to make ends meet, spent all her grant and getting hungry, he surmised. Her reasons, her plight, did not interest him. She was going to earn her bloody twenty quid, all right.
The seat creaked under their combined weight. She still held the torch, was focusing it on his lower regions. He looked down, saw how his zip was taking the strain. The fingers of her free hand began stroking him through the material. He grabbed for the pull, ran the zip. He wasn’t going to pay twenty quid for just a trouser feel.
She bent forward, stared intently at his exposed member, held it between her forefinger and thumb. It reminded him of the way Doctor Booth had examined it the last time Ricky had got a dose. This tart was almost clinical.
“Big enough for you, darlin?”
She did not reply. She ran the loose, pliable skin back, the slid it up again. Pulled it, stretched it to its full extremity. That was when the torch was suddenly extinguished, plunged the derelict room into stygian darkness.
“Oi!” Surprise, a sudden tensing.
“Well, I’m not going to hold the torch whilst we fuck!” She spoke sharply. He felt the hand holding the light move, heard something clink. It was probably the torch being put down. And she was still pulling on his foreskin, pinching it.
“Hey, what’s going on?” He sensed that something was wrong, groped for her hand. But he was too late.
He heard her intake of breath like a sharp hiss. Her finger and thumb tightened their grip, pulled for even greater length on his stretched skin. And in that same moment he experienced unbelievable pain, screamed and jerked upright but her knee pushed him back, pinned him to the old settee.
Even as he writhed in sheer agony, Ricky Reed knew exactly what had happened to him. He screamed a second time, clutched at his injury. He felt the warm stickiness of welling blood, the burning pain that arrowed right up into his stomach.
One flash of the torch, on and off again, as though this mutilator of the sleaze streets was checking on her handiwork. It dazzled him, showed him that his worst fears were confirmed, the extent of his injury. He came up out of his seat, doubled up, holding himself, trying to stem the flow of blood.
Somewhere, far away, he heard that door scrape open again, and it was dragged shut. Whoever she was, she was gone back whence she came.
Ricky panicked, staggered blindly around the room, lost his sense of direction, held himself with one hand, groped his way along the wall with the other. Once he almost fainted, only desperation and the knowledge that if he passed out he would lie here and bleed to death, enabled him to fight it off.
He found the door, somehow got it open and fell outside into the cool night air. There was a roaring in his ears, he thought he could hear her laughter on the soft spring breeze.
He screamed again, yelled after her, “You fucking bitch, you’ve circumcised me!”
8.
The night air was invigorating, spiralled Kate up to an unbelievable high as she flitted through the dimly lit side streets. A hunting she-beast that had stalked its prey and killed. The sensation was akin to that one and only time when she had smoked pot. Euphoria that knew no limits, a feeling that was also physical: her body tingled, shuddered. Twice she had to pause in unlit doorways, leaned up against the wall in near orgasmic helplessness.
She laughed and cried, had difficulty in co-ordinating her mind and body. Her hand strayed to the pocket of her jeans, savoured the hard coldness of that knife handle, its blade retracted, still slippery with human blood.
Against it nestled a small polythene bag. She squeezed it, thrilled to the sponginess of its contents, rolled it between the same finger and thumb that had stretched it when it was still Ricky Reed’s.
She did not know who that wretch of a man was, didn’t care. All she knew was that he was not the one she sought, her torchlight examination had shown her that. It didn’t matter. For now. She wasn’t disappointed because she had not expected to find him at the first attempt. This one was only the start.
Her train of thought led back to her father. And Paul. A moment of unease, she checked her watch. 8.45. Paul was staying with Matthew, she just hoped that he had not changed his mind and returned to the flat, brought her flowers in a show of penance or anything fucking stupid like that. She tried not to hate him because he bore that physical genital likeness to the man she was looking for. That wasn’t Paul’s fault, it was his parents’. Because the Eighth Day held no meaning for them. If it had done so then things might have been different. For Paul, anyway.
She kept to the shadows, a flitting fugitive. Two cars passed, she knew that they both contained police. If they caught her, they would arrest her, probably charge her with soliciting. And later with mutilation. Then murder.
That wimp would die. Or perhaps he would make it as far as the street and the police would find him in time, rush him to casualty.
She didn’t care either way. He had to pay the penalty for being as he was.
She made it safely back to the flat. Relief at first because her lover had not returned. Then excitement, the thrill of a child who has just returned from a shopping expedition with a parent, the eagerness to unwrap a present that had been bought to distract it from boredom. Take your coat off first, dear. No, I can’t wait.
She rushed to the stainless steel draining board, pulled the bag from her pocket. The polythene was streaked with blood, the lump of flesh looked pathetically insignificant.
With trembling fingers she tipped it out, pulled it, shaped it into the circle which it had once been. It reminded her of one of those dried apple rings which she sometimes bought from the health food shop in the arcade. Pliant, you stretched it, watched it slowly retract.
For one fleeting second she experienced a hunger, an impetuous appetite for cannibalism. Then it passed. No, that would be sacrilege, just the same as if a Red Indian from the romanticised Wild West had devoured the scalp of one of his victims.
She had difficulty in opening up her hidden cupboard in the bathroom, her shaking fingers fumbled with the makeshift door; it jammed in the groove, she had to force it free.
She carried one of the small jars through to the kitchen, unscrewed the lid. Then, painstakingly, almost reverently, she began to cleanse the ring of severed human flesh under running water, used her fingers to sponge away the blood. Now it was clean, pink and fresh, she laid it on the ridged surface, gazed at it in wonderment.
Her hatred was gone; it had stayed with her victim, dead or alive. Until the next one. The foreskin seemed to mesmerise her, hypnotised her. Like a snake in the reptile house at the zoo, one that had died and lay motionless on the floor of its glass cage. You shuddered just looking at it, mocked it because it could no longer harm you.
But you were afraid of the species because there were others still alive.
Her father.
The unknown rapist.
This time she tried not to think of Paul.
She picked it up again, now its feel was repulsive. There was a faint splash as she dropped it into the jar of colourless liquid, watched it sink to the bottom. It settled for a second then began to float upwards. Opening out, extending. Bobbing on the surface.
Kate was reminded of a childhood toy which her father had once bought for her. A miniature deep sea diver in a wide bottle. You screwed the cap tightly and the figure sank right down to the bottom; you released the screw and it shot back up, bobbed on the surface. She had had hours of fun with it, it had fascinated her. Like now.
Quickly, almost feverishly, she fitted the lid back on, screwed it as tight as she could.
That piece of flesh just floated.
She found a ballpoint, wrote on the label in a shaky hand. April 11. The date was sufficient, the spring evening on which her revenge mission had begun.
She took her trophy through to the bathroom and placed in alongside the
other jars on the cupboard shelf. They stared down at her like a row of empty eyes. Pleading. Lusting.
Waiting.
She would need some more jars in due course, there were not enough.
* * * *
Sometime during the night hours Kate Leonard awoke, tossed restlessly. Something disturbed her; not remorse, not guilt, they were furthest from her mind. Fear, but in a different way.
Fear that she might not find the man she was seeking. It was a big city, there were hundreds of prostitutes, all with regular clients, and not all of them used the streets. Lately, due to police harassment, many had taken to working from home, advertising their wares.
The rapist might visit one of them, stay clear of the streets. He might have just one regular whore. Or maybe none at all, obtaining his satisfaction from forcing his lust upon a helpless woman.
That was the worrying factor, Kate started to tremble. After a while she switched on the light, felt for the tablets which in her excitement she had forgotten to take.
She read the computerised print on the label. Amitriptyline. 50mg.
She wondered how they worked on her system, what they really did to her. She didn’t want to take anything that might spoil her current euphoria. They probably wouldn’t. She found herself thinking of Paul Roden and what he had to offer. She was glad that he had not returned tonight because the temptation would have been irresistible.
Sometime later she slipped into a dreamless sleep.
9.
Against all odds, Ricky Reed had survived where others might have bled to death. The initial stock, the nausea and dizziness that nearly blacked him out, gave him a desperation that probably saved him.
He had to get help, but where? He wasn’t risking Doctor Booth and there was no way of knowing which of the medics was on night duty. The other alternative was the casualty department at the general hospital. That was in the next district and no taxis ventured into the red light area these days; there had been a couple of stabbings and cabbies refused to venture beyond Baker Street bus station. Even if they didn’t get mugged there was every chance that their fares would dash off without paying.
Buses ran spasmodically after eight; you might have to wait up to an hour for a district bus. And, even if you were lucky, you couldn’t risk travelling by public transport with a bleeding circumcision.
One-man operated vehicles, the driver took your money and punched your ticket. What’s up with you, mate? You ain’t comin’ on ‘ere, drippin’ blood all over my bus. Drunk, eh! I’m going to call the cops; they’ll sort you out.
The telephone was another possibility, there was a kiosk in the next street, he could make it to there. It had probably been vandalised. The hospital would send an ambulance; probably a police car would accompany it in case the call was a hoax.
The police were Ricky’s greatest fear right now. There would be questions asked, even if he blamed his injury on an unknown attacker, which was true, it would make the papers. There would be a full enquiry. How did it happen, Sir? Give us the exact details, please.
God, there was no way he could work out a watertight story in his condition. What were you doing there, sir? Looking for prostitutes.
The pain was doubling him up, he crouched in the porch of a boarded-up house, another one that was scheduled for the bulldozer. His fingers clamped over his wound; the blood was seeping now, rather than pouring, and by pressing firmly he was successfully staunching the flow.
How the fuck did he explain this away to anybody?
Carelessness, Officer, caught it in my trouser zip. It wouldn’t have cut it right off, though, just a minor injury requiring a couple of stitches, nothing more.
He could not think of anything that sounded really plausible, a story that would let him off the hook. Some kind of masochistic game that had gone wrong. You looked a bloody fool but it wasn’t an offence. It would surely make the papers, though, both the Herald and the Observer. The agony subsided to a dull ache temporarily. Ricky straightened up, he couldn’t stop here all night. He could not see properly in the darkness but he got the feeling that the bleeding had almost stopped.
He was about to step out on to the pavement when approaching headlights had him pressing himself back into the shadows. A car passed by slowly. There’s your cops, if you want ‘em, you’ve only got to show yourself and you’ll be at the hospital in five minutes.
He stood watching the tail lights disappear.
If by some means he made it to the hospital they would surely call the police. So that ruled out medical treatment. Where else could he go.
Home.
A loner all his life, he’d die one. If it came to that. Did people die from circumcision? After all, it was only a minor op. In hospital.
A memory flash, a film he’d watched on TV last Christmas, in between reading one of his mags. The telly was company, you had it on even if you weren’t actually looking at it, like having somebody call round for a chat. Just company. You didn’t always listen to what they were saying, just nodded in the appropriate places. The movie in question was some kind of biblical saga, one of those extravaganzas that cost millions to make; three guys had been captured by a rival religious army, escaped being put to the sword by the skin of their teeth. A black bearded general showed a touch of humanity. Don’t kill them, circumcise them and cast them into the desert. If the unfortunates had died, which had killed them, the heat or their circumcisions.
Ricky wished now that he’d watched the film properly, witnessed the fate of those unfortunates. Did they live or die? Would he live or die? This wasn’t the desert, it was downtown on a cool spring night. And there was only one threat to his life.
Thankfully, there was nobody around, even the whores had gone to ground, it seemed. He staggered along, stumbled, still exerting the pressure on his wound that staunched the flow of blood. Would it stop altogether or would it bleed again when he relinquished his hold?
That girl was crazy. She had not even taken his money so why had she done this to him? A psycho? She’d have killed him if she was. Big and beautiful, in his mind he could still see her, shied from the mental image of that creature of darkness which had preyed on his living flesh. A sadist, there could not be any other explanation, the kind that advertised their trade in the telephone kiosks and on the stanchions by the railway entrance, ‘Miss Whiplash’ and all that kind of bullshit. Bondage, you paid a fortune to be tied up and then … But Ricky hadn’t paid anything at all, she’d done it for free.
He made it home, let himself in one-handed and kicked the door shut behind him. Scared to switch on the light because he would see the full extent of his injury. Scared of the dark, too. He flicked the switch with his free hand.
He’d bled a lot, he had already guessed that. Bloodstained trousers, his hands were covered but the blood had dried. A surge of hope, the bleeding had stopped, but he still kept the pressure on, afraid to loosen his grip.
Suddenly, he needed to pass water. Urgently. The urge predominated his pain, had him rushing for the toilet.
Relief, staring fixedly at the divided stream of urine, still afraid to relax his grip on the wound, gasping aloud at the way the ammonia stung. When his discomfort was eased, the throbbing pain came back. Dizziness came and went again, his vision was distorted.
He needed to lie down, the bed was the obvious place. He thought the bleeding had stopped but could not be sure. Let go, and see. He was afraid. Just a fraction, then, he could tighten it quickly again, if necessary.
Standing at the wash basin, he sponged himself with cold water, used a grubby towel to dry himself; it came away streaked, mostly dried bloodstains which he had wiped off.
Staring, watching fearfully; there was just a seepage, he had halted the worst. The cut was neat, the blade had been razor-sharp. He wondered how much longer the pain would last, how much more he could stand.
Above him was a small cupboard screwed precariously to the wall, hanging at an angle. He reached up, knock
ed over an aerosol shaving cream that bounced on the floor, clattered and rolled. A small bottle of paracetamol was revealed behind where it had stood; he did not bother with water, popped two, forced himself to swallow them. Another half dozen would have solved his problems, destroyed the pain. Forever. He resisted the temptation because he was afraid to die.
Something else caught his eye. A septic stick, one he kept for those occasions when he nicked himself shaving. An idea, anything that might spare him pain and blood was worth a try.
It stung but it was soothing by comparison with the incessant throbbing. A kind of cauterisation, it gave him new hope.
The bleeding stopped altogether. He went through to the bedroom and lay on the bed, fully clothed. Even the pain had eased a little, that was the paracetamols beginning to take effect.
Exhausted, physically and mentally, he knew there was no way he was going to be able to sleep. He was hot and sweaty; he had a temperature. But I’m not going to call the doctor. Nor the police. Not even if it means dying.
Ricky Reed wasn’t sure whether he slept or not. Fevered dreams that might have been waking nightmares blended into one another. Always the big girl was there, standing in the shadows, just a silhouette. He couldn’t see her features but he knew that she was beautiful. It would have been ten times worse if she wasn’t.
Somehow she had tracked him to his flat. She must have followed him all the way up here from Barker Street, maybe waiting for him to drop. That way she could have him again.
That was just for starters, Ricky. Now I want the lot.
No!
Just a joke to scare you, Ricky. But I forgot my money. Give it to me, please.
He fumbled in the pockets of his jeans. They clung damply to his legs. Some loose change showered out, he scattered some notes on the bedspread, he had cashed his dole cheque only that morning. Here, take the lot!
