‘Well this is certainly special,’ she said.
George popped the cork and poured champagne into two flute glasses. He gave her one and then raised his glass in salute. ‘To the start of…’ He grinned. ‘..of something,’ he finished.
‘Of something wonderful,’ she said. They clinked glasses and drank.
George smacked his lips appreciatively. ‘That hits the spot,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we go upstairs, it’s more comfortable.’
He took her up a flight of polished pine stairs that led to a sitting room that ran the full length of the house with windows either end. There were two white sofas either side of a TV screen that showed an image of a flickering log fire. There were more modern oil paintings on the wall, and again they were nothing but splashes of colour. ‘You like paintings?’ she asked.
‘I have a man who buys them for me,’ he said. ‘They’re all investments, really.’ He sat down on the sofa but Dee-anne stayed where she was. ‘Do you like?’
‘The paintings or the house?’
‘Either. Both.’
‘The house I love. The paintings, not so much.’ She shrugged. ‘Me, I like a horse to look like a horse and a bowl of flowers to look like a bowl of flowers.’ She sipped her champagne. ‘So what happened to the wife? Did you kill her?’
George looked startled, then smiled as he realised she was joking. ‘What? No. Of course not. She divorced me.’
‘No kids?’
‘She wasn’t one for sex, much. To be honest, Dee-anne, I think she only married me for the money.’
‘And did she get it?’
Gorge laughed. ‘She’s still trying. But I’ve got some very good lawyers on my team.’ He patted the sofa, encouraging her to sit down next to him, but she stayed where she was. She sipped her champagne and looked at him over the top of her glass. ‘How old are you?’ asked George.
‘Old enough,’ she laughed.
‘Are you sure? Your profile said you were twenty-one but you look younger.’
‘And you said you were forty-five but you look older. What are you, George, fifty? Fifty-five.’
‘I’m forty-five,’ said George, but she could see the lie in his eyes.
She smiled and undid the top two buttons of her shirt, giving him a glimpse of cleavage. She didn’t want him getting cold feet, not now. ‘You look good, and that’s all that matters,’ she said.
He put down his champagne flute and stood up. She walked over to him and tilted her neck back. She could still smell his cologne, but it barely masked his body odour. He swallowed and smiled, then he gasped as she rubbed the front of his pants. She felt him grow hard and she released her grip. ‘Where’s the bedroom?’ she asked.
He swallowed again, then pointed at a doorway. ‘Upstairs.’
‘Shall we?’
‘Do you want to finish your drink first?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I want to see the bedroom first.’
She put her glass on the coffee table next to his, then took him by the hand and led him to another set of polished pine stairs to the master bedroom. There was a queen size bed with a brass frame. On a table facing the bed was a large television.
‘Do you bring a lot of girls back here, George?’
‘I don’t get many matches,’ he stammered.
She stroked him between the legs again. ‘I don’t believe that,’ she said.
‘It’s true. And never girls as pretty as you. Older ones, sometimes. Fatter. But never like you.’
‘You’re so sweet,’ said Dee-anne. She unbuttoned his shirt and ran her hands through the thick greying hair that covered his chest. He bent down to kiss her but she turned her head. ‘Slowly, George,’ she said. ‘I like to take it slowly. Take your clothes off.’
‘What?’
‘Take your clothes off, George. And lie down on the bed. I’m going to give you a massage. The best you’ve ever had.’
‘A massage?’
‘You look tense. It’ll relax you. Now take off your clothes before I change my mind.’
George took off his shirt and folded it before putting it on a chair. Dee-anne opened one of the closets. There was a rack of ties, a few were multi-coloured but the majority were drab stripes.
‘What are you looking for?’
She pulled out four ties at random and turned to look at him. ‘What do you think I’m going to do to you, George? Now take off your trousers.’
He did as he was told, though he had to sit down on the bed to get them off because they were so tight. He dropped the pants on the chair and looked at her expectantly.
‘Your boxers, George. Take them off and get on the bed.’
‘What about you?’
She draped the ties over the brass headboard and undid her shirt slowly, then took it off and dropped it onto the floor. She reached behind and unhooked her bra strap, and her breasts swung free as she let the bra fall on top of the shirt.
George’s erection bulged at the front of his boxers and he stepped towards her. She smiled up at him and rubbed him. His mouth was open and he was panting and there was a glazed look to his eyes. ‘Boxers, off, George,’ she said, giving his erection a sly squeeze and then stepping to the side.
He yanked down his boxers, sat on the bed to pull them the rest of the way off, then tossed them onto the chair and lay back. He still had his socks on, dark blue with pale blue diamonds on.
Dee-anne got on top of him, her legs astride his thighs. His erection was standing up like a flagpole and he was panting like a dog in a heatwave.
‘Are you ready, George?’ she asked.
‘Oh, God, yes.’
She giggled. ‘Honey, God has nothing to do with this.’
She leant over him so that he could kiss her breasts. His lips found her left nipple and he sucked like a hungry baby. She took one of the ties and quickly bound his left wrist to the headboard.
He broke off from sucking. ‘What are you doing?’ he panted.
‘Hush,’ she said, ‘suck my tits, I love it.’
He moaned and switched his attention to her right nipple. She grabbed another tie and used it to bind his right wrist. Then she sat up and ground her hips against his erection. ‘Get you naked,’ he gasped. ‘I want to be inside you.’
She stroked his chest, then gripped his nipples. ‘So you want me, George?’
‘Yes. Please. Yes.’
She tweaked his nipples savagely and he shrieked. Then she quickly bent down and licked his right nipple until he lay whimpering, caught somewhere between pain and pleasure. She moved her left hand between his legs and gently stroked his erection.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he murmured. ‘God, this is amazing.’
She moved down the bed, keeping her hand on his erection, then released her grip and quickly tied his legs to the bed.
‘Why are you tying me, honey?’
‘I want you in my power, George.’ She slid off the bed. ‘I want to be able to do whatever I want to you.’
‘You can,’ he whimpered. ‘Oh God, you can.’
She laughed, ‘Now George, I already told you that God has nothing to do with this.’
She moved to the top of the bed and stood looking down at him, a sly smile on her face. ‘Are you ready, George?’
His face had reddened and was bathed in sweat. ‘God yes. Just fuck me, please.’
‘Is that what you want?’
He nodded frantically. ‘Yes, yes, yes. I want it more than anything. Touch my cock, please. Please, baby, please.’
She bent over him so that her face was just inches from his and he could feel her soft breath on his cheeks. ‘I’m going to eat you, George.’
‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’
‘Well, when I say “I”, of course I mean “we”, don’t I?’
George frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
She licked her lips. ‘Come on George, you’re far too big to be a single serving.’ She picked up her bra and put it o
n.
His frown deepened. ‘What are you talking about, baby?’
She picked up her shirt then turned and walked away without answering. He pulled at his arms but they were tied tight. His erection had gone and his heart was pounding as if it was about to burst.
He heard the click of her heels going down the stairs and across the wooden floor, then the sound of the door opening. She was leaving? She was leaving with him tied to the bed? What the hell was going on?
The door closed and he breathed a sigh of relief as he heard her go downstairs. She’d gone. His cleaning lady would be around the following morning, just before lunch. It would be embarrassing but at least she’d be able to untie him.
His stomach turned over as he heard her heels clicking on the floor. She was still in his house? The footsteps went to the kitchen and he heard drawers being opened and closed. She came up the stairs slowly. He heard a laugh, then another. Then she was at the doorway, smiling down at him. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked. ‘Is this some sort of sick fucking game you’re playing?’
‘This is no game, George. This is real life. Your life. What’s left of it, anyway.’
There was someone standing behind her. A teenager. Lanky with greasy hair and acne across his forehead.
‘Who the fuck’s that? Why’s he in my house?’
The boy stepped into the room. He was holding a carving knife in his right hand. One of the knives from his kitchen.
George swallowed but his mouth had gone dry. ‘My wallet’s in my trousers,’ he said, his voice trembling.
‘That’s good to know,’ said the boy.
‘Take it. Take anything you want.’
‘That’s mighty hospitable of you,’ said the boy. He moved towards the side of the bed and began to run the tip of the knife along George’s leg, up to the thigh. He struggled, bucking up and down, but the bonds held firm.
‘Why are you doing this?’ asked George, his voice trembling.
‘Because we can,’ said the girl.
‘And because we want to,’ said a second teenager by the door. He was also holding a knife.
‘Please, just let me go, I won’t say anything.’ He blinked away tears.
The girl smiled. Her pointed teeth seemed to go all the way to the back of her throat. ‘But George, that would spoil the fun. We want you to talk. We want you to beg and plead for your miserable life.’
‘It won’t do any good, of course,’ said the boy running the knife along George’s thigh. ‘But it makes it so much more enjoyable for us.’ He lifted the knife and then placed the tip against George’s scrotum. His balls shrank defensively and the teenager laughed. He jabbed the knife into George’s left testicle and George screamed.
The girl picked up the TV remote and turned on the set and boosted the volume. There was a cookery show on with an overweight Italian man in a chef’s jacket whisking something in a bowl.
The teenager grinned as he savagely twisted the knife. Dee-anne moved to the other side of the bed and put her face close to George’s, relishing his pain. ‘Come on George, you can scream louder than that, I know you can.’
The teenager twisted the knife again and the colour drained from George’s face as he passed out.
‘You’ve killed him!’ shouted Dee-anne.
‘No, he’s just passed out,’ said the boy, pulling out the knife. He sneered at the spreading yellow stain between Georg’s legs. ‘And he’s wet himself.’
‘Wake him up,’ said Dee-anne. ‘It’s no fun if he doesn’t scream.’
‘I’ll get some water,’ said Matt, heading for the bathroom,
‘Seriously, you need to be careful,’ said Dee-anne. ‘They break easily. Their necks snap like twigs and they bleed to death so easily. They’re fragile, that’s why they cling to life.’
Steve nodded. ‘That’s what makes killing them so much fun,’ he said, and he shuddered. He looked over at the bathroom. ‘Come on, we’re waiting here!’
CHAPTER 44
Nightingale arrived at Perez’s apartment just after nine o’clock in the morning. She opened her door wearing tight jeans and a baggy sweatshirt that said SUNY in large white letters. He grinned at the logo. ‘Someone can’t spell,’ he said. ‘There are two Ns in sunny.’
‘State University of New York,’ she said, closing the door behind him. ‘My alma mater.’
Nightingale was holding two carrier bags and he gave one to her. She opened it and her eyes widened as she saw the box. ‘You got it,’ she said.
‘Brand new. Never been used.’ He grinned. ‘And it glows in the dark.’
She put the box on the coffee table and opened it. The planchette was made of white plastic and had the words OUIJA and MYSTIFYING ORACLE on it.’
‘Twenty bucks,’ he said. ‘At Kmart.’ He put the other carrier bag on the coffee table. ‘I’ve got the stuff you need, but I’ll tell you again, Cheryl. It’s not something you want to mess with.’
‘If there’s the slightest chance that I can speak to Eric, I want to try,’ she said.
‘There’s no guarantee that you’ll speak to him,’ he said. ‘All you’re doing is opening up a line of communication, you can ask to speak to a specific spirit but anyone can come through.’
‘I have to try,’ she said. ‘I need to know why he did what he did.’
Nightingale opened his mouth to argue but could see from the look in her eyes that there was no point. ‘Okay,’ he said. He pulled out several bunches of flowers from one of the bags and gave them to her. ‘These need to be in vases around the room. Crystal is best but glass will do.’
She carried the flowers to the kitchen as he took five white church candles from another bag and placed them on the floor around the coffee table, evenly spaced. He went over to the kitchen where Perez was putting the flowers in vases. ‘I need three bowls,’ he said. ‘Crystal or brass. Lead will do at a pinch.’
‘Lead?” she said, arching an eyebrow. ‘Who has lead bowls in their kitchen?’
‘Crystal will be fine. Or glass.’
She opened a cupboard, took out three small glass bowls and gave them to him. He opened a bag of white crystals and poured them into one of the bowls.
‘Please tell me that’s not cocaine,’ she said.
‘It’s the consecrated salt we bought.’
He opened a second bag and poured sage into a bowl. Then lavender.
He took the three bowls back to the coffee table, then lit the candles with his battered Zippo. Perez placed the flower-filled vases around the room and then sat down next to Nightingale on the sofa. ‘Last chance,’ he said.
‘For what?’
‘To recognise that this is not a good idea, on any level.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m going to do it, with or without you.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Okay.’ He sighed. ‘Let’s do it.’ He sprinkled sage on the five burning candles, then smudged some of it on the board and the planchette. He sprinkled salt and lavender over the board, then wiped his hands on his trousers as he to face her. He took her hands in this. ‘Close your eyes,’ he said. She did as she was told. Nightingale closed his eyes and began to speak, clearly and loudly. ‘In the name of God, of Jesus Christ, of The Great Brotherhood of Light, of the Archangels Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, Uriel and Ariel, please protect us from the forces of Evil during this session. Let there be nothing but light surrounding this board and its participants and let us only communicate with powers and entities of the light. Protect us, protect this house, the people in this house and let there only be light and nothing but light, Amen.’
He squeezed Perez’s hand. ‘Amen,’ she repeated.
‘You can open your eyes now,’ said Nightingale. ‘Now, listen to me carefully, this bit is important. You have to imagine that the table is bathed in a bright white light. Blindingly bright. You have to picture it coming down through the top of your head and completely surrounding your body. Then push it out as far as you can go?’
&n
bsp; ‘I don’t understand,’ said Perez.
‘You have to fill your body with light. Or at least you have to imagine that’s what’s happening. The light will protect you.’
She nodded. ‘I’ll try.’
He put his fingertips on the planchette and she followed his example. ‘If anything goes wrong, we move the planchette to GOODBYE and we both say ‘goodbye’ at the same time. We say it firmly. It’s not a question, we’re not suggesting, we are telling the spirit that it’s time to go. Then I’ll recite a closing prayer.’
‘I understand,’ she said.
‘It’s important. If we end the session any other way, the spirit might not go.’
‘I get it, Jack.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Okay then. Now start to visualise the white light.’
‘Okay.’ She took a deep breath.
Nightingale looked up at the ceiling. ‘We’re here to talk to Eric….’ he began. He stopped. ‘Perez wasn’t his name, was it?’
She shook her head. ‘O’Brien.’
Nightingale looked up at the ceiling again. ‘Eric O’Brien.’
The candle flames flickered.
‘Eric O’Brien, are you there?’ He felt the planchette vibrate, then go still.
‘Was that something?’ whispered Perez.
‘Don’t talk,’ he said. ‘Eric O’Brien, as we sit with you now, we open our hearts. We surround ourselves with the love and light of God’s protection. We have released all negativity and we ask you to dismiss all energies that are not of the highest and greatest source.’
The planchette began to vibrate again.
‘Are you there, Eric O’Brien?’
Perez gasped as the planchette began to scrape across the board. Nightingale looked over at her. She was staring at her fingers, wide-eyed, and it felt to him as if she was pushing it. He pressed down on the planchette but it continued to slide along the board, towards YES. He pressed harder but there was nothing he could do to hinder its progress. It reached YES and stopped.
‘It’s him,’ she whispered. ‘It’s Eric.’
Nightingale was reasonable certain it wasn’t her husband. It felt to him as if she was pushing the planchette herself – consciously or unconsciously.
New York Night Page 20
