by Matt Shaw
A strong vibration against my leg pulled me from my thoughts. My mobile phone again. I reached into my pocket and looked at the number calling me. Local but not one that I recognise. I opened the lid - an action which automatically answers the calls - and promptly slammed it shut again. Don’t want to talk to anyone. I dropped the phone to my side. Just sleep this headache off. If it’s important, they’ll call back later. If it’s important, they’ll leave a message.
No guarantee I’ll listen to the damned thing though.
CHAPTER FOUR
NATHAN COLE
A New Day
I
The morning after a date, I often feel a sadness. Not for the life I have taken. I feel sad because I wish it were me who had passed away the night before. I wish I had been the one to die at the end of our date. Had I been the one to expire - at least I’d get to see my mother again.
Like so many people in the world - those who suffer from depression and other mental illnesses - I have often thought of taking my own life. The blissful peace found in death is appealing to me. But I am not a foolish man. I know that if I were to take my own life then I’d never get to see mother again. People who kill themselves are punished hard by God. He condemns them into an eternal darkness away from both the light he offers and the comfort of those you love who have passed before (and after) your own death.
I guess that is why I feel jealous of the ones I murder. They get to spend eternity with their loved ones. Even if they do get there earlier than expected. They still get there. All I can do is hope that I do not live a long life. In my thirties now and pretty much ready to go. My diet is fairly bad so hoping for a heart attack by the time I’m forty. Not suicide, just a care-free life. I’d still get my ticket to paradise.
And speaking of paradise.
I terminated my car engine with a quick twist of the key and pulled the key from the slot before dropping it into my jacket pocket. I looked out of the car window towards her house. Been a while since I’ve been here. Been a while since I’ve needed it. Usually my nights end with a little more satisfaction ruling out the need for her but last night was a let down on that front. I need to see her today. I need to feel her touch. Her warmth.
The digital clock on the dashboard clicked to 10:00am.
Her first appointment of the day. Just the way I like it. I know she’s clean. I know she’s fresh. I know she isn’t tired, worn out from a vigorous session with a previous client. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of notes. One hundred and fifty pounds; her rate for an in-call appointment to her home. Not sure why people would choose for an out-call appointment. Costs an additional twenty pounds. Not only do you have to pay extra money to see them but you also have to take the time to ensure your house is clean.
Thankfully my house is clean. Spent the whole night ensuring it was just so. The pieces which needed to be disposed of were taken away, the bathroom was cleaned, her possessions burned on the open fire. I still resent forking out an additional twenty pounds though. It’s not as though money grows on trees and I’ve nearly got through the inheritance left to me after my mother’s untimely passing.
I dropped the cash back into my pocket and flung the car door open before climbing out into the mid-morning sun. As I approached the front door it opened. I couldn’t see her standing there. She always made she that was the case - not because she was shy but because she couldn’t risk her neighbours seeing her dressed in whatever attire she had chosen for our appointment. Without waiting to be asked, I stepped into her home and she closed the door behind me. I turned around and there she was - a vision of beauty. She was wearing black stockings with a matching suspender belt, black thong - at least I presume it’s a thong, a black bra which matches. Her long dark hair curling at the bottom. I’m not sure whether that’s an intentional style or because it went wrong. I think I like it. I think it’s cute. Her big brown eyes were bright and as welcoming as her ample cleavage. She smiled and greeted me with a kiss on the cheek.
“Hello, stranger!” she said. “How have you been?”
“I’ve been good, thank you.“ I lied. I pulled the money from my pocket and handed it over to her to save her the embarrassment of having to ask. I never give her time to ask for the money. It just makes things awkward from the get go and I’m not here for any awkwardness. I’m here to feel something I haven’t felt since my mother. I’m here for love. Albeit a different kind of love.
“Please, come on through,” she walked me through to the bedroom and invited me to take a seat on the bed. I sat. She sat. We sat together. “I thought you’d moved on to someone else,” she continued.
I can see why she would think that. After mother’s passing I saw her on a near weekly basis. I had the inheritance so money wasn’t a problem. Then I found my calling and I found I didn’t need her as much. I found satisfaction with dates of my own. I guess you could say I became a prostitute in my own right.
“Just been busy,” I told her. Another lie. “Surprised you even remember me,” I told her. This wasn’t a lie. She was a popular girl. One of the most popular ladies in the area going by the field reports - feedback left by punters - on the Internet. My own clients never get to leave me field reports of their own but I’m presuming they’re satisfied from the moment they enter my home to the moment they leave in the various bags I package them up in.
“Of course I remember! We had loads of fun. I actually missed you.”
I didn’t believe her. At least - not in the context she made it sound. Had she told me she missed my money then it would be a different story; I would have believed her. She leaned forward and kissed me on the mouth. Those soft lips. I’d forgotten how good they feel. I pulled away from her.
“Sorry - been a long night - you mind if I take a shower?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Thank you.”
I didn’t need her to show me where it was. I’ve lost count of the number of times I have used her facilities. I stood up and walked through to the bathroom. She called out that there was a fresh towel hanging on the side - not that she needed to. It was fairly obvious where the towels were. Not exactly the biggest of bathrooms. I took my clothes off and put them to the side before stepping into the shower cubicle. I slid the screen across and turned the water on. I could have stayed on that bed kissing her for the rest of the day - although I’d only paid for an hour - but I was self-conscious of the fact I’m not as fresh as I could be. Like I told her, it had been a long night dealing with my own date.
I let the shower run for a moment in order to give it time to warm up and then I stepped under the waterfall pouring from the shower-head. The feeling of the water hitting my body was bliss. Immediately I could feel the stress wash away from my system; swirling around the plughole.
I had left the bathroom door open. I knew it wouldn’t be long before she joined me. The shower was not just a place to freshen up but also a good place to get the appointment moving along to the next stage - just as, in my home, it was a good place to end an appointment. True to form she appeared in the doorway wearing nothing but a smile on her face. She walked over to the cubicle, pulled the screen door across, and stepped in before closing the screen door behind her.
“Don’t mind if I join you, do you?” she purred.
I shook my head, “Not at all. I was actually wondering what was taking you so long,” I smiled. Despite being in a pleasing setting, it wasn’t a real smile. I hadn’t grinned for real for as long as I could remember. In fact, the last time I did so, I’m sure mother was alive and it was way before she was diagnosed. Every smile since has been nothing but a show to make the other person feel more at ease or - in this case - appreciated.
As we stood there together - in silence - I couldn’t help but think back to the many appointments I had had with my own dates in the comfort of my own home; standing there in the shower, both naked, waiting for what was to come. This shower was to end differently to the ones I had shar
ed with my dates.
She stepped towards me. Our bodies were touching as the water cascaded over the pair of us and we began to resume where we had left off in the bedroom.
II
We hadn’t bothered drying ourselves after the shower. We had simply collapsed on the bed together. Our hands running over each other’s bodies as we continued to kiss. She pulled away from me and reached across to the top drawer of her bedside cabinet. I knew why. I had been here enough times to know that that was where she kept her supply of protection. She slid the drawer open and effortlessly pulled out a silver foil wrapper containing a condom. She put the corner of it into her mouth as she gave me a wink. A twist of her hand and the corner of the wrapper tore away giving her easy access to the rubber inside. With her other hand, she pulled it from the foil which she then dropped off the side of the bed. She manoeuvered herself so that she was straddling me and expertly rolled the condom down the length of my erection. I closed my eyes at the touch of her delicate fingers. Been so long since I’ve felt someone touch me. Someone alive at least. It had only been a week since I had manipulated someone’s dead hand to make it feel as though they were embracing me.
With the rubber on, she positioned herself above my cock and - using her hand to keep it steady - slowly slid her sweet pussy down onto it. She smiled as I sighed. But something’s not right. Not the sensation - that feels amazing but there’s something else… Something wrong. She must have sensed my dissatisfaction as she ground down harder on me and increased her own vocals in the hope I’d join in but I wasn’t feeling it. At least, not in the way I was supposed to be.
“Wait,” I urged her.
“You’re close already?” she slowed her grinding to a slower pace.
I sat up so that we were face to face and put my hands on her shoulders - stopping her from moving, “Do you mind if we just talk?”
“Talk?”
I nodded. The moment my penis had slid inside her I had realised it wasn’t sexual satisfaction I was seeking but rather conversation. A friendly face to talk to. Someone who wouldn’t judge me. Someone who wouldn’t ram their own opinion down my throat. Just someone who’d be silent and listen; lend a sympathetic ear.
With one hand holding onto my shaft - ensuring the rubber stayed in place - she climbed off and laid next to me, “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Before I knew what was happening, I found myself crying. What the hell is this? Hasn’t happened since the night my mother…
“Hey, hey, hey…” she put her arm around me and pulled me close. Tonight she isn’t my whore, she’s my therapist. She’s someone who gets to pretend to give a damn about me. “What’s the matter?” she asked. Her voice was calm and soothing. Her tone - genuine.
I apologised to her as soon as I was able. It must have been awkward for her as it was embarrassing for me, “Don’t remember the last time I did that,” I told her. A lie. The last time was when I walked into my mother’s room early in the morning and found her dead. I had fallen to my knees and broken down. Ended up sitting on the floor, holding her hand, weeping for most of the day. A pathetic broken mess of a man.
“It’s fine,” she promised me. Her website promised companionship. A declaration underneath stated that if anything else were to happen then it would be between two consenting adults and nothing else. I couldn’t help but wonder how many people just saw her for this kind of companionship though? A shoulder to cry on? I’ll wager I’m likely to be the first. “Did you want to talk about it?” she asked.
I didn’t know what I wanted. My erection, still standing impressively strong despite the mess my mental state was in, dictated I wanted more than ‘talking’ but my mind wanted nothing more than to talk. For so long I had been there for others but no one was really there for me and carrying the stress that I do was a burden I struggled to cope with. Despite the want (need) to talk though - I knew I couldn’t share everything with her. She wouldn’t understand. No one would understand. They’d just paint me out to be the bad guy and that really isn’t me. I’m not a bad guy. I’m not. I’m kind. I’m sensitive. And I keep telling myself that so I grow to believe it myself.
I changed the subject, “Your phone is ringing.”
“Let it ring,” she said. She didn’t push me away, didn’t even turn to look at the number flashing up on the display. At a guess, I’d say it was someone else looking to book her services. “I’m in no rush,” she said. She kept me held close to her. I wished I could stay there forever. I closed my eyes as I laid in the safety of her comforting embrace. The phone continued to ring.
CHAPTER FIVE
MARTIN ANDREWS
The Unknown Number
I
The damned phone was still ringing. The vibration buzzing against my leg where the phone rested in my trouser pocket. Whoever it is is adamant they don’t want me wasting my life away lying on the uncomfortable floor of the apartment block I share with the other losers in life. I fumbled into the pocket and pulled it out. My eyes took a second or two to focus on the small screen of the display; a display big enough to show the number but that’s about it. Don’t recognise it. The phone rang off as the person on the other end gave up. I flipped the lid open and noted fourteen missed calls. Whoever it is - they sure are desperate to get hold of me. Must be wrong number. Since leaving the Force and losing my family - I’m not exactly surrounded by people wanting to pass the time of day with me. If memory serves correctly - and that’s debatable considering the liquor I get through - the last call I received had been from a company trying to convince me I should claim for an accident I never had. I told them to fuck off just as I’m likely to say the same to whoever this is. I slammed the lid shut again and went to toss the phone to one side when it suddenly started ringing again.
“Detective Andrews?” Old habits die hard. Been a few months and yet I still toss the ‘detective’ label around as though I still own it.
“Detective Andrews?” the voice on the other end was shaky.
I said, “Yes.” It was easier than explaining the truth to whoever the stranger was. Not a detective, haven’t been for a while now.
“You don’t know me but you tried to help my friends.”
‘Tried’ suggests I did anything but help. Still no idea who this person is and finding myself with little to no patience.
“My name is Tim Miller. Like I said you don’t know me but you tried to help my friends Mark Stephens and his wife, Becky. I’m not sure if you remember them…”
I didn’t hear the rest of his sentence. I wanted to hang up there and then but couldn’t. I was frozen to the spot. Of course I remembered Mark and Becky. More to the point I remembered Becky. I remembered what she did. That poor baby. I tried to shake the memory from my mind as it played itself back to me as though I wanted it to be recalled. I didn’t. The final act which had pushed me that last step into being a fully blown alcoholic. There’s only so much a man can take…
“Detective Andrews, are you there?” the stranger asked.
I couldn’t stop myself from answering, “Yes.”
“Did you hear me? I need to meet up with you. Can I come down the station and see you?”
“I’m sorry today isn’t a good day,” I didn’t want to tell him what had become of me, the man who had failed his friends.
“It’s important. People are dying. He’s killing them all.”
“What? Who?” I surprised myself by questioning him without hesitation. All these weeks of drinking myself into oblivion, living the lifestyle of a hermit, I thought I had drunk all of the ‘give a shit’ out of me.
“I need to see you. I’ll explain everything and where you can find him.” He sounded desperate.
“I’m sorry,” I went to tell him I couldn’t help but he cut me short.
“Don’t you care? I thought you were supposed to help people. Oh wait, yeah, silly of me. Should have known after Mark. Probably better going down the station talking to an officer who’s actually
good at his job.” Tim hesitated on the other end of the phone, “Don’t even know why I called you. Just found your business card in their place and, for some reason, kept hold of it…Sorry to have troubled…”
It was my turn to cut him off, “Wait. There’s a coffee shop on the corner of St. Mary’s Street, I can meet you there. Can get there in half an hour?” What was I doing? I wasn’t a detective anymore. I wasn’t even an officer. What the hell was I doing? Damned brain on auto-pilot. What, does it think we’re going to find some kind of reprieve here?
“Half an hour is perfect. Thank you,” he said. “Thank you.”
The line went dead. I didn’t move. Just stayed there lying on the floor with the phone pressed to my ear as though my brain couldn’t figure out how to move it away - too dumbstruck by my own agreement to meet up with the stranger. I pulled myself up off the floor and caught a sight of myself in the mirror. Look like I’ve been to Hell and back. Nearly right. I’ve been to Hell. Just not found my way back yet.
I reached down and grabbed my coat from the armchair. If I’m going to get to the coffee-shop in half an hour, I need to leave.
II
The whole drive down there I tried to talk myself into turning the car around. Not sure why I didn’t. A single thought from back at the house seems to have wedged itself into the forefront of my mind; the possibility of having some kind of reprieve from all the bad stuff I had failed to stop from happening. A stupid fucking thought. Too late to go back now. Sitting in the corner booth of the coffee-shop jumping every time the damned door opens on the off-chance it’s Mr Miller.
The front door opened again and a man walked in. He looked to be in his thirties. Not a customer from the way he was looking around the shop. His eyes fixed on me. I stood up to acknowledge him.
