by James Crow
It looks just like he imagined it would: spread like butterfly wings and pinned to her thighs. He selects duck-egg blue and purple, and then paints it. In the top half of each wing he paints an eye. He blows on it to dry the paint and the prozzie shudders and moans.
Pete rises from the stool with a great sense of achievement, as if he’d reached a goal he never would have thought possible. The rush of blood is instant, so is the voice at his ear, I’m proud of you, son, Mr Wood says.
‘Aye.’ Pete looks down at the drunken skank. Her eyes are closed, head to one side, empty whisky bottle squashed against a tit. She mutters something Pete can’t make out. Sounds like ice or nice or mice. Are you stalling, son?
‘No.’
Get it done, then. Unless you’re a homo, son, unless you’re a fucking homo.
Pete pushes his jeans down and steps up. He takes a breath, takes his hard cock in his hand and enters the butterfly, all the way. It’s like a warm sock around his cock. Pete likes it. He also likes it when he pulls out, the way it grips at him, and the way it gives when he pushes back in. He knows this is something he’s going to get used to. As he rocks, the prozzie wakes. As he thrusts and his body slaps off hers, the prozzie yells blue murder.
Don’t stop now, son, hit that fucking arc, follow that fucking line, there’s a good boy.
Pete doesn’t stop, Pete grabs hold of the prozzie’s hips, forces himself deep and her yells turn to screams. Pete doesn’t stop when she thrashes. Pete doesn’t stop when she vomits. Pete doesn’t stop until he’s spent and the butterfly wings are painted with blood.
He looks around the cabin, expecting to see Mr Wood, but he’s not there. His eyes come to rest on the picture pinned to the wall: the eye, watching. Pete grins as he remembers the laptop linked to the smoke alarms. He pulls up his jeans, zips himself up and collects up the torch. It’s time to check-in, he reckons, and when he comes back the prozzie might be up for another go.
9
This room twinkles into place like a fairytale dream: a room with glass cases and cabinets in all sizes, holding stuffed birds of all types. Someone is sobbing, it sounds like young Elizabeth. Beth doesn’t let go of Elizabeth’s hand; she squeezes it with a feeling of great dread.
The wood spirit leads her through the cases, where crows, eagles, and owls, stare back at her. The air in here is blue, like twilight; the smell is of feathers, straw and sawdust. Beth pulls up at a case that’s taller than her. A leafless tree, its branches filled with butterflies, looks innocent at first glance, but at the tree’s base is a ginger cat with three heads, three mouths fixed open in a snarl.
‘I made this one after she died. She told me she liked cats, so I fitted three together.’
‘You made this?’
‘I could teach you. It’s easy once you’ve done a few.’
Sobbing again, from just around the corner. The wood spirit pulls her on. They turn the corner to find young Elizabeth crosslegged on the floor. She’s sobbing into her hands. Before her, the butterfly lady has been stretched out and pinned to the wall with huge nails driven through her wrists and ankles. Thick stitches run in a line down each arm from wrist to elbow. She looks tanned.
‘I helped with the embalming. It was the least I could do.’
How did she die? Beth wants to ask. Elizabeth catches that thought.
‘She took her own life. I found her, in a bath of blood. She’d used Master’s cutthroat, a slice up each arm. Master said she had a depressed mind, and that we were fortunate to have loved her and had her love in return.’
Beth’s aware that her heart sounds loud. There’s something she’s been thinking of but trying not to think too loudly, an idea she’s been warming to, and now it’s making sense; she has to play along if she wants to get home. She squeezes the wood spirit’s hand and the squeeze is returned. Beth wets her lips. Her next words must come out right: ‘I am so fortunate.’ Beth forces a smile to her eyes.
‘Good girl,’ Elizabeth says. She looks pleased.
10
Pete boots up the laptop and clicks on the eye-spy icon which connects to the box on the balcony. Two options appear on-screen: Recorded or Live. He clicks on Live and the screen splits into four quarters. Three of the quarters light up. The writer woman, in her dressing gown, is curled up like a baby and appears to be crying. The Black woman is naked, lying on top of her husband. Looks like he’s tied to the bed. Kinky, but no action right now. The husband appears to be asleep. The woman’s shoulders are shaking. Pete reckons she’s crying too. Is that blood on the pillow? Or water? Hard to tell with the orange glow from the lamp. Pete makes a mental note to change the lampshade. In the third quarter the embracing olds are sparkling with – sequins? Aye, that’s it. Two naked olds covered in sequins. Both appear to be crying. Lots of fucking crying.
‘You’re not a homo, son.’
Pete startles, looks to the shadows. The figure in a suit is not Mr Wood, it’s the man with the long hair. He glides up to Pete and clasps a big hand on his shoulder. This man smells of something Pete can’t place at first, but it soon comes to him: power.
Pete grins. He doesn’t think the words, they just come out: ‘Ah’m so fortunate, aye.’
The man with the long hair smiles a proud smile. Pete feels his zipper being pulled down, feels a cold hand pulling his cock free; a grip that Pete likes.
The smiling man before him starts to say something, but the man fades away to nothing, the words appearing in Pete’s head, You have the power now, son. It’s in your hands.
The hand around Pete’s cock squeezes hard. He looks down to see it’s his own hand.
He squeezes again. A nostril twitches and flares. He licks his lips.
Fuck em, son. Fuck ’em all!
‘Aye.’
1
She’d just passed a small house and a sign that said Dove Pottery, Always Open when another cattle grid wobbled her funbags and rattled her straining bladder.
She pulled into a passing place, killed the lights and engine, stepped out into the cold night and went around the side of the car. The gentle hiss of the river didn’t help at all. She hurriedly pushed down her pants, squatted by the wheel, and with the cold breeze on her arse, she pissed like a horse.
No offence, sweet child of mine. But he’ll see you coming a mile away.
That remark had stung. He was right, of course. Daddy was always right. She’d countered his argument with a needy moan about being desperate to get out more; a few self-pitying whines about how she hates what she’s become, about how he could have done more to help his own fucking daughter. She’d even shed tears that were partly real and sobbed into his chest and begged to be the one to go spy on Pete.
Still he’d said no, that she wasn’t at all suitable, ‘I need a spy, not Ronald Mc-fucking-Donald dancing right in there.’
That had given her an idea. ‘I’m going whether you like it or not.’
He’d sat at his desk, poured them both a vodka and pulled a bag of speed from the drawer. ‘As long as you’re on my payroll, family or no, you’ll do as I fucking say, pet. I’m sending a snout. End of.’
‘I’m taking a holiday.’
He’d sneered at that.
‘If I’m on holiday, I can do what the fuck I want, and I want to dance right in there . . . like Ronald Mc-fucking-Donald.’
‘It’s too short notice for a holiday. I need you here.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Sweet child of mine, you’re not to go anywhere near freaky Pete. End of.’
‘I fancy him.’
He’d laughed at that.
‘And he fancies me.’
A questioning look.
‘Listen, Daddy. When he was here, I had these feelings, intense feelings . . . and when I showed him to the gates, I know he had those feelings too. It’s like it was meant to be, like . . . destiny.’
He’d laughed again. ‘Destiny?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, you’re g
oing to waltz right in there and fuck him on a whim.’
‘Yes. And while I’m sitting on his halfwit face he’ll tell me the truth.’
‘You do know he’s not as stupid as he makes out.’
‘He’s a man. Course he’s stupid.’
Daddy slugged his vodka. ‘What makes you think he’ll tell you the truth?’
She’d had to think about that. She drank her vodka, dabbed at the bag of whizz. ‘I dunno. It’s a feeling, a strong feeling, like I know what I have to do, and no one is going to stop me.’
‘Like destiny.’
‘Yes.’
‘So you want to be his girlfriend.’
‘No. I want to fuck his brains out and I’ll get the truth at the same time.’
‘All right.’
‘You said all right?’
‘You said the right thing, pet.’
‘Which was?’
‘Get the truth. If you want to fuck him, then go fuck him. Just get me the truth.’
They’d talked about the possibility that Pete might have actually told the truth, that he might be on Skye whooping it up with bereaved kin, but no, she’d known for certain that was a lie; there was no doubt in her mind. Daddy had agreed. Daddy also agreed she could use his brand new gleaming white Range Rover Sport, and that she’d leave first thing in the morning.
Sleep hadn’t come. Eyes open in the dark, an excited warmth between her legs, she’d rubbed a ferocious one off with her wand, but still her heart had rocked in anticipation of what was to come. ‘Destiny,’ she’d said as she swung her legs from the bed. She’d packed a small case along with a cracking bag of tricks that had made her giggle and slipped off into the night without so much as by-your-leave.
Heading north on darkened B-roads with only the red reflectors on roadside posts to guide the way, the idea of just rolling on in there and jumping the guy grew more and more appealing.
When she’d passed the border sign that welcomed her to Scotland and the SatNav told her to take the next left, she’d driven onto a road flanked by tall pines under a sky of twinkling stars with an ache in her breasts for this man.
Half an hour later the SatNav announced Moxley and she reached the first streetlights in a while. She’d taken it slow through the streets, passed two pigs on the beat, rounded a corner and followed the road into darkness again before the SatNav told her next right. She’d crossed a small bridge onto a grey road that twisted and turned and wobbled her tits over cattle grids and the feeling of destiny, of love – true love, was enjoyably immense. She felt like a bride-to-be and started fantasising about what she’d do to this lovely man.
Sasha stamped her feet to shake off the drops, pulled up her pants and got back behind the wheel. She lit a cig and set back off up the twisting grey road, considering how she’d make her entrance. She wanted him more than ever.
2
Pete had been eager to watch the recordings but the man in his head had said not yet, there was tidying up to do, preparations for the next. Pete had supposed that made sense. He’d topped up on whizz, chuckling as he filled his glass because he now had it on tap. Two glasses down, he’d gone to the maintenance hut for one of his carefully folded tarps; the man had told him it would come in useful.
Now he’s back at cabin 1. The prozzie is blue in the face; choked to death on her own vomit by the looks of it. Pete isn’t surprised at all. He removes her scabby feet from the scoops, takes one last look at the blood-soaked butterfly that’s now leaking his cum, then closes her legs and folds her body into the bed sheets. He carries her out to the tarp and rolls her into it, securing the threaded rope into a handle for pulling. He goes back into the cabin, replaces the sheets and pillows, wipes the blood from the floor at the bottom of the bed. All done, he takes up the rope and, guided by his torchlight, he hauls the tarp like a sledge, up the hill and across the road and onto the field.
The digger is where he’d left it, bucket resting on the wooden platform. He leaves the tarp in the grass and locates the handle for the hatch with the torchlight, noticing for the first time that it’s shaped like an eye. ‘Aye,’ he says and turns the handle.
The hatch opens with a puff of air so rancid Pete reels from it. He gathers the taste and spits it out and works quickly to loosen the tarp. He straddles it, picks it up, swings one end round to the hatch and then tips it up. The weight slides away from within with ease, the prozzie’s body drops, but only for a second or two before the thump of landing.
Pete turns away from the stench and lets go the breath he’s been holding. It comes out in whispers, or so he thinks, before realising the whispers are coming from the pit, fortunate, fortunate, fortunate. He slams the hatch shut and turns the handle to lock it, picks up the tarp and stops dead when the high beam from headlights cuts into the blackness. At this time of night? A water bailiff? Who else could it be? Jim the shepherd with a sheep emergency? The car slows and takes the turn for the loch. From here Pete can see the light in reception. He’s left the door open. Fuck.
The white car pulls in and rolls right alongside his jeep. In the half-light it looks like a 4x4. Could be a bailiff, then. Pete starts walking, torch switched off and the tarp dragging behind. He remembers he’s left the laptop open. Could he get away with killing a bailiff? Aye, Pete thought he could.
END OF PART ONE
There’s no present like the time.
Bethany Black
Hope is just fine, but that’s all there ever is.
Muse
1
Whoever went inside reception is still inside. Pete drops the tarp in the grass and walks across the narrow road to the parking area. The 4x4 parked next to his jeep is a brand new gleaming white Range Rover Sport. The interior leather is bright red, and a pair of fluffy dice hang from the rearview mirror – probably not a bailiff, then. Not Jim the shepherd’s, either.
As he moves across the gravel with a stealth new to his feet, Pete pictures the pen pot on the counter just inside the reception door. There are no pens in the pot, only an orange craft knife he uses to open deliveries. He moves quietly to the brightly lit doorway and steps inside. The broken phone is still on the floor. The door at the rear, which leads to his cabin, is open and the living area beyond is dimly lit by light from the kitchen. No movement, no sound. He collects the craft knife from the pen pot and slips back outside.
Pushing the blade into the tyre feels good, pulling the blade out, hearing the hiss and seeing the release feels better than good. He takes out a second tyre on the Rover and without hesitation repeats the process on his jeep. No one is going anywhere.
The craft knife in his hand is heavy and comfortable; it’s a perfect fit. He goes back inside reception, steps over the broken phone and enters the living area, turning immediately towards the kitchen and the light source. The light is coming from his opened fridge. A furry beast of an animal that looks like a bear is rummaging inside. Pete flicks the main light on.
The bear straightens up. It’s holding a block of cheese and chewing a mouthful. It takes a few seconds for the penny to drop. Her hair’s different: not up on her scalp like a beehive, it’s down and in knotted pigtails. Sasha White’s fur coat bulges from the bulk within. She swallows the mouthful of cheese and delivers a pout.
‘Aye,’ Pete nods.
‘This all you got?’ She waves the block of cheese.
Pete nods again, slips the knife into his jacket pocket. ‘Why you here?’
‘To see you, Pete.’
‘It’s the middle of the night.’
‘I wanted to catch you, hon . . . before you left for Skye.’
‘Aye?’
‘Aye.’ She returns the cheese to the fridge, slips her coat off and places it over a kitchen chair. She’s wearing pink joggers and a pink tee, Good Girls go to Heaven on the front, the words distorted by her enormous breasts and belly. ‘I want to come with you, Pete. Can I? We can have some filthy fun, you and me.’ She picks a crumb of cheese from the corner o
f her mouth and sucks it from her finger.
Pete thinks she’s lying, that she’s here to snoop, sent by her old man. But that doesn’t matter. This is a gift, a Supreme gift. Sasha I’ll-do-anything White, a slave to his will. ‘You will be mine.’ Pete frowns at words that came from nowhere.
‘Of course I’ll be yours, babe.’ She walks right up to him, takes his hands, places them on her tits and jiggles them about. ‘Seriously, hon, I couldn’t get you out of my head. So I took some time off, and, well, I just want you sooooo bad.’ She presses his hands into her chest and jiggles again. ‘I’ll do anything, Petey. Really, anything you want. Anything at all. Wadaya say, babe?’
Pete thinks she suspects he lied about Skye. He takes his hands away from her breasts and wipes saliva from his lips. ‘Skye’s been cancelled.’
This puts a smile on the fat fuck’s face. ‘Really? All the better, honey buns. We can get the party started right now.’ She picks up a handbag from the floor – one of those poxy designer bags, big and white with black spots and gold buckles – and places it on the table. ‘You know I’m a porn star, right, hon?’
‘Used to be.’
‘Still am, Petey. Still making them with my – with Lennie.’
With your old man, you incestuous slag.
She pats the bag. ‘Porn stars get to know every trick. Once you’ve experienced my bag of tricks, you won’t want to let me go.’
Pete imagines the craft knife slicing through the fat of her belly and her guts spilling out. ‘Tricks? I just want to fuck you.’
She squeals at this and pulls him into a hug. Her breasts are weighty. They roll against him. She smells of mature cheddar. His mature cheddar. Greedy cunt.
‘You and me, Petey. We’re going to have a filthy party, the fucking best filthy party ever. I love the new beard by the way. You grew that quick.’ Her fingers are stroking his jawline.
Pete touches the beard himself, surprised at the bush on his face. ‘Quick. Aye.’
