by Paul Kane
And he did—beginning in the bedroom, then moving on to the bathroom, in the shower, and finally once more in the kitchen. He was like a force of nature that afternoon, as they’d made love again and again. Not even when they were enjoying the ‘honeymoon’ period had they carried on like this; not even when they’d risked doing it in public, on that hillside after a picnic, or in that alleyway when they couldn’t wait to get home one night. Tony had ground away inside her relentlessly, her moans of pleasure encouraging him still further, it seemed. She’d barely had time to recover before they’d had to get ready and leave for the restaurant; eight o’clock sharp he’d told her the table was booked for.
Now, satisfied in more ways than one, Michelle took in the features of her husband by candlelight as if seeing him for the first time. Had her prayers truly been answered? Had she—after all that worrying—been right to marry Tony all along? It would seem so, because there was no mistaking the love in those eyes tonight. No mistaking that selfsame feeling within her, too. It was as though the last few years had never even happened and they were back in Venice again; young, giddy lovers with their whole lives ahead of them.
She’d only gotten halfway down the glass—her third of the evening—when it became clear that the drink was having an effect on more than just her inhibitions. “Tony,” she whispered. “I have to go to the little girls’ room.”
He nodded and grinned as she attempted to get up from the table—almost bumping into the corner as she walked away. She looked around to see if any of the other diners had seen her, then realised there were only a handful left. Had they been here so long? He blew a kiss as she went down the corridor.
Michelle found the door with the ‘Ladies’ symbol on it and pushed. It opened into a room with sinks on the left and two cubicles on the right.
She paused for a moment to admire herself in the mirrors above the sinks, brushing her long brown hair back over her shoulders. She adjusted the top of the velvet halter-neck dress, the one she saved only for very special occasions (it hadn’t been used in a while), smoothing down the material over her stomach and legs and brushing off any lint that had stuck to it from the tablecloth. Then she entered the cubicle and emptied her bladder.
While she was in there she heard the main door go again. She thought nothing of it at first, assuming it was one of the other female diners in the restaurant.
Until there was a knock at the door.
Michelle frowned. “Er ... H-Hello?”
There was no answer, but the knocking came again—a gentle rapping on the door. Maybe there was no loo paper in the other cubicle and someone wanted to borrow a few sheets from her, she thought. But then a voice at the door whispered her name: “Michelle.”
It was Tony, the silly devil—what was he doing in here? She rose, making herself decent, then went to the door and undid the lock. There he was, grinning that same grin he had done when she got up.
“Tony?” she started, but he placed a finger on her lips. She opened her eyes in puzzlement, then his hand moved down from her face. He cupped her breast through the velvet of the dress, flicking at the nipple that was hardening beneath his expert touch.
She let out a breath. “We can’t ...” she protested. “What if someone comes in?” But even as she was saying it, her heart was pounding inside her chest. This was just like the picnic, just like the alleyway. This was what had been missing for so long, even that afternoon.
The excitement of getting caught.
His hand moved further down and brushed the front of her dress, sliding in and rubbing the space between her legs. At the same time, his tongue worked on her lips, her neck. She fought the urge to cry out at his actions.
Tony bent lower, guiding one of her straps down with his other hand, freeing a breast, which he massaged vigorously. Then he brought that hand down to meet the other, lifting her dress until he’d pushed it back over her thighs and revealed the tops of her black stockings—also items reserved for a special occasion like this. In seconds, he’d pulled down her panties and shoved his head between her legs, hands gripping her as she quivered, each fresh lap of his tongue sending her into convulsions of delight.
“Oh God,” she groaned heavily. “Oh God, Tony, eat me ... eat me all up.”
Michelle cocked back her head, hands clutching first the sides of the cubicles for support, then Tony’s shoulders, pressing him further into her, coaxing his exertions.
It was as she brought her head back down that she saw it. Glimpsed quickly, she dismissed the vision at first as being imagined, or due to the wine. But no. As she blinked and opened her eyes again, she saw it quite clearly in the mirrors opposite.
She squirmed, but this time she was trying to pull herself away from her husband. He in turn, sensing her distress, kept a tighter hold on her legs—burying his mouth even further into her sex.
When he began to bite, Michelle could hold back her screams no longer—had no wish to, in fact. The pain was excruciating, as his teeth ripped into her most sensitive of areas. She screamed, not only because of the pain, but because she needed help now; she needed help badly. Tony brought his mouth away, blood smeared across his lips and dribbling down his chin as he chewed the most intimate parts of her. Her eyes were watering, but there was worse to come.
The hands that had only moments ago kneaded her breasts as an act of love were now fastened onto them, squeezing with nails so sharp, they slid effortlessly into the flesh before cleaving it away from her body.
He rose, leaving more redness to pour from between her legs and from her chest. The thing that looked like Tony stared at her with wild eyes, opening its mouth wider than she’d ever seen another human being do. But in the mirror, oh Jesus, in the mirror ... Michelle could do nothing as he took a chunk out of her neck, pulling tendons away with the first snap. He ate like a ravenous animal, swallowing hard before crunching down on her cheek as well—leaving a gaping hole that exposed her molars. What few blows she’d had the energy to muster bounced ineffectually off her attacker’s hard torso, and soon she’d lost even that amount of fight.
Michelle’s neck was hanging open, her lifeblood escaping from a dozen wounds before he was done. But one single thread of hope was offered to her. The door opened and in came one of the waitresses that had served their meal earlier. She took one look at Michelle, at Tony, at the mess in the cubicle—and she screamed much louder than Michelle could ever manage now with no throat.
Tony dropped his wife, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his sports jacket. He stared at the waitress as if wondering whether he had time for his third dinner of the evening, then he turned tail and leapt at the window—which was barely big enough for him to escape through. But escape he did, smashing the glass and ignoring the shards that did their best to cut him.
Michelle, on the floor, tried to keep her head still—gargling with her own juices. Just hold on ... Hold on ... she told herself. You’re going to be all right.
Except the look on the waitress’ horrified face told her she was so very far from that condition. That it was definitely time to cash in on that life insurance policy her husband had set up for her ... well, it was what he did after all.
Her husband, that is. Her real husband—the boring Tony who’d never in his life ripped out anyone’s throat or chewed off their ... She missed that Tony now more than anything. And she wished she’d had a chance to tell him that, to try and set a few things right. Instead, she’d wasted it on him: the stranger.
But the last thing that went through Michelle’s mind as her life ebbed away, was how red her blood was. Bright, so bright. And how there was enough inside her almost to paint this bathroom.
Then the red became maroon ...
Before finally turning to black.
CHAPTER ONE
She lifted him by the arms and pulled him up.
“Th
ere we go,” she said softly. Hefting someone who was almost twice your size wasn’t that tricky once you got the hang of it. It was all in the momentum, really. Use their own bodyweight to help bring them up and always remember to stand properly, like they’d taught her, just so she didn’t put her own back out. “That’s it.”
Rachael Daniels held on to Mr Abrahams for a few seconds to make sure he’d gotten his balance, then let him take his first tentative steps of the morning to his Zimmer frame. But she stood close-by in case he still needed her. When she was satisfied he was all right, she straightened his bedclothes, tucking them in at the sides again.
Mrs Abrahams, who wasn’t that far from needing home help herself, was coming around the side of the bed to give her a hand. Rachael didn’t tell her that she could manage herself, as some might have done—instead, she let her straighten one corner. It was a matter of pride, and she knew that. After all, Mrs Abrahams had virtually looked after her spouse for the last ten years on her own, ever since a debilitating fall had caused his arthritis—which was bad enough before—to worsen considerably.
Rachael watched the man of seventy-five make his way alone to the bathroom, shambling baby steps all he could manage. In his own way, he had just as much pride as his wife, and though he was grateful for all Rachael did, she was fully aware that if he could manage without her, she’d probably be told to leave quicker than you could say, ‘I’m not going in any home’.
“Thank you, Rachael,” said Mrs Abrahams, the skin around her eyes even more wrinkled through lack of sleep. “Whatever would we do without you?”
Rachael smiled. If she weren’t around, there’d be other carers—Mr and Mrs Abrahams wouldn’t have to worry about that. In some respects, they were a little like robots: one breaks down and another takes its place. And this wasn’t something the twenty-three-year-old intended to do until she retired. But she shouldn’t grumble. When she’d first moved here from the sticks, expecting the acting jobs to find her rather than the other way around, she would’ve starved without this line of work to fall back on. Plus, it was nice to know she was helping people and, from time to time, they actually showed that they appreciated it.
She watched Mrs Abrahams walk out onto the landing, following her husband and placing a hand on his back. “Now you watch your step, John. There we go.” The devotion this woman had shown to him was above and beyond the call of duty. I guess that’s what it really means to be in love, thought Rachael. I guess that’s real commitment.
She followed them too; her next job being to wash Mr Abrahams, then see that he made it okay to the stairlift, and finally to his electric chair. He didn’t have much of a life, not being able to get out of the house—but at least he had his wife of forty years by his side. Would Rachael be able to say the same when she reached that age? She doubted it.
Doubted it very much indeed.
* * *
Rachael turned the corner and headed towards Handley Crescent, one of the delightful locales making up the notorious Greenham Estate.
Miss Brindle was the last name on her list, and though she always looked forward to her time spent in that little old woman’s flat, Rachael was aware that this area wasn’t nicknamed ‘Downtown Basra’ by the locals for nothing. Look too closely at any of the side streets or alleyways and you’d find drug dens, even needles on the floor that residents had pleaded with the council to clean up. It hadn’t happened. One woman had even taken the stand of not paying her Council Tax until she felt it was safe to live in this neighbourhood again. The solution according to the powers that be? Lock her up for six months and leave the gangs and druggies on the streets.
Rachael folded her arms, pulling the blue tabard she wore tighter around herself. She hadn’t encountered any trouble here. For one thing, it was too early in the day for that, but walking through still made her uneasy. It wasn’t even as if she owned a car, so she could lock the doors and roll up the windows—feeling a little safer, at least. She couldn’t afford such luxuries on her wages. Walking and public transport were her only means of transportation ... and the authorities put as much money into those as they did into looking after the Greenham Estate.
She reached the door of the flat system, buzzing Miss Brindle—or Tilly, as she’d insisted from the start—to let her in. She wasn’t in anywhere near the state of Mr Abrahams and could get herself up with the aid of painkillers and her own two hands, rather than having to rely on Rachael. Nevertheless, she needed help with other things around the flat, and Rachael would always fix her some breakfast, too, while she was there.
It didn’t seem right to say it, because there shouldn’t be any ‘favourites’ in her job, but Tilly had turned into exactly that. Her visits didn’t seem like work at all, and Rachael always felt guilty when she tapped in the numbers on Tilly’s phone to let her bosses know she’d arrived, punching them again when she left so that she could earn her pittance.
“Hello, hello, sweetheart,” said Tilly when she opened the door of her bottom floor flat. Still ineligible for sheltered accommodation, she was forced to live alongside families with screaming babies and music blaring from the flats above her. But Tilly had at least been given an apartment that she didn’t have to climb stairs to reach (the graffiti-riddled lifts around here were more for show than any practical purpose).
For someone pushing eighty, Tilly looked remarkably spry. Her permanently coiffured hair had a bluish hue, thanks in no small part to the hairdresser who called every Wednesday afternoon and told Tilly what a perfect colour the rinse was for her. She kept this in place using the gallons of hairspray on her bedroom dresser. Her face, though wrinkled, was full of character instead of saggy, and her kind green eyes reflected the lifetime of experience she’d amassed. Tilly wore the most hideous patterned dresses, however, which looked like a throwback to the sixties and seventies. Rachael had offered once to shop for more ‘fashionable’ attire, and the woman’s answer to that was: “I’ve never taken much notice of trends, love. These suit me just fine.”
Rachael busied herself making Tilly her Weetabix, letting the milk soak in and churning it into a sort of cold porridge. “When you get to my age,” she’d said to Rachael one time, “toast for breakfast is completely out. The closer to liquid it is, the better.” Then she poured two cups of tea from the teapot.
“Sorry it’s taken so long,” said Rachael. “I had to wait for the kettle to boil again. Plugged it in but forgot to switch it on.”
“You’re just like me,” said Tilly, smiling. “I forgot to put the water in one time, almost blew up the kitchen. Right pair of scatterbrains, aren’t we?”
Tilly settled into the chair at the kitchen table as Rachael placed the bowl and cup beside her. She couldn’t help noticing the older woman wince as she tried to get into a more comfortable position.
“Are you okay?” she asked her.
The woman nodded, but it was abundantly clear she wasn’t. “Things are catching up with me, dear. Time, for one thing. Ah, you know you’re like family to me, young Rachael. Always worrying, always there when I need you.”
The carer felt her cheeks flushing. This was her job, but in a funny sort of way she felt the same. Maybe it was because her gran and granddad on her mother’s side had died when she was a little kid (to track down the others would require delving into her father’s background, and Rachael wasn’t about to stir up that hornet’s nest again). In the space of a year since she’d been doing this round, Rachael had come to think of Tilly as family, she supposed.
“But that’s not all that’s bothering you this morning, is it?” said Tilly, spooning up some of the Weetabix. “Something’s on your mind. It has been for a while.”
“Is it that obvious?”
Tilly laughed lightly. “Well, for one thing, you’ve been stirring that tea for the past five minutes. You’ll be down to the tablecloth in a minute, love.”
>
Rachael stopped immediately, but within seconds she was playing with her blonde ponytail instead.
“When you don’t see many people in a day, you tend to notice the subtle signs,” Tilly offered. “You haven’t been yourself all week. What is it, not your place again? Don’t tell me the landlord still hasn’t fixed your sink.”
“No ... I mean, yes he has—finally. It’s not that.” Rachael gazed into the tea.
“Ah, I see ... boyfriend trouble, eh?”
Rachael looked her in the eyes. “You could say that ... if I still had a boyfriend.”
Tilly reached over and took her hand. “Oh no. Do you want to chat about it?”
“Nothing really to say; it’s no big deal,” she lied. “Mike and I haven’t been together that long, anyway. It’s not as if we’re childhood sweethearts or anything.”
“Now that doesn’t matter, if you liked him.”
Rachael sighed. “I thought I did ... I thought I could trust him.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learnt about men in my time, it’s that the trustworthy ones are few and far between.”
“Is that why—” Rachael stopped herself, realising she’d said too much.
“Why I’m still alone? It’s all right, dear, you can say it. No ... the reason I’m still alone is ... Well, I lost the love of my life a long time ago, before either of us was ready.” There were the beginnings of tears in her eyes as she said this. “No one really matched up to my Leonard.”
This was the first time she’d ever mentioned a significant other, and Rachael was going to ask about him, but decided against it. She didn’t know who was the better off, Mrs Abrahams who now had the burden of watching her husband deteriorate in front of her eyes, or Tilly—who had lost her one true love somehow, and obviously still had that perfect mental picture in her head.
