by Paul Kane
Rachael would always laugh at him if they saw a horror film at the cinema or on TV, because he’d be the one who’d jump when the monster appeared and she’d be just fine. “You’re supposed to be the one protecting me,” she’d say, chuckling. “You’re supposed to be the man.” At which he’d get highly offended and sulk for an hour or two.
But she was right, he did scare easily he supposed. God, how he missed Rachael! How he missed having her in his life, being her boyfriend. He just hadn’t known a good thing when he had it, never had known how to hang on to it. Rachael had been the best thing to happen to him for a long, long time and he’d completely screwed things up, not just last Friday but altogether.
There was a bang beside him and he jumped in his seat, just like those clichéd characters in all those cheesy horror flicks.
“Jesus!” he shouted as he turned and saw who it was rapping on the driver’s side window. “Jesus Christ! Rachael...?”
At first he wasn’t really sure it was her. How could it be? The last time he’d seen her she’d been telling him to piss off in no uncertain terms—egged on by that harpy of a mother. But no, there she was. It was Rachael all right, looking in through the window, slight smile playing on her lips at the way she’d frightened him, which didn’t help matters as far as he was concerned. Mike was starting to wind the window down, just to see what she wanted more than anything, but by then she was already skirting round the front of the van to the passenger side door.
She tried the handle, but it was still locked. Rachael stood there staring in again, the smile gone, replaced by a look of mild impatience. “Are you going to let me in, then?” she said, her voice muffled.
Mike leaned over and pulled up the knob on the door. “Rachael? You nearly gave me a heart attack!” She tugged open the door, saying nothing in reply. He could see now she was wearing a long coat, pulled tightly around her and buttoned up, plus a pair of boots. “What are you doing out here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” she said. But, to be honest, it really wasn’t.
“Er ... no. Last I saw you, you were telling me to go home. I thought you were still with that monster of a mother back there.” He looked across, saw how much the comment had stung and shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He seemed to be saying that a lot recently. But actually, why should he be sorry? Mike was sick of bowing and scraping, humbling after Rachael when it was her who’d got the wrong end of the stick. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been out chasing guys herself as soon as they’d split. No wonder she was a mate of Steph’s, they both had the same hobbies.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. A repetition of what she’d told him back at the flat, only then it had been followed by telling him how much he’d hurt her—as if he needed it ramming down his throat.
Mike took out the vodka, took a swig. Then offered the bottle across; Rachael accepted it gratefully and took a drink herself, then placed it on the dashboard.
“How d’you get past your mum, anyway? Doubt she’d be too happy if she knew you’d come to see me.”
“I snuck out,” she told him.
“I see,” Mike said. “So what ...”
“Like I said, isn’t it obvious? I wanted to ... talk.”
Mike thought for a moment. Was she saying what he thought she was saying, that after everything she’d thrown at him back there, everything she’d said last Friday night, maybe she wanted to get back together? That would be a turn-up for the books, wouldn’t it? Mike frowned: though if she thought it would be as easy as all that, she was kidding herself. In spite of what he’d just been saying to himself before Rachael cropped up, he wasn’t about to roll over for her, wasn’t going to make it easy.
“All right,” said Mike, folding his arms. “Let’s talk.”
“Please don’t be like that. Things have been ... difficult for me.”
That was fair enough, she had been through a lot on Greenham Estate. It had been in the papers, on the news, everything—though of course they hadn’t named any names. And that old biddy Rachael was so fond of, Molly, Milly ... what the fuck was her name? Tilly, yeah that was it ... she wasn’t doing so great by all accounts. It was bound to have taken a toll. Even so ... If she wanted him back there were going to have to be some changes. Giving her mother her marching orders for starters. God, he’d love to see the expression on her face when Rachael kicked her out!
“I’ve been so confused. I just ...” She looked close to tears, but fought them back. “Would you just hold me? Would that be okay?”
He gaped at her, not quite sure what to do—whether that would give her the upper hand back, let her know that she’d got him wrapped around her little finger. But women liked all that shit, didn’t they? Cuddling, being held.
You’re supposed to be the one protecting me ... You’re supposed to be the man.
He guessed he could do that, hold her for a while—didn’t mean she’d got him where she wanted him. Oh for fuck’s sake, he thought, just listen to yourself.
Mike reached over, brushing a few strands of blonde hair from her face before opening his arms and hugging her to him. She nestled her head into the space between his neck and his shoulder, and he could feel her relax a little. Feel himself relax too; he’d missed this, he really had.
Before he could do anything about it, he was aware of a tingling at his crotch. The jeans suddenly felt very tight there and he shifted, hoping Rachael, pressed up against him sideways, hadn’t noticed.
She had. “Someone’s pleased to see me, anyway,” Rachael whispered in his ear.
“Yeah ... well ...” Mike said, aware also now that blood was heading in two directions at once, to his cheeks as well.
Rachael pulled her head away, grinned, and then he felt her left hand snaking downwards, fingers sliding beneath his jacket, running over his chest first, then his belly, before inching slowly lower. It was doing nothing to quell his rising excitement.
Neither was what Rachael did next, finding the zip of his jeans, tugging on it, yanking it down almost, then sliding her hand inside. Feeling his hardness, encouraging it—rubbing her palm up and down it, through the cotton of his boxers.
“No ... wait ...” He couldn’t believe he was saying that, but he was. Wait for what? But Rachael wasn’t doing that anyway, her motions faster now.
Then she stopped and it was like the worst thing in the world. Mike let out a little cry in fact. But hadn’t he just asked her to wait? To stop? What a moron.
Thankfully, Rachael was only pausing so she could undo the belt of his jeans, and pop the button. Before he knew what was happening, and seemingly without his consent or help, she’d tugged both his jeans and his boxers down, freeing his painful erection.
Freeing it, so she could bend over and plant her lips on it. When she started, Mike thought he was going to squeal like a little girl. The sensations were unlike anything he’d ever felt before, Rachael bringing him to the point of release then slowing down—only to speed up and start again.
Mike closed his eyes, head back on the rest. No ... he said again to himself this time. No, this wasn’t right. This wasn’t ... Rachael. And he knew—thought he knew—his Rachael. This wasn’t like her. Like Yvonne maybe, to do this in the front seat of his DJ-ing van. In fact she’d do it at the drop of a hat, anywhere. But not Rachael, not even with a little vodka inside her.
The amount of times he’d tried to get her to do stuff like that, and she’d refused. It was all he could get her to do to put out, especially towards the end—another reason why he’d been forced to look for it elsewhere. It had been Rachael’s fault all along when you thought about it, so she couldn’t really complain.
She’d made him feel like he was doing it wrong, not really satisfying her. Rachael never said anything, of course; she was too nice for that. It was just a feeling he had after finishing, that his efforts
weren’t really being fully appreciated.
But that had been the old Rachael apparently. The Rachael before the events of last weekend. They did say that people who’d gone through traumas learnt to appreciate what was important in life, realised that it was fleeting. All that crap she’d been spouting back there had clearly been just for her mother’s benefit. So she’d go off safe in the knowledge that Rachael had washed her hands of him. Yet Rachael simply hadn’t been able to wait. Hadn’t been able to resist him ...
No, no. Not even a close shave like that would make Rachael—
But if what she was doing right now was out of character, what happened next was even stranger. Rachael stopped and faced him, moving back slightly.
“Wha—” Mike began, but she placed a finger on his lips.
Then she started to undo the buttons of her coat, one by one, seductively—sticking her tongue out of the corner of her mouth. He could see by the time she got three or four in, almost to her waist, that she had nothing on underneath.
I must have slipped sideways into some parallel porn dimension, thought Mike. This kind of thing just doesn’t happen in real life ... not to me. And definitely not with Rachael. She just isn’t that kind of girl.
Though clearly she was, because Rachael opened the coat wide to show him she was completely naked under there. She was grinning again, as she took one of his trembling hands and placed it on the nearest breast, urging him to knead it. Rachael let out a moan as Mike obliged.
Then she was manoeuvring herself across, avoiding the gear-stick, boots up to her thighs almost, sliding onto him with another groan. Mike let out one himself when she began rocking up and down, reaching out for both breasts and massaging them. Rachael, for her part, gripped the chair on either side of him for support. She leaned towards him, kissing him urgently, jamming her tongue into his mouth and swirling it around. Breaking off, but not before nipping his bottom lip, drawing blood.
“J-Jesus ... Rachael! What’s ... what’s gotten into you?” Mike managed in-between movements.
There it was again, that grin. “What can I say?” Rachael practically grunted. “You just bring out the animal in me.”
Backwards and forwards, now circular motions. So fast, so hard, they were rocking the van itself. Mike absently worried about whether someone would see it, see them through the windows, but in the end decided he didn’t care.
At least not until Rachael’s rocking began to get painful. “Easy, sweetheart,” he said when she came down at an awkward angle. He’d seen another TV show once, a different one but on the same documentary channel, where they’d said it was very easy to break a certain part of the male anatomy that way. Mike didn’t fancy being carted off in an ambulance with that particular affliction. For one thing he’d never live it down with his mates.
But Rachael didn’t seem to give a shit, if anything it simply urged her on. “Oww!” Mike cried out. If she didn’t stop she’d—
Rachael was laughing, throwing back her head and actually laughing. Not in the same way she used to do when he jumped at the horror films; there was more malice to it, more spitefulness.
You’re supposed to be the man!
“What’s the matter, can’t keep up with the pace?”
Nearly gave me a heart attack!
Leaning back and grabbing the ceiling of the van, she knocked the rear-view mirror with her shoulder but didn’t stop riding him. Didn’t stop hurting him.
You hurt me so, so much.
“Rachael ... Rachael please!” Nothing, no response at all apart from her grunting. “Rachael!” he snapped.
She stopped, looking directly at him. Only his eyes were drawn not to her, but the mirror. The reflection there in that rear view mirror. It didn’t show the side of Rachael’s face, but something else. Something altogether hairier. Something altogether scarier.
‘Rachael’ blinked, but the thing in the mirror’s eyes flashed red. The snout opening to reveal hideously sharp teeth. Mike’s mouth dropped open as well, barely able to comprehend what he was seeing. He’d slipped sideways again, out of the porn dimension and into a fucking nightmarish one. He looked from the reflection to Rachael, because for a second or two it was still Rachael in front of him. But she knew now she didn’t need to pretend anymore, was turning into the thing in the mirror; matching it, completing the transformation in a flash.
A flash of ivory, that was. As the creature bent forwards, leaning in not for a kiss this time, but to clamp its jaws onto the flesh and bone there.
To take a huge bite before Mike could even let out a scream.
And to begin eating his face clean off.
* * *
Kathleen woke up on the sofa with a start.
She’d had every intention of heading off to bed a little after her daughter, but had waited a while—probably in case Rachael came wandering through again, sleepwalking. At least Kathleen knew how to handle that, had seen it before. There was something she could do about it, to help. The rest of all this ... It was sort of alien to her.
But it had been such a long day, and all the worry had caught up with her, sending her off to sleep without the aid of the usual pills the doctor kept on prescribing for her. It was the only way to get her off, usually. However, safe in the knowledge that her daughter was sleeping peacefully (for now) in the next room, she found her eyelids drooping; couldn’t keep her eyes open in fact.
Then that sudden noise had awoken her, a crashing sound, and she’d been thrown back in time fifteen years or more—conditioned, listening for her baby, in case she was trying to get out of the house.
“Rachael?” she whispered.
There was also a cruel draft coming from somewhere ...
Kathleen checked her watch. It was 2 a.m. She got up off the couch, though it took her a little while to get moving. She made her way through the flat towards Rachael’s room, noting that the cold air was seeping out through the crack in the door she’d left.
Kathleen nudged open the door, eyes adjusting to the lack of light in the room. Rachael was spark out in the bed, little more than a lump really under the duvet. She spotted the problem straight away; Rachael’s window was open. Little more than a crack itself, but the wind was gathering strength outside and it had knocked some of Rachael’s ornaments from the sill, keepsakes like animals made out of shells that she’d collected from seaside trips. Thankfully none were broken and Kathleen stooped to pick them up, bones firing off warning shots as she did so. Then she went to the window; she was certain it had been closed when she’d tucked her daughter in—would have noticed surely if it hadn’t been. Kathleen glanced across at that damned fire escape, tutting again—it simply wasn’t safe! Especially when the window was open like that. Kathleen closed it again, carefully, making sure the locks were secured. She didn’t want her daughter climbing out there in her sleep, either.
Then she went over to check on Rachael, pulling back the duvet a little so she could see her face better; neither the banging nor Kathleen’s presence had apparently woken her. The poor thing was exhausted, just like her. She watched the girl sleeping for a moment or two, saw her frowning, whimpering slightly. Kathleen brushed her hair to soothe her, took great delight and satisfaction in the fact that the frown had vanished and Rachael’s face had taken on a more peaceful cast.
Kathleen smiled, then bent and kissed her daughter on the top of the head. “Sweet dreams, love. See you in the morning.”
She dawdled in the doorway before closing it to, looking back again at her daughter. Rachael had rolled over, dragging the duvet with her and pulling it back over her head, as if trying to hide from something.
Kathleen frowned herself now, even bit her lip. The sooner she could get her child away from this place, the better. Then they would be happy, both of them.
Then they would live happily ever after
, Kathleen Daniels told herself.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rachael couldn’t help yawning as she stepped outside, the cold air seemingly making things worse: having the opposite effect to waking her up.
And that was even after two cups of strong, black coffee. She’d sensed her mother’s disapproval of the stuff as she made her second batch, bracing herself for a lecture on how it’s bad for the heart, causes IBS and makes you edgy. But the woman said nothing, making herself a tea instead. Right now caffeine was the only thing keeping Rachael awake, though. She’d had a shocking night, tossing and turning. Bad dreams—the worst in fact—about something chasing her, about running to get away but it finding her anyway ...
Finding her, and—
Rachael shook her head. Best not to think about it; she was becoming a bit of an expert at that as it happened. Either she wasn’t thinking about stuff, or couldn’t remember it. Her damned memory! But either way, this no longer felt like her life anymore. It felt like she was watching a film of someone else, going through the motions.
She’d barely heard her mother saying: “We’re getting a bit low on a few things, sweetheart. Milk for one.”
“Hmm?” Rachael had replied.
“Maybe I should pop down the shops, I can get us something nice for breakfast while I’m there. Do you fancy some muffins or croissants?”
“To be honest,” Rachael had replied, “I don’t really feel all that hungry.”
“Nonsense, you’ve barely eaten anything since I got here.”
“I ... I just don’t feel all that great, Mum.” Her mother had been at her side seconds later, feeling her head and declaring that she didn’t have a temperature. “I just feel a bit ... y’know, sick.”
Her mother looked at her sideways, and she knew full well what she was thinking. It was the morning and her daughter felt sick. Adding two and two together and coming up with a billion as usual. Rachael decided to head her off at the pass.
