They hooked up every time he could get away, using the excuse of meeting his agent Ken, or his publisher, or his PR person. Sarah was content enough working on her family trees. It got to a point, though, where Brian was looking at his home life, looking at his secret life with Melinda (oh, some of the things they'd done over those months!), and wanting more than just a few stolen hours here and there. In fact he wanted to swap. Wanted Melinda at home with him so he could have her anytime he wanted — first thing in the morning, in the shower, over the kitchen table if he so desired, smearing pancake syrup all over her.
And for Sarah to be gone.
It wasn't as if they'd ever had kids, was it? Though not for the want of trying in the early days. Maybe that might have changed things — maybe not. Neither of them wanted to be tested in case it was their fault.
Should have been a clean break, in theory…Ah, who was he kidding? After so many years, how could anything like that ever be clean?
Brian resolved to tell her when he got back from one of his 'business' trips, fired up at the prospect of sex with Melinda on tap.
"Look, it's just not working out, Sarah."
"What are you talking about?" He could see tears welling in her eyes already, the first of many that afternoon. She'd run the gamut of emotions: from misery to anger; from resentment to denial.
"It hasn't been good for a while, surely you've seen that?"
"Please Brian, please don't do this to me…"
("Please, baby, why don't you let me in?")
His turn to look down at the floor. "I have to, don't you see?"
"Who is she?"
"What do you mean?" Brian replied, looking up again.
"I know you, Brian. You wouldn't throw away what we've got without there being someone else involved."
"You're crazy."
(You're going crazy…It can't be her.")
Sarah grabbed him by the arms. "I can still smell her on you!" she'd screamed into his face.
He'd shrugged her off, pushing her back at the same time. That's when he'd said it. Those three little words; not the three he'd said to her for the first time the morning after they'd slept together. But just as powerful. "Sarah…It's all over."
But it wasn't, was it? That was just the start.
When he wouldn't speak to her anymore, Sarah packed and left — as far as he knew going back to stay with her sister. Melinda moved in about a week later.
Next there came the phone calls, pleading at first — "Why do things have to change? I want to come home." — and later accusatory. "I know she's there with you," Sarah would say bitterly. In the end he began to hang up as soon as he realised it was her.
Then the calls stopped.
A good month went by and he didn't hear anything from his wife, though he was expecting to hear something from a solicitor at some point. Tying up loose ends. (Is that what she'd become, Sarah? A loose end?) Divorce proceedings would be starting soon — yet strangely he wasn't in any rush to initiate them himself. Probably because the shine was wearing off his fling with Melinda. Because that's all it was, that's all it ever had been; in the end he understood that, especially when she was going out and spending his money on expensive clothes and jewellery. Brian had made a rod for his own back there, buying her presents in the first place, leading her to think that what was his was hers. While at the same time she was trying to muscle in on those real meetings with his agent, publisher and PR person.
"I can see what you're up to, you know," he said to her after coming out of one such session.
"I don't know what you mean," Melinda answered, her sweet face long since replaced with the hard one she wore most of the time around him.
"Come off it. 'Oh Ken, don't be silly, you don't have to look at my stories — just because I'm shagging one of your biggest clients'." He fluttered his eyes then, mocking her, and she slapped him.
"Fuck you, Brian."
Things hadn't gone so well after that. But they'd gone from bad to worse when he got the call. A couple of weeks on his own with no Melinda, flipping through old photo albums (who gave a shit about the past, now, eh?), and he'd started to realise what he'd thrown away. What a bastard he'd truly been to Sarah.
When the phone rang, he snatched up this time, praying it would be her, praying they could work things out. It hadn't been Sarah, though. It had been about her.
"You're listed as her next of kin," the voice down the line informed him. He dropped the receiver. No, not Sarah. She wouldn't do something like that! Except…except, he'd driven her to it, hadn't he. And while he'd been making up his fucking mind and coming out of the other side of this…this what? Midlife crisis? She'd been going through Hell…
(He often wondered if he was the one who'd died all along, maybe killed himself , and this was his punishment in—)
Fast forward several months; months after identification, months after putting her in the ground…Just when he'd got to the point where he would give anything to see her again.
And then the first visit. The first of many. In all kinds of weather, out in that flimsy nightgown. Brian recalled the night of the rain; she hadn't moved as the water saturated her, causing the silk to stick to her body, making it see-through, making him hard again.
(And another time, another place, out walking when they were young — not caring about the torrential downpour because they had each other. "We've been in this rain, feels like for hours," she'd said to him. "So?" he replied, clearing a wet strand of hair out of her eyes…)
Sarah was out there in the rain alone that night, and this time she had been there hours. "Please, Brian. Why do things have to change?"
Because you're dead, Sarah. Things change when you're dead — or at least they're supposed to. You don't just carry on with your lives — ha! — as if nothing's happened. Doesn't work that way.
Night after night, time after time. Yet he told no-one about it. What would he say? "Hey, Ken, I think my dead wife's coming to see me every night. I think I'm being haunted or maybe I'm just going nuts, y'know?"
"Understandable. Now, when are you going to get that new manuscript to me?"
That wasn't going to happen any time soon. He could hardly focus on existing, let alone working. Now it was Ken's calls he was ignoring; his knocks at the door when the agent came out to visit.
Because there was Sarah, and only Sarah.
Here again, tonight. "Brian…Brian, please! Won't you answer me? Won't you let me in?"
Tonight might be different, he told himself again. She might not be there when you look, when you flip on the lights. Then that will prove you're okay.
Dammit! He pulled the curtain back and looked. There was the figure…He didn't need the lights. It was her, same as always.
But something was different tonight. Sarah was turning; leaving.
Christ, do something. This is what you wanted — the chance to be with her again. You've hesitated all this time, frightened of what you might find if you just went out there and…touched her. Remember the feel of her, remember what it was like to hold her…?
("Oh God Brian, please…")
To really hold someone you love and care about. You wanted this and now you're about to let it slip through your fingers. If there's a chance, just a chance that she could be real…
Brian ran to the door, undoing the locks and bolts, flinging it wide open. "Wait! Sarah, please wait!"
The dark figure, in the process of walking away from him forever, paused and turned. He could see the outline of her head. Feel her gazing at him — and though he couldn't see her eyes he knew it was a longing look.
"Baby?" she asked.
"Yes…Sweetheart, is it really you?"
There was a slight tip of the head.
"I didn't dare hope. I thought I was going mad."
Sarah walked forwards, passing through the floodlight's invisible boundary. He saw her clearly now as they flicked on, more clearly than he ever had before — coming closer and closer
as she did so. "It's me, baby. It's really me."
There were tears welling in Brian's eyes. "I'm sorry, Sarah. I'm so sorry for what I did, what I said. Sorry I didn't believe. I—"
"Shh. It's okay. Let's go inside and we can talk."
She'd covered the distance between them quickly, obviously as eager to get to him as he was to reach out and touch her — make sure she was actually there (and God, did she look good in that nightdress, the way it clung to her, just like his shirt had once done…ignore the cuts on her wrists…) But she was just out of reach near the doorway. Just come a little closer, a little closer…
Now it was Sarah hesitating. Don't just leave her out there in the cold, she wants to come inside. She's always wanted to come back home.
Brian pulled back, into the hall, and beckoned for Sarah to follow him. "Come in," he told her. "It's all right."
Sarah smiled, then crossed another boundary.
She approached him, reaching out her own hands. Letting him touch them. She was real; as solid as anything Brian had ever felt in his life. Sarah took one of his palms and placed it on her breast.
"That's it baby." She smiled again. "I know what you want."
Brian couldn't help grinning. It had been so long since he'd made love to his wife, even before her death — even before the split.
"Yeah, that's right," said Sarah as he kneaded her. "Please baby…Please…"
"Oh God, Sarah. God, I love you so, so much."
At that, Sarah tensed up. "Love?"
"Yes," said Brian looking into her deep, green eyes. "I love you."
She smiled again, but then the smile grew organically into a laugh. "You don't know the meaning of the word."
Brian frowned. Suddenly this whole situation — this whole situation which shouldn't really be happening at all — was turning sour. Had Sarah come back just to tease him, then point out the error of his ways? The 'ghost' of dead wives past? He didn't need her to do that! He'd felt bad enough without.
"Fortunately, I do. Now," she told him.
"What—" he began, but she placed a finger to his lips.
"Don't speak, Brian. You've done all I wanted you to do. Now it's my turn…" Sarah grabbed him by the arms and swung him around into the wall. It shouldn't have been possible to even lift him, let alone do this, but his wife was incredibly strong suddenly. Stronger than she ever had been in life.
And when she smiled again, he saw her teeth…
"No," said Brian. It couldn't be possible, he'd seen her corpse. Couldn't be possible that she'd become something he'd written about — albeit only a few shorts, as it didn't do to overuse the classics…unless you had a new twist.
But, as he was about to find out, Sarah was exactly that. "You didn't think I'd actually topped myself because of you?" She laughed once more, cocking her head right back. Still no bite marks.
Except why did they always have to be at the neck?
"You think while you were having fun with that whore, I wasn't out looking for someone else too? Someone who could stop the pain, someone who could make me feel wanted again?"
There was a shadow at the door, just beyond it in fact. The figure of a large man dressed in black.
"We're going to be together for a long time, he and I. He promised and…and I believe him. His family history's fascinating, Brian…Oh, the things we've done together this past year. But I just couldn't stop thinking about you. I knew I had to come back." She grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him against the wall again; hard. It was now that he saw it — the cuts at the wrists, easily mistaken for razor slashes, but too jagged. Too much like—
Panicking, Brian tried to push his wife back, but he couldn't shift her. "Please Sarah, please don't do this to me."
"I have to, don't you see? Please don't struggle, Brian. You'll only make things harder on yourself."
"No—"
"Yes!—"
("Yes! Please, oh my God…Yes!")
"—I've waited all this time for you to drop your guard, but I can be oh, so patient. Especially now. It was also sort of fun, given your line of work." She tutted. "You really should have known better than to let me inside."
There was another noise from the doorway and Brian saw more figures emerging from behind the broad-shouldered man. Oh, Sarah had friends now. So many friends…Crowds no longer bothered her in the slightest.
"But now it's time, Brian. Time to tie up loose ends." Her incisors grew longer than ever, her face altering, contorting, brow furrowing. He had to admit, there was a part of him that had always wondered if stuff like this existed. He'd never wanted to find out this way, though.
"There's just one last thing I have to say to you," Sarah managed through her new teeth, pushing against those ruby-red lips. "And I think you know what it is, don't you?"
In spite of himself Brian nodded.
"It's over," he whispered eventually.
"It's all over…"
Temptation
Pete Kempshall
He wasn't listening. He'd already made up his mind.
Vicky sat in her warped orange chair and watched Wentworth's gaze flick to the wall. The red circle — slashed diagonally through its middle — glared back at him, intransigent. Accusing.
He sighed and swivelled his eyes back to Vicky. She could see that the cravings still flickered within them. The atmosphere in the room was thick, repeated scrubbings never quite able to shift the tang of urine and vomit from the air. And Wentworth had been sitting there a long time…he'd be desperate to get the taste out of his mouth.
But Vicky could tell the policeman was a good boy. He wouldn't cave. All the same, his fingers had now moved over the packet of cigarettes on the table, and begun tap-tap-tapping on the cellophane. An addict's SOS.
She switched her attention back to her lawyer. He had been holding forth now for upwards of ten minutes and the effort was making him sweat.
"As a new mother, Mrs Burns has been susceptible to all manner of hormonal and chemical upheavals. And as you can see in Dr Wise's statement — you have read Dr Wise's statement…?"
Wentworth nodded. His fingers increased their tempo.
"…Mrs Burns has been subject to further additional stresses since her daughter's birth and—"
"That's her excuse, is it?" Wentworth interjected.
"Well of course not. But you have to understand that such factors can lead to poor impulse control—"
"Poor impulse control? She waltzed into a department store—"
"—and should be viewed as mitigating—"
"—and she took—"
"Stop it! Both of you just stop it!" It was the first time Vicky had spoken since the interview began. "Stop it." She raised her head, looked at Wentworth, tears in her eyes. "I didn't think, all right? I didn't think, and I'm sorry. I saw it lying there and I wanted it, so I took it.
"I just wanted it to be mine."
****
It takes only a second. From seeing it, to the realisation that no one is watching, to taking it.
One second.
In a single, smooth movement, Vicky stashes the iPod in the parcel shelf under the pram and starts towards the exit. The lanky teen behind the service desk still has his back to her, talking on his mobile. His ring tone had stirred something inside Vicky. Tinkly, like trickling water, or...
She forges through the adjoining department, Women's Fashion. The only customer there is trying dresses on in the changing rooms. The staff member minding the department is hovering by the cubicles, leaving the till unmanned, and Vicky walks on unchallenged. It crosses her mind for the first time what she's just done. She feels no guilt. All that she can think of is how easy it was. How simple to give in to temptation, to see what she wanted and just take it.
'I know what I want.'
Just Perfumes and Toiletries to go, then the exit. There are more people here, staff and shoppers. Stay calm. Don't give anyone any reason to suspect.
She remembers what Grant told he
r once, a long time ago. Store security guards hate stopping women with babies — too many have copped it for accusing a pregnant woman or young mother of shoplifting by mistake. If she stays calm she can walk straight out, free and clear.
She swerves around a table, on which stands a pyramid of lurid aftershave boxes, but she mistimes the manoeuvre, almost running into the display. The sudden movement bangs her handbag into the side of the pram and her baby's small, sleeping body jerks, startled.
Cold panic. If her little girl wakes up, starts to cry, she'll draw attention. Someone might notice what Vicky has done, and then…She can hear the cries already.
STOP! STOP THAT WOMAN!
They'll take her girl away. When they see what kind of a mother Vicky is, when they find out she's been getting treatment from Doctor Wise —
She sucks in a deep breath. In the pram her daughter has resettled without so much as a whimper.
No one's going to stop her.
There, finally. The exit. Just a few more steps and she'll be clear. Still no one has raised their voice, let alone the alarm.
Her gaze fixed straight ahead, Vicky grips the pram's handle tighter and strides towards the door.
"Mmmm. Hmmm. Grant! Door!"
Vicky tried to push Grant off her, just enough to reach her keys, but he maintained the clinch. She fumbled blindly in her handbag: purse, tampons, iPod. Keys!
She withdrew her hand with her prize, only for the key ring to squirm in her fingers like a freshly landed fish, slip from her grasp and rattle unseen to the floor.
"Grant!" she half-pleaded, half-giggled. "Grant, stop it!"
He disengaged just long enough for her to squat and retrieve the keys — the second she was upright, he seized her, resuming his onslaught of kisses.
Vicky moaned, turned slightly to the left and pulled free her arm. A questing moment, a metallic scraping and she found the lock. The latch gave, and the pressure of their bodies swung the door open, tumbling them onto the rough hall carpet.
They wrestled, Grant flashing out a foot and kicking the door closed behind them. He was straddling her small waist now, his tongue dancing around hers while her fingers worked the buttons of his shirt.
Scenes From the Second Storey Page 11
