by Monica Belle
I spent most of Tuesday in the graveyard scrubbing graffiti off. Even with Lilitu around it had proved impossible to stop it all, although it was nothing to what it had been when I arrived. Most had given up, but I was sure that at least two of the local writers had decided it was a challenge. Either that or they were trying to provoke me personally. One signed himself ‘Biggy’, the other ‘Snaz’, which might just have been female. Girls are rare in the graff scene, most of those who do associate sticking to hip hop and other things that don’t get you arrested. Biggy went in for purples and blues with a lot of fades and a silver base. Snaz preferred clashing electric blue, vivid pinks, a particular acid green and a scarlet lip motif. Both were equally skilled and an equal nuisance. I wasn’t even sure which they were, or even if there really were two rather than one, because the pieces and tags always appeared when I was taking Lilitu for a walk. It had occurred to me they might live close by, close enough to watch my comings and goings, which was a little scary.
The two Lilitu had scared away were much clumsier, and had managed only the outline for two letters, Z and U, before she arrived. They had also painted the little metal flag on Major Inkerman Goodwell semaphore red, which I left, and made a few random scrawls elsewhere, which I cleaned off. Snaz had done a big piece on the rear wall which I hadn’t noticed as well, and by the time I had finished I was hot and sticky, thirsty too.
I went inside for a drink and a wash, stripping out of my sweaty dungarees and climbing into the big sink to splash water over my face and body. It had been a lot of work, and I smelt of meths and paint. My mind was dwelling on ways of getting rid of Biggy and Snaz, but while I was pissed off with them it was hard to feel resentful. I’d done my share of tagging, as a kid and when I’d wanted to assert my identity as the dark and mysterious Dusk instead of plain old Angela.
Dusk had been my tag, done in black lettering as if from a medieval scroll, sometimes as a dub with a gold or silver fill. Twice I’d made it a piece, or tried to – one huge one beside a railway in black shading to deep purple with highlights of silver and dull dark green, and the other one a red and black Gothic script with deaths heads over the ‘u’. I’d always been a loner, and never got that into it because everybody seemed to hate each other. The local bombing crew had held me down and tagged ‘TOY’ across my chest, but with my usual defiance it had only made me worse. In the end I’d earned their respect by putting my piece halfway up the sheer glass face of a twenty-storey office block. I was working for the firm who did the window cleaning, but they didn’t know. About that time I’d begun to really understand myself, and as I’d moved more into my own peculiar blend of Gothicism and sex I had given up on the tagging.
So I knew how Biggy and Snaz worked, probably as a team with one keeping lookout while the other completed his piece. They could watch the cemetery gate and might even have mobiles to communicate my comings and goings, while it was no doubt possible to do the outer walls at night without disturbing Lilitu. So far they hadn’t done anything inside the church, but to grow more daring is in the nature of tagging, so I was sure it was only a matter of time, and that the more I reacted to them the more determined they would get. Of course if Lilitu got one then they’d stop it, but that would lead to all sorts of trouble.
My thoughts were interrupted while I was drying myself, first by a deep growl from Lilitu, then by a knock on the vestry door. The writers were hardly going to knock for me, so I called out and was answered by a familiar voice, Stephen Byrne. I shouted for him to wait and began to dress, hurrying on my panties and dress, then slowing down. He had an image of me in his head and I wanted to keep it that way.
Stockings, boots, hair, make-up, jewellery and perfume and I was ready in a shade over half an hour, not bad for me. Lilitu had come in from the church to see what was going on, and I took a firm grip on her collar as I opened the door. Stephen was reading the inscription on Nathaniel Hawkins’s stone, very smart in his suit and tie. He smiled as he saw me, flicked a worried look at Lilitu and spoke.
‘What a beautiful dog. Um . . . I managed to get off early today, cancelled meeting, and I thought you might like to come out for the evening?’
‘Sure.’
There was no hesitation. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t call him and I hadn’t, but that I’d go if he came for me. Here he was. There was no hesitation, but a little guilt. As I let Lilitu free and locked the door I was telling myself I would just stick to dinner and conversation, but I knew there was no real strength in my resolve. Stephen intrigued, and if I wasn’t entirely sure why, then in part at least it was because of his very respectability, and what I knew lay hidden underneath.
He’d been patient waiting, presumably an asset in a politician, and was smooth and friendly as he guided me to his car, so smooth and friendly in fact that I began to wonder if he was up to something. After all, we’d had sex, and in my experience even those guys who play the white knight at first tend to drop it after a shag or two.
We drove west, through the city and into the West End, along the front of the Houses of Parliament and in among a duster of tall, red-brick buildings beyond, flats for the wealthy. His block had a garage beneath it, complete with security guard and automatic iron grille to keep out the mob. I could see from the way he was acting that I was meant to be impressed, and I was, a touch, even if it was all more or less what I’d been expecting.
His flat was equally impressive, furnished and decorated with restrained elegance, mahogany furniture, deep-green leather, nothing garish or cheap. It wasn’t really my taste, but it was comfortable, and all very new despite the old-fashioned look, with the sweet-sharp scent of leather catching my nose as I sat down in the settee he indicated. He went into the kitchen, speaking as I heard the chink of metal on glass.
‘Tonight, Angel, I treat you . . .’
‘Angela, but I prefer Dusk really.’
‘Angel, if I may. It suits you.’
‘Suits me!?’
‘A dark angel, maybe, but an angel.’
I shrugged and smiled, flattered despite myself. He was laying it on thick, but it was impossible to be anything other than amused. As he busied himself in the kitchen, just out of my sight, he went on.
‘Angel or devil, tonight I treat you. Sit back and enjoy yourself while I cook you a dinner I promise you won’t forget in a hurry.’
‘Why? Are you going to drug me and do obscene things to my semi-conscious body?’
‘Very funny. No, I’m going to treat you as I suspect you’ve never been treated before, as a Lady should be.’
There was more than a touch of condescension in what he was saying, and my mouth came open for a sarcastic response, only to dose again. If he wanted to play the generous benefactor to my street waif, then that was up to him, and he obviously thought he was flattering. It seemed silly to make an issue of it when all he wanted to do was fill me with good things, then presumably fuck me.
He stepped out from the kitchen bearing a tray with two glasses, two plates, bread and butter, a wooden platter with some smoked salmon on it, a jar of fish eggs and a bottle of champagne. He spoke as he indicated each item.
‘For my Angel, nothing but the finest. Smoked salmon, wild, from a little place I know on Loch Fyne, Avruga caviar, champagne La Belle Epoque 1996. Tuck in.’
‘I will, thanks.’
I had no idea what it had cost, but I guessed more than I got in a week, maybe a month. Part of me wanted to point out that I was quite happy to be his Mistress without the gifts, but it was far easier to accept his offer. So I piled some of the caviar onto one of the tiny slices of brown bread and took a mouthful as he worked on the foil of the champagne bottle. The caviar was salty, nothing special really, and certainly not something I’d pay a lot for.
The bottle came open with a gentle pop, spilling a touch of froth over his hand and onto the carpet. He ignored the spill, pouring carefully with the glass tilted and handing it to me when the deep-yellow liquid had risen
halfway up. He watched paternally as I took a sip, leaving me feeling I should make some remark. Unfortunately the stuff tasted like old white wine put through a soda siphon, something I’d experienced in my last year at school, only worse.
‘I’ve never really tasted anything quite like this before.’
‘It’s exclusive, naturally. Only a little is made, and then only in the best years.’
‘Oh.’
He settled back, his eyes on me as he sipped at his own glass, apparently enjoying the spectacle of watching me eat. I felt rather as if I was in a goldfish bowl, but it beat scrubbing tags off walls, so I helped myself to some of the salmon, which actually tasted nice. Stephen took only a tiny sample of each food and had filled my glass before his own had really been touched. Presently he got up again and returned to the kitchen, then began to lay a table in the adjoining room, carrying through more glasses, crockery, cutlery, and three bottles of different wines.
‘I don’t mind you getting me drunk, Stephen, but with that lot I really am going to be semi-conscious.’
‘Nonsense. We don’t have to finish every bottle anyway, but each course needs its own wine.’
As he began to cook, so he began to hum to himself, ‘Jerusalem’ of all things. He seemed thoroughly pleased with himself, doubtless confident that he had me where he wanted me. It was true, sort of, although far less because of the fuss he was making over me than the memory of how dedicated he was to my pleasure.
Whatever he was doing in the kitchen it was pretty complicated, and he paused only once, to put on some classical music very quietly and dim the lights. The taste of the champagne had improved after a couple of glasses, and I finished it along with the salmon, leaving me feeling pleasantly mellow by the time he brought out two steaming plates. He even held my chair out for me to sit down at the table.
It was an incredibly elaborate dish, and incredibly rich, with different sorts of meat and a dark red sauce, some unusual kind of rice, tiny peas and asparagus. The wine was equally rich, red and strong, and he poured with a generous hand, both for me and himself. I didn’t bother to hold back and I couldn’t help but be flattered by the effort he was putting into my seduction, and was soon playing my part.
A delicious chocolate cake followed the main course, washed down with sweet golden wine, then cheese and port. By then I was completely mellowed out, ready for anything except that my tummy felt fit to burst. He had become ever more attentive and ever more confident as the meal progressed, also eager, and he was fidgeting with his empty port glass when I had finished mine. I stretched, deliberately making my dress tight over my braless breasts to show their outline and the twin bumps of my nipples.
He smiled, trying to look cool and refined, but only managing randy. I got up, slightly unsteady on my feet as I crossed to what I had already worked out was the bedroom door. Within was a big, square room, the light already on to show a huge four-poster bed, furnishings much like those elsewhere in the flat and a wide-screen TV. I laid myself down on the bed, flat on my back, too drunk and too full to pose. My vision was swimming slightly as I took in my surroundings, all very neat and restrained. There were framed prints, maybe even originals – Beardsley but not rude ones.
I heard the chink of glasses and Stephen appeared, a large brandy in each hand and lust written all over his face. All I could manage in response was a drunken smile. He put the glasses down and reached out to trace a slow line down my body, from my forehead, across the tip of my nose and my lips, over my chin and down my neck, between my breasts and lower, over my belly. He stopped just an inch short of my pussy, tickling me gently through my dress, then moved back up, to touch the stud in my tummy button.
Relaxed, too full to respond, I let him explore, content so long as he didn’t climb on top of me. He was slow, and seemed fascinated with my piercing and the shape of my belly, stroking for ages before he at last moved to my breasts. My nipples were already hard, my need to be touched rising ahead of his eagerness, something so rare in men. With my breasts he gave me the same slow attention, caressing my skin through my dress, tracing the outline of each low mound and moving slowly towards the centre.
I was moaning by the time he got to my nipples, my eyes shut and my mouth wide in bliss. The tension in my stomach was still there, but had died a little, and the need to rest was being slowly pushed down by that to let my legs come apart. His touches became a little firmer, almost a massage, at once soothing and arousing. I stretched, arching my back to lift my bottom from the bed and tugged up my dress, all the way to my neck, laying myself bare to him.
Still he stroked, once more moving slowly lower with his hand as his body nestled up against mine. His mouth found my skin, kissing my shoulder, my breasts, my nipple, suckling on me. A shiver ran through me, prickling the skin of my neck and running down my spine. I wanted to touch myself, but as I moved my arms he took me gently by my wrists and raised them above my head. There was the tiniest, briefest touch of resentment, and then his hand had found the bulge of my pussy mound and I simply didn’t care.
My thighs came apart, opening to his touch as he cupped my sex, one finger pressing the front of my knickers down between my lips. He began to rub, still suckling on my nipple, and before I really knew it I was pushing back, wriggling into his touch as he masturbated me. Only when I felt the hard hot flesh of his erection touch my thigh did I realise he had his cock out. Again I reached down, wanting to take him in my hand, and again my arm was gently put back above my head.
This time his hand didn’t go to my pussy, but to my hip, pushing gently. I responded, rolling to the pressure and sticking my bottom out in the same movement. His hands found my pants, suddenly urgent, his patience at last gone. They were tugged down, baring my bottom. The hard shaft of his cock pushed between my cheeks, rubbing between them, the hair of his balls tickling my bottom hole. Again his hand found my belly, holding me to him. My leg rose, stretching my lowered knickers taut as I let him in, his hand to the bulge of my sex, his penis at my entrance, and in.
Immediately I was gasping in ecstasy, held firm on his cock as he began to pump into me and to rub me all at once. I took my breasts in hand, cupping them and stroking my nipples as his lips found the nape of my neck, kissing and licking at my skin. I was going to come, held and taken there by the man inside me, my pussy already tightening as he began to pump hard and deep, and I was there.
As it hit me I cried out, completely overcome by the sheer ecstasy of being brought so skilfully to orgasm as I was fucked. Even as my body went into frantic, jerking contractions the thought hit me that I was in the hands of a master, a man with a great deal of practice and dedication in the art of pleasuring women.
Then I was coming down, my body still shivering to his firm pushes, his cock seeming huge inside me, and rough, then suddenly smooth and he had come, groaning in his passion as he emptied himself inside me with deep, hard thrusts. His fingers now locked in the flesh of my hips, his teeth open against the skin of my neck, giving one last, delicious thrill at the thought of being vampirised as I was fucked, and it was over.
I had to get back, because I was not at all happy about leaving Lilitu on her own all night. Stephen wanted me to sleep with him, but could see the sense in my argument and called a cab. He was well pleased with himself, almost preening as we drank a leisurely coffee. It had been good, but it hadn’t been me.
All the way back I was thinking about it, and trying to work out why it didn’t feel right. He’d been generous, considerate, sweet; maybe a bit condescending and definitely controlling, but that shouldn’t have been too big a deal. I hadn’t felt the same way when he’d bent me across Eliza Dobson’s tomb, after all, and that had been a much more assertive act.
I couldn’t really get my head around it, but I did know I wanted to regain the balance of my emotions, to get away from the feeling of being the little street girl in the rich man’s house. More than that, I felt I was somehow spiritually tainted, as if I had betrayed
myself.
Back at All Angels the familiar gateway seemed somehow different, less welcoming, the griffins dark and menacing in a way they had never been before. The night was absolutely still, warm and velvet black in the shadows, with yellow, orange and umber highlights absolutely static, creating strange shapes among the tombs and stones, the church itself rising above everything as a black monolith. I moved into the yew alley, thinking of the spirits all around me, and their reaction to what I’d done, the Major full of lascivious interest but a little haughty, Eliza Dobson tutting knowingly, Foyle suspicious and full of envy.
What was needed was an act of atonement, even if it was just a little sex ritual, at the least a candle burned for each of those I had deserted in favour of the soft comforts of Stephen’s bed, and not just the dead, but Michael also. Better still, I would commune, but not sexually. I had enough candles, and it had been too long, far too long. As I made for the vestry door I let slip the straps of my dress and hung my head, stepping free from the little puddle of doth, naked in the warm night.
I would kneel at the foot of Isaac Foyle’s tomb in silent prayer with the candles burning all around me, communing with his spirit, but that was all. Sex had scared Foyle, as his carving of Lust on the rood screen showed. The fantastic carving of the tomb lid with its wonderfully overdone motif of cherubs and roses evoked only a sweet melancholy in me. It would also have been agony to lie on.
The mundane thought pushed into my head as I struggled to turn the key in the lock of the vestry door. Lilitu gave a welcoming snuffle from inside, and as the door swung wide her black snout thrust out, sniffing the air. She began to whine and I sniffed myself, but caught only the hot summer scents, my own perfume, flowers and plants, the cemetery mould. Lilitu knew more, far more. Somebody was out there among the graves.
Suddenly my nakedness was no longer atonement but vulnerability. I took a quick hold on Lilitu’s collar before she could move off among the stones, calmed her and quickly pulled my dress back on. She was growling and sniffing the air, eager, her sleek black fur reflecting dull ochre in the dim light, and as she turned I caught her eyes shining red. The knot of fear that had started up in my stomach faded a trifle and I was about to shout out a warning when I realised that there was another scent, very faint, and it took me an instant to recognise it – solvent.
