by Will Carver
I wait.
I could let her go home with this muscular idiot tonight in his tight green T-shirt, flexing his pectoral muscles, and be completely unfulfilled as his affected-by-steroid-abuse tiny dick slots easily into her, barely touching the sides. She stares up at him, bored, faking a grunt or a moan as he fills his mind with thoughts about how he looks when he tries to fuck. Or, I could wait.
I could wait until his bladder is at bursting point, follow him into the men’s room and take him out of the equation there.
That is what I do.
I see him stand up at the table, leaving Amy on her own. He grabs his pint glass and downs the last third of a pint like an animal. As he heads towards the toilets I finish my last mouthful of Scotch, stand up from my stool and follow him in.
He doesn’t bother to hold the door open for me as I come in behind him. This annoys me. If he won’t do it in this situation, then he certainly isn’t going to do it for a lady like Amy and she deserves better than that.
I follow closely as he heads over to the urinal. Nobody else is in here, which is perfect. He tries to undo his belt as he walks, for efficiency. While he attempts to solve the puzzle of the buckle in his drunken state I take him down. A sharp kick to his lumbar region causes his knees to buckle and thrusts him forward into the urinal, his stomach thumping into the porcelain bowl, winding him and dropping him to the floor with a groan. I ram the heel of my hand into the back of his head, knocking his face into a pile of urinal cakes and stunning him. With one hand under his armpit, the other wringing his gel-drenched hair, I force his face into the cubicle door, flinging it open. All that is left is to drag him into the cubicle and leave him to piss himself. His eyes are open, vision blurred with tears, but he has no control over his bodily functions and cannot move anything apart from his eyelids.
I give him a final shoe to the face, I don’t want to damage my hands. Holding the sides of the cubicle for balance, I see his head snap back as he loses consciousness.
I don’t let him see me. There’s no need to kill him. The humiliation is the reward in this instance. The lock on the door can be opened and locked from the outside with a coin, so I shut him inside for the rest of the night.
Then I wait again.
Watching Amy getting restless. Nobody will discover the pile of meat left to defecate all over the backs of his own legs.
I order another Scotch before making my move.
Girl 3
I ASSUME HE is taking a little longer in there because he is buying condoms from a machine. A waste of money. I have my own. I’ve learned my lesson. I was with someone earlier in the year who bought a whisky-flavoured condom packet. The smell alone made me gag. He also wasted money on a tickler in the shape of a fist holding a hammer. Clearly no idea what a woman wants.
After a few minutes I start to consider the fact that he left through a window. Never does it cross my mind that he is covered in his own excrement, locked in a cubicle unable to move anything but his eyelids.
Three more minutes pass and I resign myself to the fact that he has bolted. My only worry is that I have finished my drink, but don’t want to go to the bar in case somebody steals my table.
Then he arrives, just in time.
It’s Eames.
My one in eight million chance.
He’s here to save me.
January
THIS TIME WAS different. I saw him. I actually saw him.
The Smiling Man, right in front of me. It wasn’t in my dream.
But I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t wait around for his message.
They had just found Girl 3.
Paulson had stuck to the brief fairly well. We hopped from bar to bar around London as if on a faux Monopoly board, trying to forget for one night about the terrifying things that happen in the capital. For every pint of lager we had some kind of chaser and it was nice that everyone had to drink the same thing. I hated the idea that I would be drunk in an hour, while everyone else was fine and they’d strip me naked and tie me to a lamp post or something just as immature. But it wasn’t like that.
We left work out of it.
Mostly.
I couldn’t forget about Dorothy or Carla and the image of them when they were found. I couldn’t stop going over The Smiling Man in my dream last night and the horrendous ordeal that he put me through. So I took my pager with me. If it is true, if another girl turns up the day after I have a dream about this sinister figure, then I want to be there. I don’t care if it is my stag night. I don’t care if I am supposed to be getting married tomorrow, I need to be there.
‘Ready for this one, Jan?’ Paulson says, smiling over his entire bloated face, his cheeks red from excitement and the alcohol he has already consumed. It seems as though none of this has affected him. Like he is drinking pints of lemonade with orange juice chasers.
‘What is this one?’ I ask. There are about fifteen of us out tonight, all from the force. No family. Audrey’s father died when she was younger and mine disowned me after Cathy was taken, so it’s just people I work with; none of them can really be called friends. I only asked Paulson to be my best man because he’s the person I see the most. We work well together and I do like him a lot, but it’s not like we went to school together or I knew him growing up. We met here and we share similar values when it comes to the justice system; we share similar interests when it comes to problem solving and detective work. I know he’ll do the job well. I think that’s why I picked him: competence.
‘It’s called a ladyboy.’ He laughs out loud, unknowingly spitting in my face.
Across the bar there are forty-five glasses lined up. Three drinks for each stag member.
Number one: A pint of lager. Something weak, around 4 per cent proof.
Number two: A gin and tonic with a slice of lemon.
Number three: A glass of Baileys cream liqueur.
‘The idea,’ he says gleefully, ‘is that you have to do it in one.’ Everybody looks at him in dismay.
‘In one?’ Murphy asks in his usual confused tone.
‘Well, by one, I just mean without a break. So, down the pint in one, as soon as the glass hits the bar, pick up your G and T and knock that back. When you put that down, drop the Baileys down your gullet. Easy.’ He performs a comedy maniacal laugh.
‘O-kaaaaaay.’ I drag it out to indicate my trepidation about this next event, which Paulson has so lovingly suggested, following his evening’s itinerary to the letter.
‘We’ll go one by one, starting from the left. So, Jan, you will be last. Gives you a little longer to come to terms with it.’ He pats me on the back and we all line up at the bar. I’m at the far right; it’s like being on death row. I know what’s coming, I can see what happens to those that go before me, but there is going to be no last-minute reprieve.
‘You ready, Adams?’ Paulson shouts down to the other end of the line. He is stood next to me in position fourteen. No doubt to show me exactly how easy it is before he goads me as I struggle with the lager alone.
‘Not really,’ Adams shouts back nervously.
‘GO!’ Paulson shouts down to the left to indicate the beginning of this ordeal. Adams struggles with the gassy pint and takes around twenty seconds to finish it, but it still counts as one. Everyone is cheering him on, chanting his name over and over. As he puts down his pint glass he takes a breath. This is not allowed and the mob to his right let him feel their disappointment. Murphy throws a handful of nuts in his direction and others boo him accordingly. He sinks the gin and the Baileys easily, and the second in the queue starts his journey towards total inebriation.
The whole bar has stopped what they are doing and turn in their seats to watch this pathetic spectacle of manliness.
What feels like a long time to the person drinking feels like seconds to me as my impending moment of validation approaches like the arrow to Carla’s brain. But, for this short time, I forget about the girls. That is the power of fear.
Glasses of water start to emerge for those who have completed the task. They need it. The combination of Baileys with gin can be lethal. It shouldn’t be mixed. It congeals within the stomach and is often regurgitated if overindulged. This can be seen with Dobbs at position four, who is sick into his mouth, but swallows it, and McMahon at position eight, who vomits a little into his own hands.
It gets to Murphy. He drinks half a pint, then stops for a second, the gas filling him up. He burps loudly and completes the rest in swift succession. Paulson is an animal. It’s as if he opens his gullet and the liquid vanishes in seconds. He turns and gives me a wink.
A wink that tells me he has been practising this, but also wishes me luck.
I need it.
I try to get the pint down as quickly as possible, knowing that the last two can be tipped in with relative ease. After I swallow the first gulp it gets harder and I slow down, biting down on the glass slightly; I’m worried I might crack it in my mouth. I take a few steady breaths through my nose as I ease on the pace towards the end of the pint.
The gin hurts. I never noticed that mine was the only one with ice in the glass. My teeth ache as I move on to the final creamy liquid, the entire entourage shouting, ‘Jan! Jan! Jan! Jan!’ Strangers around us joining the chorus. I shudder as I finish, and the saliva in my mouth thins. It’s the feeling I always get before I am sick. Paulson grabs my left arm and raises it in the air in triumph, as if this is confirmation that I am indeed ‘a man’. My head still hangs down and I exhale heavily, blowing my lips out as I do so.
‘Well done, Jan,’ he says, still holding my arm in the air, looking around at the adulation, as if I have just won a heavyweight boxing title. ‘Ready for the next place?’
‘I need water,’ I croak at him. ‘Get me water.’
He waves at the barmaid and she brings over a pint glass filled with water, ice and a slice of lemon. Paulson hands it to me and says delicately, ‘I bet you wish we were going to a strip bar now, eh?’ And he laughs at my pain.
‘Oh God, yeah. Anything but that again.’ And he takes this as confirmation.
He turns his head over his shoulder and shouts, ‘Come on, lads, he said yes! Let’s go!’ And they all crowd around me in a bundle, pushing me out the door.
Forcing me on to the street and towards the club where The Smiling Man is waiting.
Girl 4
I CHECK MY make-up in the hall mirror before leaving the house, pushing my lips into a kiss, almost making a bright red heart with my lips to accentuate their plumpness and fully appreciate my new lipstick. It works well with my new dress, a Versace, of course. A black, one-shoulder dress, sleek and slim. A stretch-cotton sateen with some wonderful structural detail. I turn to the side on tip-toes to admire the way it promotes my curves.
The phone rings and startles me.
‘Hello,’ I answer in a pseudo-sexy deep voice, as though I am Marlene Dietrich, joking around, thinking it is one of the girls calling before we go out.
Nothing.
‘January?’ I ask. I don’t know why. He’s the first person that comes to mind. He knows we shouldn’t be in contact until the wedding tomorrow, so it would be just like him to go against that and call me.
He laughs.
‘Jan … is that you?’
Silence.
It’s happening again. The phone calls. The mysterious silences that are becoming all too frequent. But this time I heard something. A laugh. A man’s laugh. When I said January’s name, the person on the other end sniggered. That made it creepier. Maybe it is someone who knows January. Maybe it’s because he now knows that January is not here and that I am a woman alone in a large empty house.
But I can’t show that I am scared.
‘Oh grow up,’ I say in the most patronising tone I can deliver. I muster enough courage to add, ‘Loser’ before I hang up.
I can feel how flustered I am now. It has taken some of the enjoyment out of the night ahead. Just as I feel I have stopped perspiring, before I start to hyperventilate, there is a thunderous rap at the door, which makes me drop my lipstick as I jump.
I watch it roll across the floor, quickly at first then slowing as it approaches the door. As I make my way over to pick it up I lift my heels so that I can ballerina over to where it stopped without my heels making a noise on the floor. As I crouch down subtly to pick it up my knee makes a cracking sound that feels as though it echoes and amplifies through the hallway.
I rise from my squatting position with lipstick in hand, close one eye and use the other to peer through the peep-hole. A short Asian man with thinning hair is standing on my step looking up, as if admiring the outside of the house. I see the small circular light intermittently flash on the Bluetooth headset protruding from his right ear. In the background beyond the driveway, a Mercedes is parked up, the engine still running, the lights still on. It’s the taxi I ordered to take me out to meet the girls.
I open the door and he brings his gaze back down to where I am.
‘Hello, miss,’ he says politely. ‘Taxi service, eight o’clock, Miss Audrey.’ He looks me up and down quite obviously, but I feel flattered that he bothered.
‘Yes. Thank you. I’ll be with you in just a sec.’ I smile at him. Partly to let him know I saw him looking me over and partly through relief.
‘OK, miss. I’ll wait in the car for you.’ He turns, giving a nervous wave, and trundles back to the warmth of his driver seat.
I go back to the table in front of the mirror to pick up my clutch bag and have one last look at myself. I feel like I look great, like the only time I will look better is tomorrow in my wedding dress.
I take one last look at the phone before I leave, wondering who keeps calling and saying nothing. Asking myself why they would suddenly laugh at me from the other end.
But this call has nothing to do with me.
The sniggering man at the other end of the line does not want to talk to me.
He is waiting for January.
He has something he wants to say to January.
I leave the light on in the hallway and shut the door behind me, double-locking it before I saunter over to the Mercedes where my appreciative driver is patiently waiting for me, watching me intently as my new dress displays the exact shape of my body beneath.
As I approach he gets out of his seat and opens the back door for me to enter.
‘Thank you.’ I slink into the opening and perch my bag on my lap.
‘You’re welcome, miss.’ He smiles and closes the door before getting back in himself.
I don’t wear my seatbelt, because it could crease me in the wrong places and, even though it is his duty to do so, the taxi driver says nothing to me as he turns around to look through the rear window, while he reverses out of the drive. As a result of my confidence and my obvious success, people are rarely confrontational with me.
This is supposed to be a civilised send-off. Ten girls from the office, out in the West End for a meal and a few bottles of wine. I don’t want to go to a club and drink tequila shots from a man’s belly button. I don’t want a fake-tanned bodybuilder holding a towel up in front of his waist while I kneel in front of him on stage taking him into my mouth. I don’t want to wear a plastic tiara, pink feather boa or ‘L’ plates on my £2,000 dress either.
But, after another call, I don’t want to go back to that huge, echoing, empty house and spend the night alone either.
January
THE PLACE IS dark and windowless. There is no sign outside to say what it is called or that it even exists.
Am I asleep?
Is this happening?
The rest of my party usher me down the stairs from the street. It reminds me of an old Chicago speakeasy during prohibition. It’s tucked away under a closed shop. I wonder how Paulson would even know about the place. I suppose everyone has a darker side, a secret part to them, but this is particularly seedy and I start to wonder how much I really know about my best man. Everything about it s
creams exclusivity. I’m surprised there isn’t a secret knock.
The door opens on to an area surrounded by heavy purple curtains. They look expensive, like the ones we have in our living room, only ours are a more earthy tone; Audrey tells me that is the fashion right now. Paulson holds me back from moving through the curtains until all fifteen of us are crammed into the small material square and the door is shut behind us.
‘Which way do you want to go?’ he asks me.
‘What?’
‘Which way do you want to go?’ he repeats. ‘Pick a curtain.’
‘Is this another trick?’ I look around frantically at my options, everyone peering at me, waiting for an answer.
‘Which way do you want to …?’
‘Left,’ I say, interrupting. ‘Left, for Christ’s sake.’
And, like a sinister circus ringmaster, Paulson bows his head to me and motions his hand towards the left curtain saying, ‘Ah, they always choose the left.’
I push through the curtain and enter the underbelly of our fine city. The lights are dim and there are large circular booths of black and purple leather scattered around the room. Some have a table in the centre, some have a table with a pole up to the ceiling. Some even have a girl dancing exotically, utilising the pole in her routine.
Before I even manage to take in the black granite bar surface or the roulette tables where you bet on black or purple rather than red or black, I am greeted by a short man with slicked-back dark hair.
‘Mr David, I presume.’ I look at him quizzically. ‘Please follow me, sir. Your area is over here.’ I follow him through the club, past the bar and gambling area, the smell of leather only just masking the scent of sweat and other stale bodily fluids, until we enter another area through a larger set of curtains.
