Lost in Shadows

by Alex O'Connell

  But the heroin gripped him ever more tightly, her long bony fingers reaching out, grasping and seizing at his body and mind. Insidiously. It stroked and caressed him. It squeezed, it strangled, it emasculated. It burnt into Bellini’s soul and subsumed everything that he had been. It became the very essence of his being, consuming everything he had ever been or could ever have been. It is perhaps too simplistic to call it the sole cause of his decline into what an objective layman, if not a qualified medical man, would call, accurately enough, madness. But it had, if nothing else, been a catalyst. It reacted with something deep within him, something that had always been there but had laid hidden, dormant throughout his life. Now, it was drawn to the surface. It was something that belonged to a less evolved creature than homo sapien; something that had no place in twenty first century London, unless caged, tightly tethered in the zoo in Regents Park. But Bellini was unable to reject it. It was too potent and insidious for that. It was something he could not resist and he had neither the strength nor the desire to fight. It was utterly compelling. An irresistible, controlling force and Bellini embraced it like the most beautiful of lovers. Now it was embracing him, touching more intimately than he had ever been touched before; in mind, in body, in soul and beyond. Far, far beyond. Lightening was at work in his brain. He was visited by angels and by devils. He communed with them and could detect no difference between them, they were one and the same creature. Black was white. White was black. Not only had all gradations, all shades of grey, been vanquished, so had all colours.

  He never thought about his kids but on occasions he missed Hannah. It came mainly when he wanted sex. And he wanted it now. She’d always been a whore in bed, he thought. A real dirty bitch. He had tried to be abstemious but he didn’t know why. God knows, if he had plenty of heroin, he also had plenty of girls. He had a few at the upper end of the market. Escorts rather than prostitutes. Rented out through a proper agency. Kosher. Legitimate. Classy. Sort of. But mainly, his girls catered for a more down market clientele. Not working the streets. That was too messy and too difficult to control. That sort of business could be safely left to the dirty little pimp running his dirty little slag of a girlfriend, making her turn the tricks to keep him in the low life style he was trying to become accustomed to.

  That wasn’t for Bellini. He owned three massage parlours in addition to the brothel he ran discretely in a quiet suburban street in Chiswick. There’s nothing wrong with that, Bellini often thought to himself. We all live off immoral earnings, one way or another. Everyone from pimp to Pope. Everyone one of us profits from the exploitation of someone weaker, less fortunate. The only thing that varies is the degree and the amount of profit. Bellini felt, with the self righteous justification that only the really deluded can lay claim to, that, in this respect, the real difference between him and everyone else was his honesty. Oh, and the amount of money he made. Everyone except him was a hypocrite. They were all fucking hypocrites and he despised them. They were little people. Insignificant compared to him. It was becoming increasingly rare, nowadays, for Bellini to give any thought to other people at all, to even concede to their existence, even in these pejorative terms. The world wasn’t simply centred around him, turning for him and for nobody else. The worldwashim.

  And he wanted to feel it. To exploit it. With a quick goodnight and a few hastily thought up instructions to Tommy, delivered more for the sake of form than out of necessity, he went out into the chill of the night air and drove to the nearest of his massage parlours.

  He sat outside in the Jag for a good five minutes before he finally rang the bell. This was yet another of the commodities that Don Bellini, in the past, had been happy to supply but had never yet himself partaken of.

  “Good evening, sir. Welcome to the White Peacock. Here for a massage? You’ve come to the right place, the best in town. We have some very beautiful girls working tonight. Very talented. Very special.” Maureen Bailey had written her script to the best of her limited ability. It was delivered in her clipped tones without favour or prejudice to every customer alike. She was well rehearsed. Maureen had been a working girl all her life. She had prided herself that she had been better than most, classy in an inexpensive backstreet way. But that was a few years ago now. The once vibrant Titian hair now glowed with the harsh tint of an inexpensive home dye to hide the premature grey. Still, with he makeup plastered deep to hide the worst of time’s ravages, she didn’t look her forty five years. But she had done once. “Mr. Bellini!” she was startled by her sudden recognition and showed it. After all, it was only the third time she had ever seen the man. Others handled the cash collections, paid the wages or dealt with any problem clients. “Everything’s alright, I hope. Just checking up on us, are you?” Bellini nodded but as soon as he walked into the muted, subduely lit reception room, she knew, she just sensed perhaps, that he wasn’t just checking up on them. He was here on ‘business’. Rumours had reached even this far out that Mrs. Bellini had done a runner, but she had just assumed that the boss must have been playing away from home. That was normally the case in her experience and he was a man, wasn’t he? Still, in her long career, she had learned by bitter experience to be diplomatic. “While you’re here, Mr. Bellini, why don’t I introduce you to our new girl. Her name’s Rosie. She’s very attractive. Long dark hair. Lovely figure. Great legs. I think you’ll like her. Or would you prefer a blonde.”

  Bellini found her lack of subtlety distasteful but found it unimportant and ignored it. “No. She’ll be fine. She sounds….. nice.” To Bellini ‘nice’ was an insidious epithet and he noted its incongruity with the sleazy half lit décor of the Peacock. He added a dismissive “Thank you” as an afterthought, no more than a matter of form. Never had she received the courtesy with less sincerity.

  Maureen led him through the reception and into a tiny, spartanly furnished massage room, with a shockingly bright light. “Make yourself comfortable. Rosie will be with you in a minute.” Poor cow, she thought, let’s hope she doesn’t upset he boss.

  Bellini hung up his coat, took off his shoes and sat on the edge of the massage table come bed. His eyes surveyed the room expertly, missing nothing from the small crack in the wall to the unfortunate stain on the carpet. He’d seen the working end before, of course, it pays to know your business. In fact, he knew, quite as well as Daniel Bungay, which officers at the local nick would be susceptible to a thick brown envelope and which government official would appreciate being flown out to Bellini’s Marbella villa free and gratis for a month every summer. For a man with his many and varied business interests, Bellini had surprisingly little trouble with the authorities. He was comfortable in their world, he felt at home with them. But here it was different. It was as if he were seeing it anew, fresh, for the very first time. The whole scene reminded him more of an operating theatre than a supposedly a setting of sensual intimacy. It was clinical, impersonal. Bellini liked it very much.

  There was a tap on the door and Rosie entered. She had been well briefed by Maureen. This istheman. Give him the works. Everything he wants and then throw in a bit more. Make him feel like a god. And for heaven’s sake don’t mention money, don’t even ask for a tip. This one is all on the house. After all, it is his bloody house.

  Bellini was impressed by Rosie Case. Maureen hadn’t oversold her. At twenty four, she had a great advantage in this business – she looked seventeen. Barely seventeen. She mirrored the pseudo professional arrangement of the room in her dress. Her new white uniform was functional but pretty, not unlike a nurse’s dress. Only the fact that it was so tiny distinguished them. It revealed a small firm bottom to Bellini, smooth and olive skinned, as she calculatingly bent from the waist, keeping her long svelte legs perfectly straight, to retrieve the strategically placed clean towels. As she placed them as pillow on the bed he allowed his gaze to cover every inch of her body, to caress her almost. Her dress was tight, not at all subtle and it little left to the imagination. It was a good job as the majority of t
he punters here didn’t have too much imagination. There wasn’t a market for it. Beneath the dress, she was totally, perfectly naked. He breasts, large but beautifully proportioned, heaved dramatically against the thin, virginally white material, pulled taught despite the buttons being undone to reveal a cleavage that a man could lose himself within forever. He reached out and stroked them gently. She smiled benignly and through the harsh fabric he felt the plateau of her nipple erect and stiffen to his touch.

  “Let’s make you comfortable. Shall we?” Her voice was soft, delicate and alluring, hinting at the sensual pleasures yet to come, betraying only the vaguest hint of her origins deep in the ‘wilds’ Essex. She’d be popular with the clients, he thought. Maureen had chosen well. But right now she’s mine and only mine. She stood in front of him, delicately loosening his fashionable purple Paul Smith tie and then began to unbutton his well tailored shirt. She’s well named, he thought, she is just like a rose. Indeed he was right. In any society, at any age, Rosie Case would have been considered beautiful. Hers was a delicate beauty. It was as if she had been delicately carved from marble by Michaelangelo, every strike of the chisel richly deserving the eternity that was invested in it. But she had none of the cold, dead stillness of stone. She was breathtakingly vital, stunningly alive. When she smiled at him, Bellini felt that she radiated the pure, intense, searing heat of a million suns. In a kinder world, in a world without this incessant night, in a world without Don Bellini, she might have been a model, or a movie star. Or, at least, happily married to a man who really loved her. But that world had ceased to exist for Rosie when she was seven, on the night her drunken bastard of a step father raped her for the first time. It took her years, of course, but she escaped as soon as she could, working on the streets from fourteen. Hers was a tough education. Few people had had it as tough and survived. It was an existence, not a life, that no young girl should ever be forced to face but despite it all, all of the hateful slings and burning arrows that outrageous fortune had continued to hurl at her, she retained a purity, a rare spiritual innocence even, deep within her soul. No man could ever cheat her of that. After all these years, things were finally just starting to look up and she would occasionally permit herself the cherished fantasy that she could one day lead a normal, ordinary life. This job was a good start. It was the best she had ever had. It was secure and safe. Rosie had tried to hate the world, hate all men. God knows she had had enough reason to. But she couldn’t. There was no hate within her. She was that rarest and most precious of things, a diamond, hardened by the fires of her creation but infinitely more brilliant than everything that surround her. If her looks were those of a goddess, albeit one who has been incessantly brutalized, her soul was that of an angel, uncorrupted despite her endless trials. All her life, she had been touched by evil, the worst, but she had never yet met the likes of the monster Bellini had become. For his part, he was captivated by her. He wanted to, needed to take her, to have her, to subsume himself within her, to possess her. Completely. Universally. Totally. Finally.

  Rosie’s hands were deft and skilful, her art honed with years of practice. She freed his fly button and pulled down his trousers, allowing her hand to momentarily linger, stroking his balls and rubbing against his already erect penis. But she would make him wait. Pleasure is heightened by anticipation and, as she lowered him gently to the bed, face down, she took up a bottle of baby oil began to caress it seductively into his neck and shoulders.

  “That’s it. Relax. Enjoy it. It’s all for you. Just for you.” Bellini knew that it was.

  Slowly, deliberately, she worked her way down his back and over his buttocks, easing the oil into every pore. Lingering over every muscle. He could seem to feel his tension wash away in the sea of her art. As her hands made small circular kisses on his inner thighs, she once again brushed against his rock hard testicles. She rubbed a little harder this time.

  “Time to turn over, Mr. Bellini.” Mr. Bellini. He liked the respect and complied slowly, unhesitatingly.

  Rosie unfastened another two buttons on her uniform and as she did so she revealed the full uncensured magnificence of her body. She is truly, truly beautiful, he thought. A real work of art. A masterpiece. By now this work of art was moving her hands deftly, expertly up his calves and onto the tightly knotted muscles of his thighs. He felt the oil warm on his body and he welcomed its invasion as she reached the pinnacle of his pleasure. Stroking his balls once more she ran her hand slowly up and down the shaft of his erection. All this time she was engaging Bellini’s cold dead stare with her honey almond eyes, so alive, so deep, so searching, and she took the head of his engorged prick in her mouth. The warm embrace of her hand increased its pressure and tempo as her tongue darted and stroked and engulfed the essence of his masculinity. As she felt him tense, she pulled back.

  “Not yet. Not yet” she coaxed. “That’s it. There’s a lot more for you yet.” He lay prone as she moved forward and kissed him tenderly on the lips. Like a lover. Not like a prostitute. After all, it was not like he was a customer. Bellini could taste himself in her mouth. It was strangely compelling and he explored her with his tongue, meeting hers almost violently and forcibly asserting its dominance. Freeing a condom from its foil coffin, Rosie’s expert, knowing hands slid it delicately into place. Freeing herself finally of her uniform, allowing it to slip from her shoulders and gently slide down to the floor, she climbed carefully onto the table and onto Bellini. He clearly wanted her to do the work. That was fine with her and as she guided him to enter her, she let out a well practised sigh that was just understated enough to perhaps have been real. This was nice. Genuinely nice. It was not often like this, she thought, and never at work. She allowed her hands to run forcefully across his belly and through the rough hairs on his chest. Her hands met his and their fingers, as did their bodies, entwined. As she felt him increase the pressure on her hands she smiled at him, radiating her warmth. But she was met only by his ice. His eyes seemed to glow now, in the half light she could swear they were almost red.

  Instantaneously the vestiges of humanity that still clung to Bellini had vanished. In their place was the monster, the devil who had executed the Malek twins. Rosie sensed the sudden change in him. Instantly, an icy, creeping terror descended over her. She was absolutely terrified, more so than she had ever been before, even when she was seven. There were tears in her eyes but she was too afraid to scream. With great strength, more than a man should possess, Bellini turned her over, without ever withdrawing from her. Before, for Rosie, despite the fact that she was working they had been almost making love, but now he was violating her, raping her. In her job she was not unused to violence, it was an occupational hazard and you had to put up with some to make a decent living. But Bellini was now thrusting into her with such violence that she felt a crippling agony assail her body, deep inside. She was being torn, literally ripped apart by his brutality. It was as if an inexpressible mania that should have remained repressed had been given a tangible vent, an outlet into the real world, inhabited by real people with real lives. It was something that had no place there, something that should be buried in the deepest pits of the darkest recesses of a man’s soul. Evolution had hidden it, removed it from sight but it had been too powerful to destroy.

  To accompany his aggressive, primitive thrusts, he forced his hand across Rosie’s body, over her taut, writhing stomach, over her breasts, the heart within pulsating and pounding at a fever’s pitch, screaming silently for any release. The obscenity of his touches parodied grotesquely the exquisite beauty of her own caresses just a few seconds before. Bellini’s hands crept bitterly up to her throat and gripped, tightly, obsessively, angrily. He would not have known why he was doing this. There was no demonic voice in his head corrupting him, urging him ever onwards from atrocity to atrocity. He was acting on pure instinct. He was, at this moment, no longer human. He had regressed into an earlier bestial state of being. Rosie tried to fight back but all her attempts to resist were f
utile. He was far too strong for her to resist and her life force, powerful as it was, was rapidly being squeezed out of her. All the time his hips were pounding, grinding into her like the inarticulate, desperate animal he had become and by the time he finally came, with a deep, primordial, guttural roar, Rosie Case had already died.

  He rose and wiped Rosie’s blood from his genitals with a towel. Maureen, who had been waiting outside trying to summon the courage to enter and put a stop to the obvious carnage finally burst in. She was confronted by the sight of Rosie, still on the bed but no longer serene. She was contorted in the agonizing death throws of her strangulation, her eyes wide open staring accusingly at Bellini and at Maureen too. They were scarlet, as red as his had seemed to her only minutes before. Every blood vessel and capillary within them had exploded.

  Bellini stood naked before Maureen and said, calmly, “The Peacock’s closed. Get everyone out of here. Now. Right now. Tell the punters the police are coming if you have to. Then lock the doors and go home. Be back here tomorrow for the lunchtime trade. What’s happened here stays between us” he said looking down at Rosie. In all her years in the trade, Maureen had never felt the sense of overwhelming menace that flowed like a torrent from the imperceptibly narrow pupils of Bellini’s dark eyes. “Do you understand? Not a word. To anyone. I’m serious.”

  If Maureen had doubted this, she only had to look at Rosie, the poor silent witness, to know just how serious Bellini was. She stared vaguely at Rosie, as motionless and dumbstruck as the corpse itself. Never before had she seen anything like this, anything so terrible and she prayed to God that she never would again.