The Hunger

by Ryan Casey

  Dear Donna,

  Thanks. Bitch.

  Sarah.

  She hovered over the “send” button, tantalising her inner senses for a few seconds, allowing herself to imagine Donna’s shocked face as she read the email.

  Then she hit “delete” and closed the web browser.

  She might be losing her job at some point in the future, but she figured there were classier ways to do it.

  She pulled up outside her flat two hours later.

  She lived in North London, Maida Vale, these days. A decent flat—not as costly as some of the other flats and apartments around the area, but nice enough. The apartment complex comprised seven floors, with a traditional red brick exterior. Trees, shy of leaves in the winter, lined the car park, which was empty but for four cars.

  Harry’s red Corsa was one of them.

  She churned up inside as she got out of her car and walked across the car park towards her apartment block’s entrance. It was a sunny but chilly day, with a crystal clear blue sky. Always strange to adjust to the outdoors and the sunlight after the artificial lights of TCorps. It was like stepping into a virtual reality—a dream world where nothing was quite as reflective or sharp as it was under those bright white lights lining every TCorps wall, every TCorps corridor.

  She entered the four-digit security code on the metal panel beside the main door. The door clicked, she rushed over to it before the timer expired, and she returned inside to more artificial warmth, more artificial light. Really though, she just wanted her bed. She just wanted to forget about Donna Bitch Carter’s pretentious, patronising response to her email, and then think about her next plan of action when she returned to TCorps tomorrow.

  She climbed the echoey steps to her second-floor apartment flat. She didn’t see anybody around, which was a pleasant change from the people-laden corridors of TCorps. Her head spun as she turned the corner and climbed the next set of steps onto her corridor.

  “Wondered when you were gonna show up.”

  Sarah stopped. The voice startled her, woke her up from her trance.

  Harry was standing by the door to their apartment. He had a rucksack over his shoulder. His light blonde hair was combed backwards, like he had it when he was going out somewhere. His muscles showed through the white v-neck t-shirt he had on underneath his green, fluffy hooded coat.

  He wasn’t smiling.

  “Harry, I’m sorry—” Sarah started.

  “Don’t,” Harry said. He avoided looking Sarah in the eyes. “Don’t.”

  Sarah walked towards him, although every step felt weighed down by heavy lead. She wasn’t in the mood for a row with Harry. She just wanted him to shut up his moaning about her work for once, and for him to allow her to rest, just for the afternoon. “I couldn’t help my shift last night. It’s—”

  “You’ve been gone for three days, Sarah. Three days without as much as a text to say you’re alright. It’s not fair. It just isn’t.”

  She’d been gone for three days. Time really did blur inside TCorps. “You know how it is, Harry. Now, I’ve had a really shitty morning so I’d appreciate it if you just—”

  “I’ll leave you to get your rest,” Harry said. He lowered his head and stepped past her, tightening his rucksack over his shoulder.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Sarah asked. Her cheeks flamed. The adrenaline that was just about keeping her awake had flared up again, back in full force, and with a vengeance.

  “I’m going to the gym,” he said, looking her in the eye with his blue ones. “And then we’ll just have to see. I might get stuck there for three days. Who knows?”

  “Fucking twat,” Sarah said, as Harry raised his neck upright and walked down the steps. “Fucking bastard, that’s what you are.”

  She fumbled for her key with her shaking hands and stuck it in the door of her apartment. She walked inside, the silence of the apartment emphasised by her shoes echoing against the wooden floorboards. The blinds over by the modern, wooden kitchen area had been closed. It felt rather chilly in here too—the bastard must’ve turned the heating off.

  Sarah threw her things onto the velvety brown sofa and made a beeline for the bedroom door to the left of the lounge area, which housed a wall-mounted 50-inch television, as well as a PS4 and Bose surround sound system. Harry’s play area, that’s all it was. Big fucking kid.

  She walked into the white-walled bedroom area and took in a deep breath. The bedroom always felt so fresh. She collapsed onto the white sheets of the bed, barely able to keep her eyes open any longer.

  She’d work out her next step with regards to the HIV antidote when she woke up; when her mind wasn’t so fuzzy and slurred.

  An engine of a car sounded outside. Harry’s car.

  She knew what he wanted. He wanted her to call him; to apologise and to beg for him to come back.

  Melodramatic prick. Maybe when she woke, she’d go into town. Terrify him when he got back and realised she wasn’t there waiting for him after all.

  Fuck. At least with him gone for a few hours, she’d be able to get some peace.

  7.

  The real fun of Stuart’s trips down to London officially started the moment his day job ended.

  He sat at a table in the corner of the Ceviche bar near Tottenham Court Road. Ceviche had the layout of an American diner, with blue-painted wooden walls leading down a narrow corridor. It was a tight squeeze getting around this place, especially when the chefs and bartenders buzzed past. But the bar was one of his favourites in the city—quality Peruvian food, tantalising cocktails.

  Oh, and a lot of good-looking women came in here. That was a plus.

  “I just don’t fucking understand the appeal of figs,” David said. He cringed as he bit into a fig from his taster dish, swilling it down with a gulp of Black Butterfly cocktail. “They’re just big fucking raisins. I don’t get that.”

  “What is there to get?” Steve, who had the top three buttons of his shirt undone, supped his La Libertad cocktail, a non-alcoholic option. Claimed he was trying to win his family back with his non-alcoholic ways.

  Didn’t affect the amount of coke he snorted in the loos, though. In fact, Stuart swore he could see a powdery ’tache of coke above his top lip right now, as the bulky man stared into space, supping and supping at his drink.

  The place was busy regardless of the time of week, but it seemed remarkably quiet tonight. There were a few empty seats over by the left-hand side of the room—and a woman, who looked to be on her own. Young. Thirties, early. Sipping a vanilla-coloured cocktail through a straw. Flora Tristan, one of his least favourite cocktails of the lot.

  “It’s like, a fucking… a raisin.” David was still chatting on about that fucking fig. Truth was, Stuart never really enjoyed the company of these two. David was a heavy drinker. He constantly reeked of alcohol, even on the job. He liked to think of himself as eccentric, but actually he was just a bit of a prick.

  “Yes, it’s a big raisin. And?”

  Steve was like the opposite to David. Sure—he liked to “have fun” too, but he was always so big and slow and such a nightmare to strike up a conversation with. Stuart longed for Barry, Fred, Gaz—the guys who wouldn’t be afraid to have a laugh. The guys who he could party the night away with.

  Yes, he was in his forties. Yes, he was probably the victim of a mid-life crisis.

  But who gave a fuck?

  “Well, what’s up with Mr. Fucking Cheery over there?” David said.

  Stuart didn’t even look. He stared at the bar, watching the chefs in white hats flip fried food over, flames clawing from the pans.

  “Hey, ignorant,” David said. It was at that point Stuart realised David was looking directly at him.

  “Sorry,” Stuart said, clearing his throat. “Just with the Mr. Cheery thing. Thought you must’ve been talking to Steve.”

  Steve grunted, shook his head, and took another sip of his non-alcoholic drink.

  “You just seem a bi
t quieter than usual. Even in work you weren’t your usual self. Something bothering you?”

  Stuart considered David’s question. Yes, something was bothering him. The same thing that always bothered him when he was being unfaithful. When he was back home—back with his naive wife and sick son—he longed to be out here, being all fucking charming and enjoying himself. But the truth was, even that was a fantasy. Yes, he drank and he did drugs and he slept with women who he could barely remember the faces of, let alone the names.

  But did he enjoy it? Really? Did he enjoy the crippling guilt he felt upon returning home to his loving wife, to his kid in need of fatherly support?

  No. Of course he didn’t.

  He sipped his drink and shook his head, swerving past David’s question. That bastard didn’t give a shit about anybody but himself anyway. He was just playing the part of the caring friend when really, Stuart knew damn well, he just wanted another round.

  “Well, whatever it is, I’ll tell you one way you can relieve yourself of those problems. And she’s sat over there on her own looking pretty fucking lonely.”

  Stuart looked over his shoulder. It was the girl he’d noticed just earlier, still sucking her Flora Tristan through a straw. Chocolate-brown hair. Smooth-looking skin. She was a long shot, but the long shots always were the most fun.

  David picked up another fig and stared at it like it was a piece of shit or something. “Seriously, just go and speak to her. I’ve already got other commitments so, y’know, she’s yours.”

  Stuart looked at Steve. Steve simply lifted his head and raised his eyebrows a few millimetres, which meant “Yes, by all means go and chat to the attractive lady.”

  Stuart grabbed his drink and gulped down the last of it. A sticky, solid residue had formed in the bottom, and gave off a tang as it slipped down his throat. “Wish me luck,” he said.

  “Rather see you crash and burn,” David said. He winked, then took an almighty bite out of his second fig.

  Stuart walked down the narrow corridor towards the woman. Was she definitely alone? She had to be. Two square stools free either side of her. No bags reserving those chairs, or anything to suggest that she was with company. Perhaps she was meeting somebody. Perhaps somebody younger—somebody more appropriate—would walk in here and sit down with her.

  Lucky fucker. Lucky fucking fucker.

  He slowed down as he approached her. He never liked this part—it felt predatory. It was important to be as funny and smiley as possible to avoid giving off any vibe of pursuit or pushiness. Do that, and you’d end up like David and Steve—alone.

  Feign distance in pursuit of the opposite.

  “Drinks police. You’re under arrest for crimes towards cocktails.”

  Stuart regretted the line immediately. It sounded funny in his head, but when it rolled—or oozed—off his tongue, it sounded more like something Alan Partridge might say.

  At first, he’d been insulted that she hadn’t even turned around and noticed him, but now, he was relieved she hadn’t. Close call.

  “Hey,” he said. He cleared his throat.

  The woman looked at him, yellow straw in her mouth, startled look on her face.

  “Um, do you mind if I… if I sit here?” Stuart pointed at the chair beside the woman. His cheeks were hot. He could feel himself flushing, like he was filling up from the bottom to the top of his head with warm water.

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” she said. She moved her stool away, then returned to her cocktail. She didn’t greet him. She barely even looked at him. She was miles away, and to her, he was just a miserable old fuck, no doubt.

  Stuart sat down. He picked up a drinks menu and pretended to read it closely even though he knew it off by heart. “I was thinking, I haven’t seen a person drink a Flora Tristan in here since, I dunno, the day people realised how revolting they were.”

  The woman widened her eyes. The frown lines on her head cut through her smooth skin. “People realised that, did they? I must’ve missed that one.” She turned away and returned to her drink.

  Stuart could feel himself sinking into a hole. A real hole would’ve been fucking preferable right now. He could sense Steve and David staring at him, David laughing at Stuart’s failure to engage this beautiful creature in conversation.

  Steve nodding. Grunting. Gazing.

  It wasn’t like he could just walk back to them, either. He didn’t want to look like a letch.

  And he certainly didn’t want to look like a failed letch.

  No. Whatever happened, he was staying in this seat until he left the bar, no matter how painful it might be.

  “I’m sorry.”

  The voice came from his left. It was the woman. She faced him now, half-smiling.

  “It’s just been a bit of a shitty day, truth be told. But anyway, yeah. I like Flora Tristan. What does that make me? Uncool or something?”

  Stuart grinned. A tingling sensation fluttered around his chest. A feeling of confidence. Of ease. If he could bottle that feeling and mainline it on a daily basis, he absolutely would do.

  “Sorry to hear about your day,” Stuart said. He looked back at the drinks menu. The drink names became words, the words became letters, the letters became abstract symbols. Blurs. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve had a shitty one myself.”

  The woman raised her glass. “Here’s to shitty days.”

  Stuart nodded his head. “Yep.”

  The woman finished off her drink. The way her throat clicked when she swallowed it, gulped it down—he couldn’t help but imagine her swallowing his cum.

  She was a beautiful swallower.

  “So, erm… seeing as you’re such a fan of Floras, you want one?”

  Stuart smiled. Or rather, the confident being within him smiled. He could tell from the way she looked at him with her luscious brown eyes that she was interested. He might’ve been in his forties, but he had those chiselled looks. George Clooney looks, some women told him.

  “I’d be happy to share one with you,” he said. “Just the one, though. Don’t want to end up too sick.”

  She smiled and held a hand out to catch the attention of one of the bartenders.

  “I’m Stuart, by the way.” He held his hand out.

  She watched it for a few moments. He knew that look. Of fear. Of temptation. Of trepidation.

  She placed her slender, smooth hand in his, and smiled back. “Sarah,” she said. “Nice to meet you, Stuart.”

  Three Flora Tristans later, and the conversation was flowing much easier.

  This guy—Stuart—he seemed alright. Came across a bit creepy and letchy when he’d first wandered over, and Sarah knew for a fact he was with those wankers who kept looking over, but she decided not to bring it up with him. He had manners, at least. No cheesy chat-up line, or anything like that. Besides, he wasn’t really her type. Not really.

  But deep down, she knew that chatting to him would make her feel better about herself, and it would confirm all of Harry’s suspicions. No doubt he’d be back from gym now, wondering where she was. She’d made sure to come to one of her least favourite bars in town just to be sure he wouldn’t find her. She’d probably stay awake all night. She’d slept through the day, so that was fine.

  And this Stuart guy, he seemed okay, really. Again, not her type. Greying hair, shaven short at the sides but fluffing up at the fringe. Feint shadows of stubble. It seemed like he was going for the George Clooney look, but it just wasn’t working.

  Still, she chatted with him. Laughed when she was supposed to laugh, when society’s gender continuum dictated she should laugh. It was harmless fun. Two people in a bar enjoying some conversation. What was wrong with that?

  It was all harmless fun until the fourth drink. They were midway through their drinks. They’d spoken about jobs—she’d told him about TCorps, at which he seemed semi-impressed, but that might just have been the drink. Stuart worked in Central London, commuting every day from Preston. He needed a drink every now and the
n to get him through, he told her. That made sense.

  But then he put his head into his hands and shook his head. He made a sound like an inflated balloon letting out air. And then, in a voice completely less confident than any other voice before, he said, “I shouldn’t be here. I should be back with my family.”

  Sarah was silent for a while after that. Never in their conversation had they spoken of family. In fact, Stuart didn’t look like a family man at all, sitting in here getting drunk with a stranger of the opposite sex. No wedding rings. No fastidious checking of the phone or the watch.

  Sarah cleared her throat and sipped her drink. She was starting to feel a bit nauseous now. “So, you have a family?”

  Stuart turned to her, as if caught off guard, then sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I… They live back in Preston. Wife. Kid. He’s… he’s twenty-three.”

  The more Stuart spoke, the more their conversation grew stale. The fun drifted away. The reality descended on them like a dark, thick cloud. “A son? Does… does he work, or is he at university, or—”

  “He’s a layabout. A fucking layabout.”

  Sarah widened her eyes. She turned away from Stuart. He hadn’t sworn in their entire hour or whatever it was of company. He hadn’t shown a glimpse of malice. But the way he spoke about his son, it was as if he was speaking about his worst enemy. A problem.

  “I’m sorry,” Stuart said.

  That was when Sarah realised his eyes were watery, filled with tears.

  “That’s… that’s alright,” she said. Shit. This was getting weirder and weirder by the second. The more this conversation dragged on, the more she longed for home. She longed for Harry.

  “I shouldn’t go on,” Stuart said. “It’s not his fault either. He’s… Anyway. I won’t bog you down with the details.”

  “It’s okay. Really. I wish I could offer some advice, but unfortunately, family isn’t my strong point. Never really had one. Just kind of… well, drifted from guy to guy. They all get sick of me in the end. Or of my hours, rather. Working at TCorps, it’s like living in some alien world. You expect the rest of the world to stop and wait for you. But all of a sudden, you look in the mirror and you see the wrinkles and you realise you’re in your thirties and yet developmentally, you’re still just a twenty-something. Age doesn’t wait for anybody.”