by Nem Rowan
"No—I seen a movie or two—hmm—I'm not a horror fan if I'm honest." I talked with my mouth full. My mother would have been ashamed of me, but she was in the grave, not close enough to clip my ear.
He nodded, slowly trying to scrape the last remnant of tomato sauce from the plastic pot and ending up breaking his chip in half. "Well, a movie on the television won't tell you much."
"Ah—I remember that one with James Spader getting pissed on." I pointed a finger at him, but even then, I wasn't sure if I had really seen it or if it was just a passing fantasy. I had always had a bit of a thing for James Spader. Damn.
He was looking at me with that unimpressed arch of the eyebrow again.
"What are you gonna do then? What does this help entail? And I thought you said you met someone else before, so what's happened to him then? Didn't kill him, did ya?" I snorted, stuffing the last piece of my cheeseburger into my gob.
"She's still alive and doing well. But I don't know where to go from yere. I've been treating her affliction with old remedies taught to me by my mentor. It won't outright stop you from transforming, but it'll keep you sedated," he explained quietly, his eyes glancing about in case there was anyone eavesdropping. "I've tried everything on her, from prescription meds to hard drugs and nothing has worked until now. Before then, I was keeping her heavily restrained and chained up in her basement."
I slurped on my milkshake noisily, the liquid having melted enough for me to draw it up the straw. "So what's the deal then? What sort of prices do you charge for this?"
"I don't charge a price, but she's letting me stay in the loft above her shop, so I guess that's a form of payment," he confessed, pressing his fingertip to the grains of salt on the table top until they stuck to his skin.
"So what price are you gonna charge me? I've got nothing to give you and you sure as hell ain't having my body."
He smiled, at first amusedly, then sadly. His eyes seemed to dull, losing their twinkle.
"I don't want anything from you. Allowing me to help you is payment. I've done a lot of bad in my time on this earth and I guess...I'm looking to atone for that," he spoke in an undertone. "All it takes is another full moon to have you killing again, and next time you might find yourself hammered under bullets from coppers in riot gear."
"Been there, done that; it didn't work. It just hurt a lot." I fiddled with another pot of ketchup, struggling to peel the film off with just one hand, so he took it and opened it for me.
"I'd like to help you, Leon. If you'll allow me to. You just gotta say." He managed a weak smile.
I didn't trust him, but I didn't have a lot of choice either. I had learned in my time since the curse began that it had given me exceptional physical strength, and so I didn't fear him in that respect. The fear was borne out of revealing myself to him, the sensitive parts, the old hurts that had wounded me in my youth and the grief I carried with me wherever I went. Yes, I was angry. Angry at myself for what I had done, angry that I couldn't turn back time and change what I'd done. I didn't want him to see those hurts; I wanted him to see me for my bravery and to respect that I had been able to survive. Besides, I had slept with uglier men. He might have looked a bit like Liam Neeson if I had a bottle of wine or two beforehand.
"Okay, fine. If neither police bullets nor the GWR 21.58 to Paddington didn't kill me, then I doubt there's much you could do to hurt me," I reasoned, dunking a chicken nugget in the ketchup.
"There are only a couple of nights until the moon waxes its fullest. You're lucky we met. One might even say it was fate." he winked at me and I made a false laugh as I rolled my eyes.
I didn't say it to him, but it felt good to have someone to talk to. As we walked along the icy road out of the city centre, it almost hurt to feel someone close to me. I had been so lonely that having another living being speak to me kindly and not look down on me like I was a piece of dirt reaffirmed that I was still human, or at least a part of me was. It wasn't that I wasn't used to being treated like garbage by people; on the contrary, I had grown a thick skin. But after what I had been through and the deaths I had caused, I had needed so badly to have someone take me aside and tell me it was okay to feel what I felt. He didn't say that to me outright, but there was softness and warmth in his eyes and it meant a lot to me. I had made friends with some of the homeless people during the first month on the street, but when the moon was shining on me, I'd changed, and they'd changed with it. Those that I didn't tear to pieces were so afraid of me that I'd become ostracised and exiled from their groups. I was an outcast amongst society's outcasts.
Two
"Damn," I muttered to myself as I slammed my hairbrush down on the dressing table. My Adam's apple contracted in my throat as I restrained the tears in my eyes; if I let them run free, they'd ruin my makeup. Instead, I sighed and leaned my elbows on the table top, pressing my gloved palms to my forehead, pushing back long strands of silvery hair steeped in red.
"Damn, damn, damn..."
It had been a month since I had broken up with Travis. One night, after a late Saturday show, I'd left the stage to return to my dressing room and found him humping one of the other girls in the corridor, humping like a dirty stray dog in heat, and he didn't even stop when he noticed me approaching. So used to being his queen, so used to his shopping sprees and gentlemanly airs, I didn't react the way I would to anyone else; Travis wasn't treated to a left hook like I would any other man, oh no, he got something much worse. I screamed, and I didn't stop screaming until security came rushing down the stairs to find the source of the commotion. Chi-Chi, the skinny bitch that she was, started slapping and shrieking at him, making like he was raping her the second I opened my mouth, and I just stood there, hollering like a cat with its tail trapped in a door. The truth is, I didn't really know what else to do. The man I had considered marriage material for the last year and a half was shagging the local bicycle, and typical me, not the one to cry, I held it all in until I was up in my dressing room again.
I'd thought Travis wouldn't have the nerve to put his foot back in here again, not after the dirty little rumours that started going around, all thanks to Chi-Chi's OTT theatricals and inability to recite a coherent story twice. My macho bouncers, Eric and Stefano, promised they would keep him out if he did make an appearance, but somehow the gimpy little weasel kept finding a way to sneak into the club. That night, I had stepped out in front of the audience, wearing my all-time favourite costume of The Murderess, a beautiful white crystal-encrusted gown with a long, trailing train. The white crystals gave way to red and then at the very end of the train, jet black, and coupled with red heels and gloves, gave the appearance that I had been trundling through some unfortunate soul's blood and guts. It was my signature outfit, my establishment's namesake: The Murderess Club. Everybody knew when the red and white ensemble was on, complete with Arctic fox fur stole and Japanese Crane feather fascinator, you kept out of my way, because I meant business. This costume was for Saturday nights only, serious show business. Travis knew that, but still, there he was sitting in the front row.
I played it cool and ignored him, sang my song and did my piece. Suddenly, I heard something slapping on the stage in front of me and I looked down at my feet, discovering he had thrown some manky old bouquet of flowers he probably bought at a petrol garage, laying at my feet amongst the confetti and rose petals. For the Queen of The Murderess Club not to kick that stinking bouquet back in his face was a shock to everyone. Instead, I humbly thanked my audience and quietly exited the stage. Then I found myself sitting at my dressing table, shivering with disgust.
I could not believe he had the audacity to make a gesture at me like that after what he had done to me, betrayed my trust, taken my loyalty for granted. I looked through my fingers at my reflection, surrounded by a halo of pink light glowing from the taffeta-shaded lamps behind me. I embarrassed myself with the memories of discussing joint ownership of the club with him. I couldn't believe I had trusted such a rat.
; "Don't cry now, mama. You'll make your mascara run," Amy's high-pitched voice cooed to me and I glanced sideways, watching as she appeared in the mirror beside me. She pulled my hands from my face with her tiny ones, tearing a tissue from the box on the table and helping me dab at my wet eyes.
"I know...I can't help it," I mumbled, trying to prevent my voice from cracking. I remained still and allowed her to tidy up the corners of my eyes before taking a deep breath and turning to look at her. Her sweet cherub face and lips shaped like Cupid's bow. I had called her my Angel.
The memory of her comforting me did nothing to comfort me now. It only filled me with self-hatred and bitterness that bubbled in my stomach like bile, waiting to rise and choke me. I turned into the water streaming from the shower and let it run down my face, a face that hadn't worn any form of makeup since the night I had run away. It didn't matter if I tried to shave; the stubble on my face grew back too fast and who would care to see a homeless man wearing blusher and foundation? I pressed my forehead to the tiled wall. It felt good to be under a hot shower at last, and that was the problem; when I felt good, I let my guard down, and when I let my guard down, the memories came back. Vivid and flashing and full of colour and emotion. Amy was gone now. I put her pretty face and sweet smile in the Pandora's Box I buried below, kissed her goodnight and turned away.
I was in Ceri's bathroom, or rather, I was in the bathroom he was borrowing from the Polish woman that owned the shop. He called her Mecky, and when we had arrived at the narrow three-story building on a high street outside of the city centre, she had just been shutting up shop. Tall and blonde and with a pointed face so pale she looked rather like an elf, she had been instantly friendly when she met me. I responded to her with wariness at first. I wasn't used to people being kind, especially not when they were confronted with a stinking feral animal like me, and when she invited us inside and offered us supper in her adorable disjointed English, I couldn't help but immediately like her there and then. Ceri took me upstairs to the loft first to show me where the bathroom was so I didn't get a chance to thank the woman personally before I was ushered up the claustrophobic stairwell that turned in a spiral up one side of the Victorian building. At the very top of the stairs was a miniscule landing with two doors; one led to his room, and the other led to the bathroom he used. The rooms on the middle floor consisted of living room, kitchen and Mecky's bedroom.
"I'll fetch you some clothes you can borrow, and I'll bring your food upstairs. Mecky's tired, we shouldn't keep her up late," Ceri had told me as he near enough pushed me into the bathroom and began to shut the door behind me.
"Not embarrassed of me, are you!" I responded but he shut the door in my face before he heard the end of my sentence.
Huffing, I pulled the cord that switched the light on and found myself standing in a tiny white bathroom with a shower cubicle in one corner and a toilet and sink in the other. I had the feeling Ceri was embarrassed, or perhaps he wanted to explain to Mecky why he had brought me here without me being present to interfere. It wouldn't be the first time my big mouth had been excluded so the adults could have a serious conversation. I stripped off my filthy clothes and turned the shower on, the extractor fan in the tiny window whirring to suck out the steam. As soon as I'd relaxed under the water, Amy's face had returned from the other side to haunt me.
My skin stung as I scrubbed it ruthlessly. I had no patience for dirt, not when in my life as a human I had showered daily and kept my entire body in tip-top shape. Now I was dirty and hairy, not a good combination. The dye had long since washed out of my hair, but it had grown by several inches and it fell past my shoulders, a curtain of shiny silver. I was horrified at how much dirt washed out of it, and when I looked down at the water around my bare feet, I saw how black it was. Deciding that it wouldn't do any harm to be extra sure, I poured some more shower gel on the sponge and gave myself a second pass. This time the water washed away clear. That'd do.
"You look a different person," Ceri remarked as I opened the door to his room and peered in.
He was standing by the window with his feet bare on the floorboards, the streetlamps shining in and turning him into a shadow. He had taken off his coat and scarf and I got a better look at his body. He was tall and wiry with a slight hint of a beer gut; not what I had expected. I stepped into the room and shut the door, holding the towel tightly round my hips as I looked around at what filled the room. Being a loft conversion, the room itself was fairly large and might have made a good-sized bedsit if a kitchen was installed. Pushed up to the wall on one side was a double bed, and facing it was a desk heaped full of books and papers. The wall was completely plastered with newspaper cuttings, and as I took a closer look, I saw that they were all related to animal attacks in the city.
"That was you, wasn't it." He pointed to one in particular and I squinted, peering closer still.
MONSTER RESPONSIBLE FOR GAY CLUB MASSACRE
"What makes you think that was me?" I turned away from it and moved to the other side of the room where I could perch on the window sill and towel-dry my hair.
"The grey, pony-sized animal was seen leaving the scene of the bloodbath at The Murderess Club, pursued by twelve police officers who shot at the monster repeatedly. Locals reported seeing the animal crossing the river towards St. Philips Marsh," he read aloud from the article. "...thirty-seven people were killed in the massacre, including one of the club's founders and his teenage daughter. The other club owner, Leon Ryan, also known as Leona Valentine of drag fame, has been reported missing."
"So what, did you bring me up here so you could shove this in my face? Gonna lecture me about sin now you've figured out I like wearing dresses?" I spat, an uneasy anger flaring up inside me at the mention of the many deaths. "Do me a favour and shove that fucking newspaper up your ass. If you keep on like this then I'm out of here, you got that?"
He gazed at me with a muted expression on his face, silently acknowledging my rage. He nodded and moved over to the other window sill. The windows, small though they were, were many, and they overlooked the street below.
"You're gonna have to face up to what happened. You can't keep running away from it. And just for the record, I couldn't give a bird's fart if you like wearing dresses, or lingerie, or whatever else it is. I've been looking for you for awhile now and I'm glad I've found you," he told me, but he didn't make eye contact with me. He could tell that I was still bristling with anger, ready to lash out. "Mecky's family was attacked by a monster, just like you were. That monster killed her husband and her two-year-old son. You're not the only one with wounds, not by a long shot."
I closed my mouth, bit down on my bottom lip. I knew how it felt, to kill an innocent child. Amy. Her name caused a violent misery to swell in my chest and I wrapped the towel round my head, my eyes squeezing shut to hold back the tears. I felt Ceri's hand on my bare shoulder, his palm scaly to touch. It did nothing to ease my feelings.
"Don't—don't touch me." I moved away from him. I clenched my jaw, swallowed it down. "Give me some clothes, I can't stand being naked in front of you."
He offered me a bundle of folded clothing and I snatched it from him, keeping my back turned. Not because I was embarrassed about him seeing me nude but because I didn't want him to see the grimace of agony I wore. I looked ugly when I cried.
"I'm not looking," he told me as he went to sit in the chair at the desk, and I hurried to pull on the soft tracksuit bottoms and baggy t-shirt. They were threadbare, but comfortable, and once I was clothed, I folded the wet towels and draped them over the radiator.
I wasn't sure what to say. I sat down on the edge of the bed, sinking into the spongy mattress and looking beyond him at the dozens and dozens of newspaper pages he had tacked to the wall. So it seemed I wasn't alone. No, I knew I wasn't alone. The one who bit me was still out there.
"There's some sandwiches by there," Ceri finally said, gesturing to the bedside cabinet, and I turned and found the tray he pointed to.
> "Oh. Thank you." I got up and sat beside it. Cheese and salami sandwiches, not my favourite, but they smelled good. I picked one up and started to eat.
"I'll properly introduce you to Mecky tomorrow. She seems to have an unending supply of optimism that an old prick like me couldn't do without." He made a bitter chuckle as he lit himself another cigarette. The ashtray on the table beside him was overflowing with dog-ends.
"Where am I sleeping tonight?" I questioned, aware that there was only one bed here.
"You can have the bed. I'll sleep by yere on the floor, it's fine," he told me as I stared at the back of his head, chewing noisily. "Why, not scared you're gonna wake up and find me laying next to you, are you?"
I made a scoffing laugh as I rubbed the crumbs from my chin. "I'd bite yer fucking face off."
"I don't doubt that you would." He grinned as he looked over his shoulder at me.
Ceri made no fuss about sleeping on the floor; he laid out a blanket and pillow on the other side of the room and once the lights were out and he had dressed down to his boxer shorts, he curled up under an old sleeping bag. I lay on my side, staring at his shape, watching the rise and fall of his ribs as he breathed. It didn't matter that it was dark, I could still see him, and that was frustrating as my stupid heart tried to dredge up some feelings of guilt. I told it to shut up; let him sleep on the floor, he hasn't had to for the last three months, but you have. He's got a pillow and cover and that's better than what you've had. I squeezed my eyelids together to try and induce sleep, but it wouldn't come. I turned over, faced the windows. Amy's voice came back to me and I was in my bedroom again, sitting at my dressing table with tears in my eyes. She was holding my hand, gazing at me like she had since she was very small, with a glint of fascination in her eyes.
She was a cute young thing, a sweet darling from John Slater's failed engagement, and given up as a baby by her mother. She had thrived in her father's life of drag queens and burlesque acts rather than the life of her mother, which she probably would have otherwise spent working in a laundrette, counting tokens and emptying dryer filters. Instead, she got to paint makeup on men's faces and party late into the night. Although she had been seventeen, I still saw her as a little girl; she was practically my adoptive daughter, had been since the day she had come to live there with Slater and me at the club we owned together. Slater was not and had never been my boyfriend; our platonic friendship had been closely knit and older than the stars, like two ancient trees growing in the same orchard, sharing the same earth and the rain that fell, complementing each other like red wine and steak. Amy had taken after her mother, short and dumpy with a plump hourglass figure and a moon-shaped face framed by ruler-straight brown hair. Her father was the complete opposite, tall and bony with deep-set eyes in his angular face; we used to call him the Grim Reaper as a joke. Skeletal though he was, pallid skin with sparse body hair though he had, he also had the kindest, gentlest heart one would ever know.