The Bewitched Box Set

by W. J. May

  “I really want this,” he murmurs as he pulls me closer.

  I lose sight of his face as it falls into my neck, though I am still able to make out his muffled words.

  “Rose, you’ve no idea how much I want you.” Each word, each syllable is filled with such raw emotion. “But not now...”

  His body tenses and he pulls himself away from me.

  “Not today,” he continues as hard edges emerge around the contours of his face. “How can I possibly compete?” He pauses, evading my eyes. “How can I create special memories with you, with us? Because, Rose, you have already created these with somebody else, and the thought breaks my heart. It was wrong of me to kiss you earlier. It’s your day, Jai’s birthday, so on this occasion my head wins over my heart and I’ll have to pass.”

  It is only the briefest of kisses that his lips leave to ripple upon my brow. I can feel an abruptness to his release, and feel my heart drop and an emptiness return. He lifts himself from me and stands briefly, looking down.

  “No regrets, eh?”

  Figuratively speaking it is almost as if time has the ability to rewind itself. It’s as if nothing has happened between us as he sits and un-pauses the football. I lie alone on the settee with my thoughts.

  I guess it’s really myself I have to blame as I think back to his attempted kiss earlier today. I was so quick to brush him off, yet this evening I’m asking him for the very same intimacy.

  I hear the sound of the microwave and its repetitive turn, and gather Tristan has retreated to the kitchen to heat up my dinner. It’s uncanny how well I know him. Moments later, Tristan rests my plate on the table. I hear the football commentary continue, and the lounge is awash with the sound of chanting fans.

  I glance up from my dinner.

  “I’ve got a job interview at eight,” I remark.

  It seems I have interrupted the football again, as Tristan picks up the remote and mutes the sound.

  “What job?”

  I imagine his ears pricking up as he sucks in his bottom lip.

  “What hours?” His forehead creases.

  “The Silken Kite, just a few hours every evening, well, maybe a few more than that,” I say between bites of chicken. “The money’s not too bad; it’s more than the minimum wage, and time and a half after midnight.”

  “Not that sleazy club...” He clicks his tongue loudly. “That’s no place for a girl like you.”

  His voice grows louder as he swivels round in his chair to face me.

  “You haven’t walked around those parts of town at night, not on your own.” He waves his finger. “It’s certainly an eye-opener.”

  He rubs his chin between his thumb and fingers.

  “Blue lights,” he pipes up, “sirens, the cops are everywhere.”

  He edges forward on the chair.

  “I’ve seen the drunks as they leave the bars and clubs, the druggies hanging in small groups getting their next fix. The street corners come alive; it’s a hooker’s paradise.”

  “Tristan...” I attempt to interrupt.

  “Look,” he talks over me, “if you’ve got to get a job, get one in the day. Shop work, an office maybe.”

  “I haven’t had the interview yet.”

  Anger bites into the pit of my stomach. The flat is all I have left and I’ll do whatever it takes, because I’m not going to lose this.

  “Somebody’s got to pay the bills,” I snap. “Might have suited you living on the street...” My eyes narrow into a cat-like stare.

  “Whoa, Rose...” Butting in, he holds up his hands. “I’m just looking out for you, but if that’s what you want, go for it.” He gives a contradictory shake of his head.

  I’ve talked myself out of so many jobs lately, but not this one. I’m determined, and really can’t be bothered to answer. I fidget in the awkward silence I’ve created, strumming my fingers on my lap. I can hear the clock ticking on the mantelpiece as the seconds pass. If I don’t get motivated soon, I’ll never make the interview.

  “Let’s say we compromise.”

  “Whatever, Tristan, I’m going to get ready.”

  I sit up straight on the settee. The curry I fork around my plate has suddenly lost its appeal, and I gag on the lukewarm chicken pieces and gloopy onions.

  “I’m not stupid, I know we need money, I just worry about you.”

  “Oh, Tristan, shut up, I don’t need a protector,” I joke; I can’t help feeling annoyed with him, yet it’s kind of sweet that he cares.

  “But that’s what I’m here for... Tell you what, if you get the job, text me when you’re close to finishing and I’ll come and meet you, okay?”

  I smirk in response. “Yeah, that’s okay I guess.”

  Chapter Three

  Lucian

  Darkness is like a shadow around me. It’s 10 p.m., the start of yet another night-shift. I stand in the doorway of the club with my legs apart and fold my arms across my chest. My eyes glance down the long street and the queue before me. People fidget and chat while waiting for me to let them pass.

  There is such predictability to a night on the town for mortals of the twenty-first century. Skirts get shorter, voices grow louder. Etiquette, speech, all the niceties of my time are long gone. I no longer speak like a nineteenth-century Earl, and am as much a commoner as these urchins of today.

  “You letting me in then?”

  Another drunk, I think to myself as I look into his dark eyes and at his ruddy complexion. His hair is black, sleek and tied in a short ponytail.

  “No, I don’t think so, mate, try again next week,” I reply as he attempts to push past.

  I move to the right and block the door with my body. This does not put him off, and he stumbles closer. I can smell his breath; it reeks of neat spirits as he splutters for me to get out of his way.

  “I’m twenty-seven. Here, wanna see my ID?” he bellows, his face reddening further, I guess from the alcohol.

  I gaze down, watching his unsteady hand as it searches in the pocket of his black hoody. Hasn’t he read the sign, smart causal dress? He’s attempting to enter dressed in three-quarter trousers; he’s got a nerve. Everything about him cries out trouble; he’s probably been inside. Long trousers would have been far more favourable tonight, for his bare legs can’t disguise the fading tan lines left from the police tag he has recently worn around his ankle. He hasn’t learnt a lot, I think to myself as the thug keeps goading me to let him pass.

  “Come on, mate, give us a break, it’s his stag night,” an agitated voice shouts.

  I can feel the crowd like a wall as they push forwards, but I’m not budging, not for the yobs of today. I’m paid to do a job, to keep these drunks out; they can go elsewhere.

  “Here...”

  I hear his stammers as he slams a plastic card into my face.

  “Alex Scott, of 42 Maple Drive,” I read aloud, mentally taking in his details, for I don’t forget easily. My memory is good, it’s where I store lots of information I may need later.

  My eyes widen and I flick the ID out of my face and out of his hand. I turn and square up to him.

  “Look, I don’t give a damn about your age. You’re wearing three-quarters and trainers, and you’re pissed. Do one.” I point my finger towards the taxi rank.

  I laugh to myself at the pretty boy trying to act big, trying to be a man in front of his mates. His fist flies up towards my face with such predictability, and I catch it with the same reflex action I would catch a flying ball. Alex Scott has met his match; he has no idea who he’s messing with tonight. My fingers clamp around his clenched fist, and I squeeze tightly enough to cause searing pain. He makes no sound, he doesn’t need to, I can see it in his face. No, not yet, I think to myself, I will allow him a reprieve and a chance to be on his way.

  “I’ve told you once, do one.”

  He gives a slight turn towards his mates. I think I’ve won, but just as quickly he turns back and snorts a mouthful of saliva, spitting it with force in
to my face. Its warm congealed texture clings to my lashes, before slowly seeping down onto my cheek.

  He is goading me; I can see it in his eyes as he awaits my reaction. Though I never react how one would expect, my lips curve into a smile and I laugh in response. Alex Scott’s joviality is to be short-lived, for my cold stare cuts him dead, like the blade of a knife. My vice-like hold tightens around his fist. One move is all it will take for me to hear the crack of his knuckles and turn the bones inside those small fingers of his to dust. He’s not in pain, he’s in agony; it’s the shock that prevents him from crying out. I know my strength and I love it, I love the control. It is such a thrill to have the power I do, to change somebody’s demeanour in an instant, to be able to destroy his evening with the flick of my wrist.

  “Lucian.”

  Briefly distracted, I turn. It must be time for our rotation already.

  “Lucian,” Dennis calls again as he walks towards me.

  He is a bald-headed bouncer wearing a black coat that matches my own. He stands at my side ready to take my place on the door. He’s a happy-go-lucky kind of bloke, quite contradictory to his outward appearance. He is built like a tank, and has a large dragon tattooed on his head, its tail trailing down behind his left ear and then curving around his neck and up onto his face. I smile; for the next hour I have the privilege of patrolling the dance floor.

  “I’ll be seeing you, Alex Scott of 42 Maple Drive,” I mutter between clenched teeth so as not to be overheard by Dennis or unwanted ears.

  I turn Alex’s slender wrist just that extra inch to make a point.

  “I’m not telling you again, do one.”

  I’ve got a feeling he’s heard me this time, as there’s no arguing back and I watch him and his friends scatter towards Bar-code, the next club down the street. I’m quick to press the button on my walkie-talkie to forewarn my fellow bouncers. That’s Alex Scott’s evening over, I think to myself.

  With my mind back on my job, I open the door to allow a group of giggling ladies entry. The beat of the music booms out onto the street like a drum, accompanied by a gush of warm air from inside. An arm hangs from around my neck and I turn into coppery hair and laughter. I smile at a rather flamboyant redhead. Her steps waver; she’s not quite drunk, but well on the way.

  “Maybe later, Lucian?”

  I watch her cheeky wink, and smile courteously in reply. Yes, she’s beautiful, but what is beauty? What does it matter to me? For beauty or not, it is impossible for any female to stir emotion or lust within me. My desires are long gone. How can I ever hope to love without a beating heart? It’s ironic how the symbolisation of a heart is depicted so beautifully in one’s mind, when drawn or replicated in whatever manner, yet in truth it is just a beating organ encased in blood and bone. Its only finesse is held within one’s own imagination, which humans allow to conjure up the meaning of love.

  “You should see the new bit of skirt that’s started here tonight.”

  Snapped from my thoughts, I jump and frown across at Dennis.

  “Didn’t know there was a vacancy,” I am quick to reply.

  “You must know Vanessa’s about to drop; she’s on maternity as of last weekend.”

  I pass a half smile and step past him into the club. I blink several times to allow my eyes to adjust and walk around the dance floor’s perimeter. Varying patterns of strobe lighting hang over the dancers. I glance around; all seems well. I walk between the beams of light and stand at the bar, where I rest my arm.

  I grin at Lucy, a petite blonde-haired barmaid, as she passes me a glass of iced water. She’s a single mum and works bloody hard to look after her two kids. Her ex was an idiot; he even had the look of one. He’d boast that the teardrops tattooed on his left cheek were for each time that he’d been inside. I don’t often stereotype people based on their looks alone, for what right have I, when I am the way that I am? His name was Vinny. He’d often prop up the bar, and I’m sure it was to check on Lucy. I could see the jealousy in his eyes; he hated other blokes looking at her. When he walked through the doors of the club, she’d turn into a different person. Her bubbly self became quiet, and her sparkling eyes that normally beamed at the customers looked down. God knows what hold he had over her, but she was scared of him. I couldn’t have been working here long when she turned up for her shift with a black eye. I wasn’t having that; let’s just say I paid him a wee visit, scared the crap out of him. Not long after, Lucy told me that he’d packed his bags. He still hangs around on the odd occasion, though now under my watchful eye.

  My eyes are on the move the whole time, looking for this new bit of skirt Dennis told me about. I back away from the bar when I see Gaz, the club manager, walking through an archway from the backroom. He is dressed in a black suit and his usual open-necked shirt. He stops, picks up a glass and helps himself to the optics. He’s another drunk; must be at least a treble, I think as I watch him pour. Then, chatting to the barmaids, he sits on a leather-topped barstool. I watch the way he looks at Lucy from under his eyes, but then he’s the same with all the women. My assumption is that he’s probably already had his way with this new bit of skirt. The manager’s eyes are wide, and they roll like a slot machine; it’s either the till or the cleavage of a buxom woman leaning over the bar where they come to rest.

  My eyes widen when I see her and I stir from within, my breaths touched by a kiss of life. I blink not once, but again and again, for I cannot believe the sight before me. My mind is awoken; I envisage the sweetest petals as they float before me in a collage of crimson. Then, dream-like, it all comes back to me: the girl I saved on the bridge, my fallen Rose.

  Serene, utter perfection, I keep her within my gaze. I watch her as she seems to float towards Lucy; with her tanned complexion, she resembles a bronze figurine. Black flowing tresses float across her shoulders in a dark absence of colour. I bite back my gasps as my stare falls upon her full crimson lips, for they are the deepest of red, blood red; I can almost taste them. I hunger for this woman,. I am transfixed on her every move, and my eyes follow as she shadows Lucy. From the optics to the cash register, my eyes circle until my head aches for release, but from this lady it appears there is none. The life that I lost that was forsaken I can now see before me, reflected within the smouldering brown of her eyes. Like an endless melody that plays in my head, she is my addiction.

  Gaz sits alone on a barstool, drinking. I see Rose look up and catch his stare; I watch his finger as it beckons her. She lifts her head from pieces of lemon as she stands cutting them for the tequila shots. Placing down her knife, she walks towards where he sits supping from a whisky glass.

  The heady music and conversations, the overriding din around the club, are silenced, though for everyone else the night plays on. I choose not to listen, and I choose not to see. My senses are heightened, giving me a choice as to what and whom I see and hear, and I’ve made my decision. Now it’s only her and Gaz I see before me. I can hear the soft continuation of her breaths; I can hear every word that leaves Gaz’s lips, as though I am standing with them, engaged in conversation.

  “Job’s yours...” I hear him pipe up.

  I look towards the mahogany bar, which he leans across towards her on his elbows. He inhales, his fingers playing with loose strands of her hair. The floral essence of her perfume and traces of shampoo cry out to me. I breathe the scent of her skin; it is worn solely by her and is carried through the air by invisible messages which she unknowingly sends my way.

  “And,” Gaz continues, “if you’re up for overtime, you can make a load more money in this job. Our little secret, just give me the nod.”

  My gaze slips from her momentarily, allowing me time to look into Gaz’s face. I search every pore, every crease for any depth of emotion, but he is so hard to read. Spidery lines pull at the corners of his eyes, which are like those of a shark. His blonde hair has receded and his face appears pinched. It isn’t his looks that women crave, but the money that weighs down his pockets.
His life consists of nothing but the hours he spends at the club, his family no more than a non-existent dream.

  “A lot of our regulars don’t like leaving here alone, if you get my drift,” I hear Gaz whisper into Rose’s ear.

  I can hardly believe what he’s saying; the girl has barely got her foot in the door. An anger adheres itself to my gut like no other. Over the last couple of years Gaz has been a good bloke to work for, and as a mortal, I guess you could say he’s okay. But as I look at him now and see the sleazeball I’ve been working for, my head summons up some of the worst deaths imaginable that, if given the chance, I could bestow upon him, but there’s none like the venom that seeps from between my teeth. I can imagine them penetrating his broad neck, and then I’ll sit back and wait as the poison slowly invades his bloodstream. My fists clench at my sides, but are soon to open. Why waste my energy on this pathetic excuse of a man? From what I see, he’s already dead and all I can do is crave the heart he wastes.

  It appears that Rose makes a joke of his insinuations, although her body language purveys quite the opposite. I watch the softness of her shoulders straighten; she doesn’t quite make the smile she attempts and shuffles away from him. On her retreat, I step closer towards the bar.

  “See me,” I mutter.

  My voice echoes within Rose’s subconscious, as once again I allow my senses to dull. I blink, and as before, the night and the music play on. I am ensconced by people, drowned out by their voices, and yet through the hubbub she hears my request. Those dainty brown eyes of hers look solely at me. Their soft expression on meeting mine tells me so much. She doesn’t look into the eyes of a stranger, for she holds my gaze far too long. I can see the intrigue written on her face and the furrows of her brow as if she’s questioning where we first met.

  I rest my empty glass on the bar; again I look up and her eyes are still on me. I gesture subtly for her to pour me more water. With every step she nears, and intensity inside me grows. I feel a pull of my hand as she attempts to take my glass, and her finger brushes against mine. My fingers gain warmth; I am exhumed by a strange heat that rushes to my head. The feeling is euphoria. I can hardly catch my breath. My hand jumps and I drop the glass like a stone; it shatters on the wooden floor. I fasten my fingers around her wrist and gasp as once again I am engulfed by the pain of life.