I couldn’t find the door.
I located the mirror and then rubbed the wall to the side of it. The door should have been about two steps to the left. I planted my hands on the wall and then recoiled. The walls were warm and soft. What could this be?
Were the walls hairy?
I stood motionless, my eyes wide, trying to pierce the depths of the gloom. A faint glow came from the floor. I looked down at the tiles that fluoresced slightly under my feet. The longer I stared the more I could start to make out the blue strands in the marble. The light from the floor began to grow brighter, throwing the walls into relief. Now I could see that the walls had the same quality and texture of the leathery inside of a dog’s ear. Delicate pink tones with strands of hair here and there, the crinkly effect of the cartilage. I could feel warmth emanating from the surfaces.
I stumbled into the middle of the room. The tiles looked like pale skin, a kind of ghastly grey, old parchment. The blue lines looked for all the world like small veins. I watched the veins begin to fill with blood. They grew plump with it, and I could clearly see them pulsing. The floor was lurid now, the veins repulsive, throbbing and swelling, distended and finally with a hiss and a dull popping noise they exploded around me. I screamed in fear and was drenched in warm blood that ran into my eyes and mouth. Heavier clots rained down around me like cannon shot. Terrified, I scooted backwards, slipping and falling to the floor, landing with a soft thud on the slick, unnatural parchment. The room stank, a kind of cloying and meaty stink with a strong metallic undertone. I retched onto the floor, starting to blub as panic took me in its iron grip.
I had to find the door! It had to be here. I had to get out! With difficulty, I pushed myself up and hammered my fists against the spongy and velvety walls. Far too much give. I punched at them and heard a deep, irritated growl. I thumped harder. The growl became louder, more of a snarl. I turned and saw the mirror, hanging surreally on its uncanny background, and snatched it off its hook. I threw it on the floor, but the floor was too soft. I picked it up and smashed it into the bath. I retrieved some of the larger fragments, slicing my fingers as I did so, paying no heed to the pain.
Viciously, I stabbed the fragments into the walls where I knew the door should be. The fragments stuck, and I pulled them out. A scream of rage reverberated around me. The malevolence of the growling and snarling turned my bowels turned to ice. The skin and flesh on my hands were in tatters and gripping the glass was difficult, but again and again I plunged the shards into the wall until with a great bloody belch and a roar, I was expelled from the bathroom into the hallway, landing on my stomach as the door slammed shut behind me.
Shaking uncontrollably, I looked at my hands, fearing the worst.
I was clean. There was no blood.
I stood and reached for the bathroom door handle. There was a low warning growl and silence. I backed away from the door into the living room.
My heart thumped hard in my chest, and I hiccoughed, quietly sobbing but trying to gain control of myself. At a loss, I realised I had no idea what to do or where to turn. I walked through into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of whisky from the cupboard. I needed to sit and think. The whisky would calm me down. Soothe me.
But as I settled on the sofa, it exploded around me. Feathers from the cushions flew everywhere. The ghosts of the geese they had been plucked from floated through the air like clouds of angel wings. If only that had been the worst of it. What waited for me when the feathers settled originated straight from the depths of hell. Dozens and dozens of dogs had erupted from the sofa like a canine volcano. Big dogs, small dogs, pedigree dogs, mutts and cross breeds, furry, hairy, healthy, starving, old and young; suddenly my room seemed full of living breathing dogs, their eyes shining red with a loathsome and malefic intensity, hackles raised … and all minus their ears. They turned as one towards me, and I watched as their lips curled back over their sharp teeth and they crouched ready to spring. I understood in that moment, just before my mind snapped, that when the dogs had finished with me, it would be my flesh and blood that decorated all that remained of my beloved sofa.
MAKE DO AND MEND
I peered out from behind the heavy velvet curtains, my face in shadow, my head backlit by the low light burning in the corner of the room behind me. The quiet side street where I lived was in darkness, with the exception of the street lamp at the junction. I watched dry leaves, caught under the halo of light, dance in a sudden breeze, before I satisfied myself that no-one was around, and dropped the curtain back into position.
4.12 am. This night seemed endless. How much longer? I’d had a message to say he would be here after midnight.
I backed up, perched on my worn brocade sofa, my back tall and rigid, then sighed with nerves born of frustration. Slouched. Twiddled with a loose thread on the arm rest. Worried the thread until it came free, and stared down at it in accusatory disappointment. It would never be a part of my sofa again. I couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t make it right. Could I?
I fiddled. Weaved the thread back into the fraying edge. Pulled it tightly with my fingers, smoothed it down, and then tucked the edges out of sight. With a needle I could camouflage this, no problem.
Make do and mend, my mother used to tell me, much as my grandmother, a teenager during the Second World War, had instructed her. My grandmother, happy and positive, had lived a frugal life. My mother, austere and hard-wired, had been a profligate. I wavered between the two. Bursts of obscene consumerism, intermingled with periods of severe thrift. This had bemused my husband no end.
The doorbell chimed loudly in the darkness, and I bit back a shriek of shock. Heart pounding, intent only on stopping the noise and alerting the neighbours to my devious misdoings, I ran into the dark hall and stopped at the front door. I slid back the deadbolt and turned the key. A man in a filthy waxed jacket stepped inside. He smelt of motorcycle oil and spoilt meat. I gagged and turned away. He closed the door behind himself, hefted his helmet and his rucksack and then twisted towards me. An old, close-knit khaki scarf covered his face, below rheumy eyes.
“Do you have the money?” his muffled voice was low, throaty.
“I do,” I stuttered, my own voice sounding unnaturally high-pitched in comparison to his. With my heart in my mouth, we stood and regarded each other.
“Well hand it over, love. I haven’t got all night.”
I scurried back into the living room. Got on my hands and knees and fished under the sofa. I panicked when I couldn’t find the wad of cash. Flailed my arm backwards and forwards, pushing my face close to the dusty smelling upholstery, shoulder jammed against the wood, my rump in the air.
My fingers brushed something. Plastic. Yes. I pushed against the heavy sofa so that it moved backwards, giving me the precious few inches I needed, and scrabbled for the small rectangular package. I drew it towards me, shook the dust away. Practically all of my savings in twenty pound notes were wrapped in a flimsy white pedal bin liner and taped securely.
I backed out and sat on my haunches, blowing my hair back from my face. When I turned, the man was standing in the doorway looking at my backside. The skin around his eyes crinkled. He appeared to be smiling beneath the scarf.
I jumped up and offered him the package. “It’s all there. Twenty-eight.” I’d paid another two up front. A non-refundable deposit.
He nodded upstairs. “Want to give me a … tip? You know, for my trouble?” he asked, and I heard the lust, thick in his throat.
I flushed to the roots of my hair and shook my head.
He laughed. It was loud and jolly. I worried again about the neighbours.
I fiddled with my wedding ring, afraid to look at him. His laughter died down.
“Right. So.” He sounded cheerful enough. He had his money. My money. I guess he had earned it. He opened his rucksack and pulled out a brown paper package tied with string, the old fashioned way, which he placed on the floor. It was larger than I’d expected, well over a foot in length and fi
ve inches across. It was well wrapped. He stuffed his money inside the vacuum he had created in his bag, then picked the parcel up and handed it to me. “We’re done then.”
I nodded, my throat dry. He let himself out of the front door. I stuffed the parcel under one arm, surprised by its heaviness, and carefully bolted the door after him. Alone again. Relief.
I stood for some time in the gloomy hall. The only light came from the muted lamp in the living room. I waited for the energy in the house to settle. It was unnerving for another person—and a man at that—to occupy this space, usually solely mine. It had been a while since I had entertained visitors.
My heart was still pounding. I looked at the door. Listened for the sound of a motorcycle roaring away into the distance, but heard nothing. I thought of the man’s crinkled eyes. Remembered how he had been looking at me. I wondered what his face had looked like underneath the scarf. Had he really wanted to…?
Absurd. But the thought of a man desiring me again. It felt good.
Should I have? I ran the film in my head. Pictured him shedding his clothes in the hall. Following me upstairs, tearing at my clothes. Imagined a frantic, hard coupling. My legs wrapped around him, his big, filthy hands under my rump, pulling me to him, my breasts squashed against his chest, my teeth nipping at his shoulder. Him grunting, me gasping.
I shook my head clear. Breathed deeply. Too late now. He had gone. I didn’t want to see him again. And in any case, I had to consider my husband.
I took the parcel through to the kitchen, down a few steps at the back of the house. I needed to be careful in here. The kitchen was overlooked by the neighbours’ kitchen to my right. I moved easily in the dark and located the cords to pull the blinds closed. I had years of familiarity with the layout of the house and everything within it. When I felt certain I couldn’t be observed by any outsiders, I flicked the main kitchen lights on and blinked in the sudden aggressive brightness. My eyes were far from ready for daylight, and I felt momentarily displaced, as though I had been travelling long haul.
I picked out a sharp knife from the draining board and sliced through the string that bound the parcel together, then carefully peeled back the brown paper from its contents. A heavy-duty black plastic bag formed the next layer. I unrolled the bag. Boyles Butchers: Compleat Meat read the legend. Had Boyles Butchers been the company who had fulfilled this order for me, I wondered? No way of knowing of course. It had all been anonymous. Over the internet. Friend of a friend, kind of thing.
I reached into the bag and pulled the object out. Now I had a layer of bubble wrap to contend with. I picked the knife up again. Sliced the tape. Unrolled the object from the wrap, until at last one final layer remained. Tissue paper. Neatly folded. White. Unblemished. Pristine.
How could that be? Given what had to be done to the object?
I hadn’t expected such a professional finish. This … gift wrapping.
But it was a gift. It was special. To me.
I stared down at the discards on the table, trying not to focus on the shape of the object itself. My eyes were stinging and my limbs were heavy. I felt slightly nauseous. No sleep and too much caffeine. It was well after five in the morning. The soft light of dawn wouldn’t be far away. The snowy tissue paper reminded me that this was a moment to be cherished. I shouldn’t proceed until I warranted this gift, until I was worthy of the moment.
I cleared the rubbish away, picked up my expensive prize, and carried it carefully upstairs. First I would sleep, and then, suitably refreshed, I would open my parcel.
***
I awoke at around three in the afternoon. I liked to sleep with the window open, and in the distance I could hear traffic and a few birds twittering in the tree across the road. Light filtered through my curtains. I was disoriented for a moment. Asleep in the daytime? Then I remembered why and shivered.
I rolled onto my side and stared at the void that my husband Matthew had once occupied. Ten months since his accident. He had been knocked over on a crossing when he nipped out to buy a loaf of bread. He’d been brain dead the moment his head had smashed the windscreen of the car.
After twenty years of his constant companionship, I found it tough to be alone. I had given permission for the hospital to use whatever organs of his body were deemed useful before we switched off his life support. The relatives had been profoundly grateful, I’d had letters thanking me, telling me what a difference he had made to their lives. That had been some consolation, but not much.
What about me? What about everything I had lost? Everything he had been to me? Friend, confidant, partner in crime, chief cook, bottle washer. Lover.
Raw grief had slowly given way to an unbearable loneliness. And at forty-three, I considered myself far from being ‘over the hill’. Bold friends gently suggested me I might meet somebody new, but somebody new wasn’t him, was it? I missed him, missed every part of him, especially his touch. He had fulfilled me with just a gentle stroke, his hand on my skin. It had been nothing and yet it had been everything.
I sat up and swung myself out of bed with a renewed sense of purpose. Time to get busy. The object, still wrapped in its cotton fresh tissue paper was lying innocuously on my dressing table. I ran my fingers lightly across it.
Soon.
***
A flurry of activity.
I stripped my bed and remade it with fresh linen. I ran a duster over the surfaces, tidied clothes away, bundled used underwear into the clothes basket. I took the bedside rug downstairs and shook it heartily out of the back door, returned to plump pillows, vacuum and spray a gloriously expensive bergamot room fragrance into the air.
Satisfied that the room was clean and welcoming, I considered myself. When had I last eaten? I didn’t feel particularly hungry, but it seemed like a good idea. I poked around, unenthusiastically, in the kitchen cupboards before settling on a tin of soup. If nothing else this would line my stomach and prevent any grumbles later.
I washed the pots and checked the doors and windows were all locked and bolted. I unplugged the house phone. I didn’t need to worry about my mobile, I never bothered charging it anymore. There was no-one I wanted to hear from.
It was time to tidy myself up. It had been a long while since I had bothered with anything more than a perfunctory shower and hair wash. Tonight would be different however. Tonight, finally, I wanted to shine. I wanted to look and smell and feel the way that Matthew would expect.
I started with my feet, trimmed my toenails, and exfoliated my heels. Then worked on my fingernails. They were short and functional. I tidied them up, my nail file rasping busily back and forth while I hummed to myself. Better.
Defuzzing was surprisingly fun. It had been so long; I hadn’t realised the extent to which I had let myself go. My legs and underarms were quickly seen to, but I took a small pair of scissors to my pubic hair before setting to with a razor. I didn’t like a complete absence of hair down there, and I wasn’t agile or creative enough to trim a landing strip, but I did like short and tidy. Matthew had appreciated this too. He had run his hands up and down my body, nuzzled me with his warm face, basked in my soft smoothness in comparison to his muscular coarseness.
I remained in the shower for an age. Washing my hair in apple scented shampoo, rinsing and then conditioning with a matching product. I massaged my scalp, enjoying the sensation of the small spiky hairs at the roots under my fingertips. I soaped myself all over with expensive bubbles and rubbed an exfoliating mitt across my skin, sloughing off the dead skin and rinsing it down the drain, wishing I could do that with my memories. Once finished, I was hot and pink. I perched on the edge of the bath to cool down, wrapped in a big towel, and carefully combed my hair through, before drying it with my curling tongs and styling myself pretty.
Back in my bedroom, I reverently lifted the package from the dressing table and placed it on the centre of my bed. I felt excited now as I moved around, naked, making last minute preparations. I lit a scented candle and positioned
it on my bedside table. I rubbed body lotion into my skin, careful to make sure I kneaded it into every nook and cranny, every curve, every hollow, softening skin which had become pale and dry without anyone to appreciate it over the past long months alone.
I applied a little mascara. Only twenty-four hours ago my eyes had been swollen and dull, now they were wide open and sparkling. I added a little coloured lip gloss and pinched my cheeks to make them flush a little more.
I stood and looked at myself in the mirror, saw myself as a goddess, paying homage to the man she loved.
One final touch. Anointment. In the bottom of my bedside cabinet I kept a small bottle of oil that worked beautifully as a lube. I sat back on the bed, poured some onto my fingers and opened my legs. I rubbed the oil into the folds of my vagina. My lips were already swelling with anticipation. I felt an instant tingle of arousal as my fingers slipped and slid gently around. I’d forgotten what the sensation. I lingered there, gently circling my clitoris. So good.
I rubbed the remaining oil into my breasts. I’d lost some weight, but my breasts were still full, if not as firm as they had once been. I rolled my nipples between finger and thumb, the oil lending a lovely silkiness to the action. My nipples sprung to life, proud to the touch. I moaned softly, desire washing through me.
Shaking with anticipation, I reached across to the package, my fingers leaving oily fingerprints on the virgin tissue paper as I finally ripped the parcel open.
It had been so long. Too long. I hadn’t wanted to touch myself. It felt disloyal to Matthew somehow to engage in any sort of sexual activity without him. And so I had moved heaven and earth to bring Matthew back to me. I had met someone online who could farm body parts from the cadavers of those whose bodies had been donated to science, as Matthew had. £10,000 had brought me a body part easily enough. The extra £20,000 had been spent on mummification to my exact and specific requirements.
Deadly Encounters Page 5