The Sexopaths

by Beckham, Bruce

  Pussy’s bells start to toll again; now their sombre tone seems to taint his mood, dampening his spirits. Ordinarily he’d look forward to a rare evening home-alone – football on tv, a takeaway of his choice – but tonight’s free time feels not a boon but a sentence. He wishes he could bag the miscreant kittens that are Monique’s maddening foibles and cast them into some deep well, some disconnected compartment of his brain. What the head doesn’t know, the heart can’t fret about. Is that old-fashioned wisdom, or new-fangled naivety? On the face of it, he can hardly complain about Monique’s proclivities, real or imagined. Yet he bears the weight of a fundamental imbalance. If Jasmin-Sharon were to reveal something about Xara to Monique and other confessions were to follow, maybe she would forgive his trespasses, deliver him from evil, even. Hadn’t she once joked at a dinner party that if you put a guy in a room with a girl’s rear protruding through the wall, it’s only a matter of time before he’ll fuck it? He remembers his surprise at the time: that she recognised the hypothetical male has no more interest in forming an emotional bond with the female backside than if it were a girlie magazine. In similar fashion Adam finds he can square the Jurmala episode. Monique didn’t set out to have sex with someone, nor afterwards show any inclination to strike up a relationship beyond the steamy confines of the sauna. In contrast, the connection – tenuous though it may be – with Lucien feels infinitely more threatening: he senses his wife is a willing accomplice to her own abduction.

  He signals to turn into their avenue, the sandstone church on the corner extravagantly uplit, its spire puncturing the black heavens beyond the reach of the arc lights. But he cancels the indicator: he’ll get a drive-thru; kill a few more minutes. He edges back into the line of traffic trickling through Corstorphine, heading out of town. He acknowledges a roadster that lets him in. In his rear-view mirror he notices the suffix XRA in its registration – Xara? They say Edinburgh’s a village. Her online admirers write of a sporty little number in which she collects them from the airport, lays them back. He wonders what level of patronage it takes to achieve such Platinum status? For some reason he has been awarded an alternative rank, outwith the published hierarchy. But he doubts if Xara would take kindly to his reporting upon its bestowal.

  As he and Jasmin-Sharon were preparing to leave the hotel room earlier, her live mobile had trilled again, this time with a different ring-tone, one that had her scrabbling across the bed before the call diverted. The conversation had been curiously stilted:

  ‘Hi.’

  No introductions. Clearly she knew the caller. It was a nervous, expectant greeting, a tone of subordination. So much packed into such a tiny word. She continued, replying to a question:

  ‘Just finishing with a client.’

  Who could it be, that she would so freely refer to her occupation?

  ‘Yes – I’ve got it. I’ll have it ready. I’ll bring it.’

  A pimp?

  ‘Only four?’

  A definite note of disappointment, edged with panic.

  ‘But you said…’

  Then a long pause while she’d listened obediently.

  ‘I know – but, can’t you get…?’

  At this juncture the other person had evidently rung off. Biting her lip, Jasmin-Sharon had briefly glanced at the screen to confirm the disconnection, and resignedly flipped the phone into her handbag. Adam had feigned disinterest in the conversation, pretending to be engrossed by events on the street below. They’d parted with a comradely hug, pledging to carry on ‘as normal’. He’d tried to highlight the irony in the wording of their pact, but Jasmin-Sharon, keen to leave, was clearly still distracted by the tense exchange.

  He’d quickly rejected the pimp hypothesis. Jasmin-Sharon might be the vulnerable sort, but there’s no stereotypical whoremonger smoking in the shadows. Of this he’s certain – Monique would know otherwise, and would have told him so. In any event, the tiny fragments of dialogue that reached him from Jasmin-Sharon’s handset sounded decidedly female. Who else could it be, but Xara?

  Could Jasmin-Sharon’s ‘same deal’ – the payment in kind – actually be manifest in white goods – in cocaine? The reason it’s ‘worth her while’ to maintain contact? On reflection, her suggestion that they were remunerated in ‘about the same’ currency was ambiguous. And whilst he judges her stories as somewhat fanciful, she had little to gain by volunteering details of the cruel relationship. And the control she speaks of – what firmer grip to take than through such dual dependency? For Xara – dedicated, wealthy, distinguished – there’s the motive, means and opportunity; in Jasmin-Sharon, a weak and willing servant.

  Curiously, the odd teasing comment aside, Jasmin-Sharon has not shown the inclination to hand her misfortune down the line: the abused becomes abuser. On the contrary, she was quick to reassure him of her intention to preserve his marriage. If only she were more predictable he might relax. Sure, today she behaved benignly – but beneath the inscrutable façade multiple personalities seem constantly to wrestle for pre-eminence. And thus he fears the emergence of the character that recognises the power she wields – the power to subjugate him, while she is free to engage the unsuspecting Monique.

  Junk food in the bag, fries spilled in the footwell, they arrive home. Camille stirs as he lifts her but he senses dreams will draw her back into slumber. He carries her limp form to the house, behind him the car’s passenger door open and his burger at the mercy of varmints. Upstairs he pulls back her quilt and lays her down, removes what outer garments slip off without resistance, covers her, kisses her, and watches as she settles into sleep.

  He wanders into his and Monique’s bedroom – Ela has been in today and the bed has been immaculately restored; though its pristine form only highlights its emptiness. Suddenly he realises he can hear Monique’s voice. For a second he believes she’s home, maybe speaking on the telephone out in the driveway. But his head knows she can’t possibly have got back so soon – as he trots down the stairs he realises she’s broadcasting into the ether, leaving a message on their answer-phone. He breaks into a run.

  ‘... oh… that’s another low-battery warning… love y-…’

  He bounds, sprints, virtually dives… but just fails to grasp her fingertips before she drops off. Too late, he picks up. He dials her number – it diverts.

  ***

  Adam stares across the litter of his half-eaten meal, thoughtfully sipping the beer for which his appetite just holds. She’s not coming home tonight. Though the meeting had more or less run to schedule, she’d said, there’s a strike – wildcat – on the Paris Metro and trains. It’s chaos: the Peripherique is gridlocked, the city paralysed, taxis like gold dust. She can’t make Charles de Gaulle in time. But she’ll catch the red-eye – be home before daybreak, before he and Camille are even awake – there’s almost no difference, my darling. Her mobile is running out of battery – she doesn’t have her charger as she thought it was just a day-trip.

  He wonders, from where had she called? It was bustling and noisy – there were voices and music – more like a lively restaurant than the offices of wherever they’d been meeting. And her own voice, tremulous, perhaps layered with alcohol? Where would she stay – an airport hotel, for early-morning convenience? Or some place else… ‘Don’t worry… I have an apartment… it avoids the weekday commute… let’s go there for a coffee and make a plan… some wine?... a cigarette?... relax with a little line of coke?... it’s good, non?… fucking good.’

  Blog by Anonymous – 5

  OMG! A clandestine rendezvous with M’s husband today (I don’t think I’m giving away anything by calling her ‘M’… or him ‘A’ come to that). A – the sucker – paid a grand for a couple of hours of my time!! Or maybe my silence??? But if he thinks I’m going to spill the beans – well, I’ve told him that’s not how it works. I surprise myself, sometimes. Even Sarah has commented – she said it’s my strong sense of self-preservation. I think it was meant as a compliment. That’s my motto - need to
know. Funny, though – there’s something A needs to know. He claims Sarah – Xara to him (though he guessed her real name) – told him that I was the punter! Me! OMG! Some secretive female who wants experimental sex, and he’s just helping out with the threesome – but he’s not to discover her identity! Pull the other one – I thought, maybe he’s cooked it up so it doesn’t look like he’s actually cheating on M (as if being talked into it by Sarah makes it any less!) Thing is – he must know I could just ask Sarah – so why would he invent something so ridiculous? Perhaps she really did tell him that. I could ask her. But if she wanted me to know she’d have explained. Better let sleeping dogs lie. Need to know? I don’t need to know. Am I bothered? No. Why get on Sarah’s wrong side just to please a punter – even if he is her Special One! If she wants me to do a job again with him… I’ll do it. Though I don’t think he’s too keen on me. At least, he’s not too struck on me getting into M. And now he’s probably wondering if I’ll tell her about today. Another reason to keep in my good books! I’ll be seeing them soon enough, anyway – not sure if he knows about that, yet. Have to knock him out earlier this time! Perhaps I should take along something to do the job! He said M fancies me. I was excited to hear that. It made me wet in an instant. Made me bad. Funny thing was – being with him – it was like M was there. His after-shave maybe reminded me – or was it the feeling of him fucking me while I was sixty-nine-ing M? And she’s so turned on by what I do – work, I mean. When I was telling her stuff on the phone today she was breathing like she was frigging herself!!!

  CHAPTER 6

  5th October – Edinburgh, Scotland

  Morning glory. It feels early; Adam half-wakes from an erotic dream he’s loath to exit. Soft lips smother his; small careful movements caress him, sleeving him in velvety muscled warmth. She’s floating above him, barely touching other than these two points of essential contact. In a moment he’ll come – to hell with the sheets – but consciousness ebbs and flows and the dream is slipping like a slowly receding tide; he senses all too soon he’ll be beached, blinking, awake. Then he realises – there is no dream, only a familiar smooth, sculpted form in the darkness. Monique. With a rush the warm tide envelops him.

  She continues in motion for another minute or so. Only now does she press down upon his core, a restrained crescendo of silent shudders that marks the arrival and passage of her orgasm. Finally she releases her full weight upon him. Hearts exchanging beats, they lie affixed in the embrace. Pinned in these post-coital shallows he waits. But sleep is not about to return – instead, thoughts like hungry seagulls begin to circle, their sharp alarm cries penetrating in the dawn.

  When did she last wake him with sex? The memory is vivid. Not since that advertising festival in Meribel – what, five years ago? – when they’d tumbled into her room and then her bed to make love so drunk on genepi that they’d barely pulled off their clothes before passing out. She’d fondled him restlessly through the night, subduing his resistance with her hot primeval breath of alcoholic liquorice; it was only a question of time until she would mount him. Eventually his insentient form had succumbed to her relentless probing; head pounding, he’d come-to certain he was going to urinate inside her. Instead she became pregnant with Camille.

  Afterwards he’d believed some inner blueprint, one undemanding of her full conscious cooperation, guided her nocturnal mission. But what drives her this morning? As his brain boots up, the missed flight looms large in his memory. That tone of nervous excitement in her voice, her battery conveniently running flat. Did she spend time in illicit company last night? And then, as home neared through strained airborne sunrise did remorse contract around her, its creases and stains pervading yesterday’s slightly soiled clothes? This act, then – to cast them off and come to him naked – is it a means to assuage her sense of guilt, to restore her equilibrium with the recency of his presence, to flush away the clinging traces of her excesses?

  He turns his head as though it’s a natural waking movement and glances at the clock – it’s almost seven.

  He sighs, and says, his voice tacky:

  ‘That was nice.’

  ‘Very nice, my darling.’ Her reply is a whisper.

  ‘How was the meeting?’

  ‘Quite interesting, by the end. But the journeys were awful. It felt like a day of constant rushing and constant waiting at the same time.’

  ‘And now so early.’

  ‘I tried not to disturb you.’

  ‘Sorry I woke you the night before.’

  ‘It’s okay, my darling.’

  Monique inhales as though she’s going to say something more, but then apparently thinks the better of it. Adam says:

  ‘And sorry I made a bit of a fuss about that text.’

  ‘Don’t worry. They are a nuisance.’

  He senses she’s holding herself still, as if braced for the next, more awkward question. He says:

  ‘It was just the time of night… and that it had kisses on it.’

  Monique shrugs within the confines of their clinch; though it feels affected. ‘They are French – it is usual. They were wondering where the information was that I ought to have sent.’

  Her calm whispered explanation, restating the facts she might reasonably have forgotten uttering two nights ago, may as well have been screamed into his ear – or, at least, the word ‘they’. They? The committee? Committees don’t have mobile phones. Committees don’t send texts. Besides, he’d spoken to ‘they’, and they was ‘he’. Lui. Lucien. So why does she shy away from this glaring detail, especially one of such obvious significance to him? If there were nothing to hide why not just tell a diplomatic white lie: ‘Oh, they say he’s a workaholic, apparently he bugs everybody with texts and emails at all hours of the day and night.’ Blurring the picture succeeds only in bringing its subject into sharper focus, the obtuse becomes acute: she says ‘they’ and Adam hears ‘he’.

  Adam tries to persuade himself this is merely a misguided non-confrontational strategy at work; that she’d rather skirt around the issue, bury it in the day’s accumulation of minutiae, out of sight, out of mind. He realises he’d prefer a more overt approach: some guy fancies her, so what? He might be a touch forward in his leanings … but it’s nothing she can’t handle… it happens all the time… it’s so unimportant she doesn’t generally come home to report it. Forget it, my darling, I know what best to do, please don’t put me in the difficult position of having to confront someone who is ‘kind of’ my boss, when there is nothing.

  Except he has already confronted her boss. He says:

  ‘You know how possessive I am.’

  She kisses the side of his neck. Then she whispers:

  ‘I had a more interesting text.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I think we are free on Saturday night, non?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Sharon… Jasmin. She has offered to visit. She called it ‘Happy Hour’ – two for the price of one!’

  ‘Like I pay, she gets you free?’

  His implied complaint masks an involuntary pick up in his heart rate.

  ‘My darling – how can you say that!’ She kisses the lobe of his ear.

  ‘Well… you two seem to be getting on rather agreeably. Just say if you want me to leave you to it.’

  ‘I know you are just joking me.’

  ‘Monique, at the risk of repeating myself, if you’re not a closet bisexual you’re some actress.’

  ‘Adam!’ This time she bites his ear lobe to register her protest.

  ‘Ouch!’ He jerks his head away. ‘Closet vampire as well. It was a too-convincing lesbian show you two put on.’

  ‘My darling – at risk of repeating myself – you had sex with her in front of my eyes.’

  ‘I was obeying orders.’

  ‘I should say you went beyond the call of duty, my darling.’

  ‘Sorry – I’ll take note for future reference.’

  ‘That is okay, my darling. And it was very n
ice – very good bad.’

  ‘And you’re happy to do it again?’

  She nods into his shoulder, perhaps a little coyly. She whispers:

  ‘Et tu?’

  He’s sensed their mutual relief at leaving the subject of the text, but now her second little lapse into French grates in his ear, with its unwelcome suggestion that she’s still subconsciously working with yesterday’s lingua franca. Normally he’d savour the little frisson it carries, but for a second it impedes his reply. He inhales, exhales.

  ‘I suppose… so long as you do.’

  ‘Are you not sure?’

  ‘I… just think we need to be a little bit careful… you know, about how far we let her into our lives. I’m not certain she’s the type we’d have as a friend… is she?’

  ‘I think she is being genuine… about liking us.’

  ‘There’s a difference between liking and stalking. You – I mean.’

  ‘My darling – she is not stalking me.’

  ‘Look – it can’t be usual to have all these telephone conversations and be sending texts all the time. With a call girl?’

  ‘Can’t it? How do you know?’ She gives him another nip, more playful now.

  ‘I just don’t imagine it, that’s all. I think she’s got a bit of a fixation on you and that’s one reason why she wants to see us. Who initiated the appointment?’

  ‘Well – you know we had both touched upon it. But… I suppose she did.’

  ‘When did she contact you?’

  He’s wanted to ask this since her first mention of Jasmin-Sharon’s text.