by Quig Shelby
‘Thanks. How much do I owe you?’ asked Joost, tucking the bottle neatly into his jacket pocket.
‘Shall we say thirty pounds,’ replied Dela, smiling an immaculate row of pearly whites. The front teeth jutted out, but this only served to enhance the thickness of her lips, which seemed to be wrapped around an invisible O.
‘Great,’ said Joost opening his wallet.
‘And what would you say to a free fetish for fortune Mr van Houten?’ said Dela with her tongue doing somersaults. No wonder Felix looked drained.
‘That’s very kind of you Dela, but please call me Joost.’
There was a beguiling fire lit in Dela’s eyes which was becoming irresistible.
‘What did you have in mind?’ he asked.
Dela handed him a little wooden manikin.
‘Place it near the entrance to your office, and new business will come knocking.’
‘And if it does?’
‘Then perhaps you can remember who gave it to you.’
‘And that’s all?’
‘Of course.’
‘Alright then, we have a bargain,’ and Joost felt strangely drawn into touching her one more time.
Dela knew it, and would love to hear him scream. But not the way Joost would imagine. He looked at his watch.
‘Well thanks for having me, but time waits for no man,’ he said.
‘Indeed not,’ said Dela, and she placed her hand on his arm.
‘I guess that’s business’ said Felix.
Joost indeed had business on his mind; the business of turning Bheki inside out with delight. Or was it Dela he wanted to please?
They watched him get into the lift, and Dela could sense something was amiss. The way Joost had stared at the freezer perturbed her, and his refusal to take a drink. Still he’d wanted her; she knew that much. But someone or something was protecting him; even the voodoo doll, with the label Felix had cut from Joost’s tie pinned underneath, had no effect.
Outside Din and Vankoni waited in the car.
‘He’s on his way,’ said Dela on the phone to Din ‘he refused a drink.’
‘It’s the same guy alright,’ said Vankoni to Din and rubbing his hands with glee.
Din kept his distance, but they managed to keep Joost in sight until he reached home.
‘Got you,’ said Vankoni ‘looks like I’ll get a chance to finish you off after all.’
Dela was alone in her temple, and all Felix could hear from the outside was her muttering. Eventually she flung herself out, drenched in sweat.
‘He knows everything about us,’ she said to Felix, who was sitting in the lounge with a chilled bottle of beer for company.
‘John Lacey has told him.’
‘He’s dead,’ said Felix.
‘I know but his Spirit lives on, and in this flat,’ said Dela.
‘Isn’t that so John,’ said Dela, banging the top of the freezer.
‘Don’t look so worried Felix,’ said Dela noticing his concern ‘Baka will protect us; we just need a very special sacrifice.’
Felix raised his eyes, and almost wished he’d never killed anybody.
‘But first things first, we need to move John out. I think a trip to the sea-side will do him good,’ said Dela.
Bill and Barbara had a very big freezer, even if it was full of scampi and chips.
Felix would have preferred dropping John at the bottom of the sea, but Dela, who’d considered the option, couldn’t bear to throw out such powerful muti. She’d just warn the publicans to show some discretion in the kitchen.
They didn’t waste much time on small talk. What was the point? They were two wild beasts. Bheki’s nails dug into Joost’s back, but he wasn’t the one screaming through the night. Poor Josh turned up the TV to drown out their passion; it was only his fists that could make a woman moan.
Chapter Sixteen
It was the evening after their bodies had realised they were inseparable, and with lust in the ascendancy. Bheki was working, and Joost had nipped out to the local off licence to buy some rum. He noticed Joshua Templemead pass by on his way home, and carrying a pizza box. He looked in a foul mood.
The lift was out of order, again, and Josh pounded the steps to the top floor. His wife had burnt the dinner, and his mood was still thundering. The light was dwindling as Josh approached.
‘He’s coming back,’ whispered a voice.
The landing was pitched black as Josh fumbled for, and then dropped his keys. A dull thud was the only noise as the mallet dealt a heavy blow to the back of his head. Then like a falcon he was hooded.
‘I’ll get the car,’ said Din to Vankoni ‘wait here.’
They carried the body to the bottom of the stairs wrapped in a rug, and then, outside in a hail of sleet, threw him into the boot of the car. They’d be at Charles Carney’s house in under an hour, and giving them plenty of time to freshen up.
Vankoni handed Din a slice of pizza behind the wheel.
‘It’s still warm,’ he said.
‘Pepperoni, my favourite,’ said Din, and taking a huge bite.
Joost returned to his flat soaking wet, and in the darkness crushed a light bulb underfoot. After changing the bulb he noticed a set of keys on the landing. He pushed the keys through Joshua’s letterbox, and swept up the broken glass.
It was way passed closing time when cars started pulling up at the village pub, The Crossed Heart. There was a special occasion, and some of the arrivals were even bringing their own carpet.
The drinking hole was close to the cliff edge, and the waves could be heard crashing into the chalk face. John Lacey was still trying to pinpoint his new surroundings, with little luck.
It was a clear night for stargazing, and Christine and Lucy Middlemass were the last to be warmed by the hearth, and the roaring flames. Bill was serving drinks from behind his bar, and Vankoni gave Christine a knowing smile.
There was a congenial atmosphere which belied the night’s intentions. Dela had already prepared the cave, and her disciples were salivating over the prospect of new, more powerful, talismans.
An orderly queue formed towards the cellar, and then to the trapdoor underfoot. The Crossed Heart had been a smugglers den in days long gone, and well-worn steps were carved into the chalk beneath them.
‘Don’t worry,’ whispered Christine into Vankoni’s ear ‘there’s a handrail.’
Lucy was helped out of her wheelchair, and carried down between James and Din. The packaged entertainment was swung into the hole with less caution.
Candles lit their way, and after the first twenty or so steps the incline became less steep, eventually bottoming out into a huge moonlit chamber. The cave was halfway up the cliff, safe from trespassers and the tide, and they all looked out to sea. An old chiropodist’s chair beckoned them forth, and there was a wicker chair for Lucy.
Some looked tentative, whilst others like Dilwood and Gasper Owido had a fire burning in their eyes. James too, the preacher man, was feverish with excitement; he’d been promised a very special part.
The rug was unfurled, and the unresponsive dummy tied into the chair. Din looked a little worried; he hoped he hadn’t dealt a fatal blow, after all dead men couldn’t scream, and that’s where the real power of muti lay.
Felix removed the leather hood, one of Dela’s first presents, and was dumbfounded. The captive was not Joost van Houten at all. Din and Vankoni looked at one another equally shocked, but Dela carried on as normal. Felix got the drift, and henceforth acted unsurprised. There was one good piece of news though; Joshua Templemead was starting to come round.
‘Don’t say a word,’ wasn’t the most reassuring wakeup call, and Josh knew he wasn’t at a fancy dress party. For one thing the dagger held to his throat by Din was real.
Dela had trouble speaking up over the waves, but the screams from Josh, as Din and Gasper sliced him up, more than made up for it. It took half an hour before it was over, but they all had a piece of good fortune in their doggy bags. Only Gladys and Lucy looked a little sea sick.
Felix cleaned up for his mistress as the others started drinking upstairs. The bin-bagged leftovers would be thrown overboard, weighted down, on Bill’s next fishing trip.
James Middlemass had Joshua’s tongue in his pocket, to smooth a path to Eve’s heart whilst the love potion still lingered. Christine didn’t even ask why, after all Vankoni had his testicles in a neat little box to boost his virility; if he needed it.
Pandalay couldn’t wait to bury the hand under his shop door to attract more customers, and their money. The screams had awoken the Spirits, and this really was powerful magic. Susie Chang looked dreamily over his shoulder.
Poor Josh went to his grave believing his wife had hired hit men, or really did have a lover, or both. Donations, and not commiserations, were gratefully paid to Dela.
Gasper handed the eyes back to Dela for a little concoction. He liked to play the stock market, and a little far sightedness wouldn’t go amiss.
Joshua’s spine had been the most difficult cut, but Lucy and her parents were hoping for a paste that would restore even more movement. Charles wanted the heart for courage; he could be such a ninny, and Dela would soon give him the recipe.
Back in London, in the early hours of the morning, the talk was all about Joost. Dela was concerned that perhaps the gods favoured him; Felix was worried the cat was out of the bag, whilst Din and Vankoni considered how to make amends.
Joost woke up with a pounding in his head. He’d really drunk too much the night before. The next pounding he heard was on his front door.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ said Rita Templemead ‘but Josh didn’t come home last night.’
Joost wasn’t sure what to say.
‘He put these through the letterbox,’ said Rita, holding out her hand.
Joost kept quiet about the keys. It seemed strange, but who knows, maybe Rita could stop wearing the sunglasses to hide her bruises.
‘I don’t know what to say Rita, maybe he’s left you. Besides you know what I think.’
‘Nobody understands him,’ said Rita.
‘Sure, anyway ...’
‘Of course, sorry to have bothered you Mr van Houten.’
Joost shut the door, and looked at the clock. Bloody hell it was eight a.m. already, he was supposed to meet Bheki at nine, and he hadn’t even packed. They were off to Paris.
Chapter Seventeen
Joost tumbled out of the taxi, and ran to the platform.
‘At last,’ said Bheki.
She was too relieved to play it cool. Although she had contemplated slashing his car tyres should he jilt her.
‘Sorry, I overslept with a sore head,’ said Joost, before catching his breath.
‘You want to cut back on the booze Joost. Still at least you haven’t any other vices.’
Joost coughed.
‘Anyway let’s get on the train, we’ve only got ten minutes left,’ said Bheki.
She was wearing a red suede cap, her favourite Dolce and Gabbana goatskin jacket, and hipster jeans. Her shiny leather boots, the ones with the steel buckles, ran just underneath her knees. Joost was unshaven, and had his clothes thrown on. Although ruggedly handsome came to Bheki’s mind.
Joost threw their bags into the overhead compartment, before squeezing next to Bheki. He was gasping, but Bheki wondered whether he was still winded or infatuated.
Arriving at the Gare du Nord, Joost was forced to take his hand off Bheki’s knee. After a ten minute ride to their hotel she helped him relax, and they were ready to explore.
‘So how many partners have you had?’ asked Bheki casually, as they sipped their coffees in the side street café.
‘Real girlfriends as opposed to flings?’ he queried.
‘What do you constitute as a fling?’
‘A casual sexual relationship lasting no longer than a month,’ he replied, as though reading a dictionary definition.
‘Let’s count flings as well,’ said Bheki.
‘In that case I’ve had three relationships,’ said Joost, counting them one by one on his fingers.
Not bad thought Bheki, considering his age and undeniable charm - if it was true.
‘Is that three with me, or do I make four?’ she asked.
Joost smiled. Her concern was endearing.
‘You’re the fourth,’ he said.
Joost was too much of a gentleman to mention all the hookers he’d paid since arriving in the UK.
‘And you?’ he asked. ‘Honestly,’ he prompted, sensing her caution.
‘Two,’ she said.
‘Good answer,’ said Joost smiling.
Bheki too forgot to mention the punters who’d paid for her services, and half a dozen admiring suitors.
‘So you were married once,’ said Bheki, taking a stab in the dark.
After all, there had to be a reason for his abstinence. He wasn’t a monk, and she already knew he had more vitamins than a health store.
‘In South Africa.’
‘What happened?’
‘It’s a long story.’
Bheki detected a sombre shift in tone, and knew she’d stumbled on dangerous ground.
‘I’ve never been married,’ she said, changing tack; they were on holiday.
‘Why?’
‘Guess I never found the right guy.’
An even better answer thought Joost.
‘Any change on the Eiffel Tower?’ he asked.
‘Sorry Joost, it’s too high for me.’
She had a good head, but not for heights.
‘Alright let’s visit the Montmartre instead,’ he said.
‘OK.’
Bheki was giggling over his shoulder, as the artist, sitting at his easel, finished the caricature. Joost’s chin was drawn like an arrow, he had squinted eyes, and an anvil for a forehead. His scar appeared doubly menacing.
‘We’ll have to find you a bed at Blackfriars,’ said Bheki, as Joost got up from the stool.
The artist nervously handed the drawing to Joost, who took it in the jovial manner it was given.
Bheki’s cartoon was fundamentally sexual. Her lips were much thicker, and pouting. The eyes were thrown upwards with curled eyelashes, and if you could see the bottom half she was probably being screwed. Joost was delighted, and couldn’t wait to hang it in his flat, above the bed; although he was hoping to see the real thing on a regular basis, at least for now.
After a dinner by the Seine, where Bheki drank too much wine, they headed back to the hotel. Bheki was unsteady on her feet, and it was just like old times for Joost. He could sense her vulnerability, and it excited him.
Bheki was lying on the bed almost unconscious, but could feel Joost unbutton, and then pull down her jeans. He bit her ear, before rolling her over, and pushing her head into the duvet.
She barely had the strength to move into position, as Joost hauled her up on all fours. The last thing she saw, before a pillowcase covered her head, was the money thrown in front.
Joost succeeded in making her feel like a cheap whore. And in between excesses he drank the mini bar dry, finally collapsing on the bed besides her.
A sudden splash of ice cold water on his face, and Joost awoke immediately.
‘Did you enjoy yourself?’ asked Bheki.
Joost’s wrists and ankles were tied to the iron framed bed with curtain cords, whilst Bheki held a knife to his balls. He could feel the serrated edge press against his scrotum, but was hoping for some role play. He was about to be disappointed,
this wasn’t a game.
‘Now, how about some real answers?’ asked Bheki.
‘Go ahead,’ he said, his voice faltering.
‘How many lovers?’
‘I told you, five.’
‘You said three, four including me.’
‘That’s what I meant,’ he said ‘three, I mean four.’
‘OK Joost, don’t blame me.’
The knife pressed even harder against him.
‘One more time, and let me warn you, I’m not a patient person. How many women have you screwed?’ asked Bheki, scowling.
‘I don’t know, hundreds I guess.’
‘Oh my God,’ she said ‘you’ve lost count.’
‘You wanted to know,’ he said.
‘And did you pay any of them?’
‘Yes, all of them. Apart from four.’
‘Make that three. Are you forgetting the notes you threw on the bed tonight.’
Bheki actually preferred to hear this; no romantic involvement. And she pretended for herself too; no tears when it was all over, as it inevitably would be - just like all the others.
‘If you love hookers so much then what in god’s name are you doing with me?’
Joost was scared, but he still had to smile.
‘I’d answer carefully if I were you,’ said Bheki.
‘The truth?’ asked Joost.
‘Of course.’
‘You look like a whore.’
He didn’t mention John Lacey, Dela or Felix. They were far from his mind. Though it was true, he was screwing her senseless because she looked like a prostitute, a cheap filthy minded hooker. Not in her clothes, or the way she spoke, but in her eyes, her mouth.
Bheki laughed, leaving Joost confused.
‘I don’t get it,’ he said.
Bheki had wanted to save the good news for later. She knew what men really wanted, but couldn’t help herself anymore.
‘I was a hooker once. Don’t worry, way before you met me. And no I haven’t got Aids.’
Despite the threat of castration Joost was becoming aroused.