Flesh

by Richard Laymon

  She rammed her feet into her shoes.

  Behind her, Evan was gasping for breath.

  “You shit,” she muttered. Shaking with rage, she shoved her bra into her handbag. “You filthy shit, you felt me up while I was asleep!” She whirled around to face him. He was on his knees, his forehead pressed against the sofa seat. “That really stinks. Stinks!” She thrust a hand down the sleeve of her blouse. “It’s sick is what it is!”

  “I’m sorry,” he gasped.

  “You rotten bastard.” She struggled to find her other sleeve, then shoved her arm through and slung the purse strap onto her shoulder. With palsied fingers, she tried to fasten her blouse as she rushed to the door.

  “Alison!”

  She jerked the door open and glanced back at Evan. He was still on the sofa, his ass in the air.

  “Don’t go!” he called. “Please!”

  She stepped out and slammed the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I got him good, Alison told herself as she hurried along the sidewalk. I got him real good.

  Oh, sure you got him good. Maybe he’ll have a sore gut for a while, maybe even a bruise, but by morning he’ll be almost as good as new and you won’t.

  How could he do a thing like that?

  How could I sleep through it?

  He probably just slipped his hand in for a quick feel, nothing more.

  Yeah, sure thing. A feel here, a feel there.

  If he’d cleaned the goddamned salsa off his hand, I never would’ve been the wiser. What the fuck was he doing, eating while he groped me?

  Alison heard an engine. Headlights brightened the road on her left. A car moved slowly ahead of her, close to the curb. “I’m sorry!” Evan called through the open passenger window. “Please, can’t we at least talk?”

  She kept walking.

  Evan’s car stayed beside her. “At least let me drive you home. We can’t leave it like this.”

  “Oh yes we can.”

  “I didn’t do anything!”

  “Oh no?” Alison strode across the grass and stepped off the curb. Evan stopped his car. She crossed in front of its headlights and went to his door. The window was down. She clutched the sill and peered in at him. “You didn’t do anything? How do you figure that, huh? What do call grabbing my tit, not to mention whatever else you might’ve grabbed?”

  “I didn’t know you were asleep, damnit! I came back from the kitchen and sat down with you, and you looked at me. You opened your eyes when I sat down, and gave me this look as if everything was okay, and I put my arm across your shoulders. You didn’t tell me to get lost, so I thought you liked it. I thought everything was okay again. That’s when I put my hand in your blouse. I didn’t know you were asleep. You didn’t act asleep. My God, you moaned when I…touched you.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Alison muttered. But her outrage had turned to confusion.

  What if he’s telling the truth?

  She lowered her head. Her grip on the car door seemed necessary to hold her up.

  “I thought you were awake. I never would’ve done those things if I didn’t think you were awake.”

  “What things, exactly?”

  “You really don’t remember any of it?”

  “You did more than…touch my breast?”

  “Yes.”

  Alison groaned.

  “You seemed to like it.”

  “Christ.”

  “You were breathing hard, you were kind of writhing…”

  “My God, I don’t—”

  “Then suddenly you snored. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I was in shock. I couldn’t believe you’d been sleeping the whole time, but I thought what if you were! I mean, what if you suddenly woke up and found me all over you? So I buttoned your blouse as fast as I could, and decided I’d better pretend the whole thing never happened unless you brought it up first. Which you didn’t.”

  “It was just going to be your dark little secret.”

  “It was a mistake, Alison.”

  “Yeah, uh-huh.”

  “I’d planned to tell you about it, but not until later. I figured that, once everything was patched up between us, it’d be safe to tell you about it. Hell, you probably would’ve thought it was funny.”

  “A riot.”

  “I can certainly understand your being upset. I mean, I know how it must look. But look at it this way: if you hadn’t noticed that sauce on your bra, we’d be making love right now. Wouldn’t we?”

  “Probably,” she admitted.

  “So what I did…it wasn’t exactly bad, the timing was just off. If it’d happened before last Thursday or after tonight, it wouldn’t even be an issue.”

  “Murder isn’t a fucking issue if you put a bullet through someone’s head a minute after he’s already dead.”

  “What the hell does murder have to do with anything?”

  “I’m just making a point. About timing.”

  “I’ve said I’m sorry, Alison. I’ve explained that it was a misunderstanding. I thought you were awake.”

  “Did I start to undress you?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Wouldn’t that be the standard procedure if I’d been a participant in your little grab-fest?”

  “I thought you were just relaxed and enjoying it. Like the way you just relaxed and did nothing while I was giving you the massage.”

  “Sure,” she said. She felt so tired.

  “I just want you to understand. I want you to come back with me. Everything was going great, Alison. We owe it to ourselves to give it another try.”

  “No.” She shook her head slowly from side to side. “It’s over. It’s done.”

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, all right?”

  “Good night, Evan.” She pushed herself away from the car door, staggered backward a few steps, and rubbed her face.

  “Tomorrow,” Evan said.

  “Get out of here,” she muttered.

  He drove away slowly.

  Alison stood in the street for a while. Finally, she willed herself to move. She shuffled her feet along the pavement and managed to step over the curb. She was still several blocks from home. She felt drained. Instead of continuing down the sidewalk, she wandered onto the grass. Soon, the cool dew soaked through her shoes. She wanted to lie down, to shut her eyes and forget, but not on the wet grass. She went to a concrete bench that surrounded the trunk of an oak near Bennet Hall.

  At the far side, where she couldn’t be seen from the road, she lay down on the bench. She folded her hands beneath her head and let her legs hang off the edge of the circular seat. She closed her eyes.

  This is fine, she thought. If Evan comes around again looking for me, he’ll never spot me over here.

  The concrete hurt the backs of her hands and her shoulder blades, so she used her purse for a pillow and folded her hands on her belly. That was much better.

  Something skittered noisily among the leaves overhead. Squirrels, she thought.

  She wished she had a sweater. A blanket would be better. If she had a blanket, maybe she would just stay here all night.

  Evan’s got one in the trunk of his car. His make-out blanket. Shit, he got a lot of use out of it with me.

  Never again.

  Thought I was awake. Sure he did.

  The chill of the concrete seeped through the back of her blouse and shorts and seemed to seep into her skin. She felt a cool breeze sliding over her bare arms and legs. It stirred her hair. It smelled moist and fresh.

  Her attic room would be hot.

  Another good reason not to move.

  I couldn’t move if I wanted to, Alison thought. And I don’t want to.

  Fuck it all. Fuck everything.

  Okay, not the squirrels unless one lands on my face. And not Mom and Dad. And not Celia and Helen. And not pizza. Or John D. MacDonald or Ronald McDonald.

  That shit didn’t even get my joke.

  Fuck him. Fuck Evan Forbes. And
fuck Roland Whatever and how about Professor Blaine because they both look like they want to rip my clothes off? And who else? How about all of them? How about every man everywhere? Helen’s right, they’re nothing but walking cocks looking for a tight hole.

  Okay, just most of them.

  Alison realized she was gritting her teeth and shivering. She wrapped her arms across her chest.

  Stick around here, she thought, and they’ll find you in the morning like the frozen leopard on Kilimanjaro. They’ll stand around you in awe and say, “What’s she doing here?” And some asshole will probably stick his hand in your blouse. Can’t let a little thing like rigor mortis stand in the way of a cheap feel.

  You’re going nuts, Alison.

  She rubbed her face. With her arms no longer hugging her chest, the breeze slid over her and stole the warmth from the skin beneath her blouse.

  Her attic would be warm, her bed soft.

  Enough of this.

  She got to her feet and started for home.

  The second story windows were dark, but the light at the top of the stairway had been left on. Alison, still shivering, hurried up the stairs and unlocked the door. She stepped inside. The warmth felt wonderful.

  Helen must’ve been burning incense. In spite of the breeze coming in through the open windows, a faint pine odor still hung in the air.

  No light came from the crack beneath Helen’s bedroom door.

  Alison had expected Helen to be waiting up, eager for an account of the night’s events. It must be after eleven, though. With an eight o’clock class in the morning, she had probably decided to forget her curiosity and turn in.

  By the dim light from the windows, Alison made her way into the corridor and entered the bathroom. She washed her face. She brushed her teeth. She used the toilet.

  Standing in the bathroom doorway for a moment, she got her bearings then switched off the light and angled across the dark hall to the staircase. She climbed the stairs slowly, gliding a hand up the banister.

  Her room at the top, illuminated by a gray glow from its single window, seemed almost bright after the blackness of the staircase. Its open curtains trembled slightly in the breeze.

  At this distance, Alison couldn’t feel the breeze at all. The room felt stifling, even worse than she had expected.

  No middle ground, she thought. You’re either shivering or sweating.

  She lowered her purse to the floor, out of the way so she wouldn’t trip over it if she needed to make a late trip to the toilet.

  Then she took off her blouse and dropped it to the floor. She unfastened her shorts. She drew them down, along with her panties, and stepped out of them.

  The room was still uncomfortably hot, but she could feel a hint of the breeze on her bare skin.

  With a glance over her shoulder, she stepped backward to the door of her closet and leaned against it. The door banged shut. She flinched and caught her breath, shocked as much by the support giving way behind her as by the sharp noise.

  She took a deep, trembling breath.

  She bumped the door with her buttocks. Now it was shut all the way.

  The smooth, painted wood felt cool on her skin. Braced against it, she raised one leg and pulled off her shoe and sock. Then the other.

  At the dresser, she opened a drawer and moved her hand across the clothing. Her fingers slipped over the filmy fabric of the new negligee. It was lighter than the others, and would feel fine on a night such as this. She took it out, carried it past the end of her bed, and stood in front of the window.

  The faint breeze drifted in, roaming her skin. Not long ago, the cool air had chilled her to the bone. Now, it felt wonderful. It curled around Alison’s thighs, slipped between her legs, caressed her belly, slid over her breasts and beneath her arms. She dropped the negligee. She placed her hands high on the window frame and spread her legs and closed her eyes.

  The soft touch of the breeze moved over her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  After hearing the toilet flush, Roland counted slowly to sixty. He made the count again and again. Then his mind wandered. He pictured Alison in her attic room taking off her clothes, getting into bed. In his fantasy, she wasn’t covered by a sheet. She wore only a pajama shirt. He saw himself standing over her, carefully unfastening the buttons as she slept, spreading open the shirt. Her skin looked like ivory in the dim light from the window. He reached down to touch her and suddenly she was obese, she was Helen and she was dead, and she grinned up at him. He lurched, bumping his forehead against the boxsprings.

  He lowered his head to the floor.

  And held his breath, listening, half expecting Helen to moan or turn on the mattress above him, awakened by the jolt.

  Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. She’s dead as shit.

  But I’m right under her.

  He listened and heard nothing. Helen’s eyes were open, though. He could see them open. She knew he was under her bed.

  Roland must’ve spent hours in the narrow space only a couple of feet beneath her corpse. It seemed unfair that his mind should start turning against him now, when he was almost done with the wait.

  He still heard nothing.

  But Helen was listening as she gazed with dead eyes at the ceiling, and she could hear Roland under the bed—his quick heartbeat and shaky breath.

  “You’re dead,” he whispered.

  Helen rolled over, got to her hands and knees, ripped open the mattress with crooked fingers and tore out great clumps of stuffing. Then she was staring down at him through the mattress tunnel. She bared her teeth. She snarled and thrust her hand down the hole, clawing toward his face.

  It isn’t happening, he told himself.

  But he trembled and gasped. He had to get out. He felt as if spiders were scurrying over his body. He scooted sideways over the carpet, but stopped just beneath the side of the bed frame. Helen was waiting up there. Waiting to grab him when he emerged.

  With a stifled whimper, he thrust himself into the open and rolled clear. He sat up. In the dim light from the window, Helen was a motionless mound beneath the covers of her bed.

  Watching her, Roland got to his feet. He kept his eyes on her as he sidestepped to the bedroom door. He opened the door, stepped out, and pulled it shut. He backed away from it.

  No longer in the presence of the body, his fear slowly subsided. He felt angry and embarrassed for letting his imagination torment him.

  Why, he wondered, had his friend allowed him to lose control that way? Certainly, it could’ve stopped the horrid thoughts—given him a nice zap to remind him of Alison. Did it enjoy his suffering? Or did it simply not care?

  He touched the bulge at the back of his neck.

  I’m doing it all for you, he thought.

  Then he felt ashamed. This was his friend, who had turned his secret fantasies into reality, who had led him into a new life even more bizarre and thrilling than his most lurid dreams. The fear was his own fault. He had no right to blame his friend.

  As if stirred by the reassurance, or perhaps only to remind him of what lay ahead, his friend sent a small tremor of pleasure through Roland.

  Had enough time gone by? He wanted Alison to be asleep before he went up to her. Otherwise, she might cry out. Her window had been open when Roland went exploring after he’d finished cleaning the mess in the living room. She wouldn’t have closed it; the house was still too hot. With the window open, a scream might be heard by someone outside or even by the people who lived downstairs.

  Roland needed to catch her asleep. Then, there would be no scream or struggle.

  He went to the sofa, sat down, and waited.

  He savored the waiting. Last night with Celia had been incredible. But Alison had stunning beauty along with an innocent, alluring quality that Celia lacked. She would be…overwhelming.

  It would be like a dream.

  All night with her.

  But he needed to wait. Settling back on the sofa, he folded his hands be
hind his head and stared at the dark screen of the television. He called up an image of Alison in the mall wearing the jumpsuit with the zipper down the front that he longed to slide down. She’d had a bag in her hand. So had Celia. He wondered what they had bought that day.

  Roland grinned. Whatever they’d bought, it cost plenty. It cost their lives and Helen’s too. If he hadn’t seen them at the mall…

  He would’ve chosen someone else, not the Three Musketeers.

  Big enough to share with a friend.

  His stomach growled.

  Desire pulsed through him. Roland writhed, gasping, until it faded.

  Okay, he thought. I get the message.

  Leaning forward, he pulled off his shoes and socks. He pulled off his shirt and spread it on the top of the table. Standing, he slipped the knife from its case and placed it on the shirt. He removed his handcuffs from a front pocket of his jeans. Digging into the other front pocket, he took out a smashed and flattened roll of duct tape.

  He touched the handcuff key which dangled from a thin chain around his neck.

  His hands shook badly as he peeled off a six-inch strip of the broad, metallic tape and sliced it off the roll with his knife. He stuck one end of the tape to his chin. It hung down like a strange beard.

  He lowered his jeans and stepped out of them.

  This time, there would be no problem of blood on his clothes. He would leave them down here and put them on again after showering. He would be clean when he left the house.

  I’m learning, he thought. I’m getting good at this.

  He sat on the sofa again, picked up his jeans, and pulled the belt out of its loops. He put the knife case back onto the belt, then stood and buckled the belt loosely around his waist. He folded the knife, slipped it into its case.

  Now, he would have both hands free for cuffing her and taping her mouth.

  He liked the feel of the cool belt and the weight of the knife against his side.

  A naked savage.

  Drape a cloth over the belt, and he would have a loincloth.

  Better like this, he decided.

  He slid a hand down the length of his engorged penis, then picked up the cuffs. He stepped around the end of the sofa. His feet were silent on the carpet. He heard only his thudding heart. He began to tremble. With each step, the tremors grew. He wasn’t cold; he wasn’t frightened. He was shaking with excitement, with delicious shivers of anticipation.