by Drew Cross
“That's right, give your fella a cuddle, calm him down before he does something stupid.”
I wink at Marcus on their blind side, and step backwards onto Strang, the taunter's bare foot with my heavy police boot; grinding my heel into the delicate bones and feeling a satisfying crunch. He gives us a few bars of a unique scream aria composed mainly of impressively high and ever-changing notes.
“I'm so sorry, I didn't realize that your foot was there. Are you okay?”
“My foot! My fucking foot.” Tears stream down his face as he clutches the blackening toes tightly in both hands. “You did that on purpose.” Moore is up in my face, voice menacing and brow furrowed in anger. I grab his balls tightly through his boxer shorts and squeeze hard enough to let him know that I'm not messing around.
“Get in my face again and I'll rip them off and feed them to you one at a time you fucking throw-back. Find yourselves some new targets, I'm not playing anymore.”
I release my hold and he cups himself protectively, retreating swiftly and reviewing his opinion of where I belong in the parameters of this small world. I'm smiling now, not because I enjoy the violence and the concomitant surge of power, but because I can recall another of my Granddad's sayings.
There are two types of man in the world that'll grab hold of another man's balls. The first type is a man without boundaries, he'll hurt you any way that he can if you give him reason to. The second type you'll have to find out about for yourself, son, but he'll hold your balls in a completely different way, so you'll know him when you meet him. He'd laughed in his idiosyncratic way then, like an old car struggling to fire up, and I'd joined him not knowing what we were laughing at, but enjoying his amusement as if it was my own.
“Fucking psycho freak.”
I take a bow at the insult, re-entering the present.
“Pleased to be of service.”
Marcus is done packing his stuff into his locker now and gestures that we should leave. A combination of amusement and gratitude does a mischievous dance across his face. He waits until we are at a computer in the admin room before he speaks.
“Thanks, mate, that was awesome.”
“I don't have many friends, but I look after the ones that I care about.” No you don't. The internal monologue reminds me, with vivid mental portraits of what I've done.
Marcus fires up a computer, logging in to the criminal intelligence database and finding the search screen.
CRIMINT allows you to input names, numbers, addresses or keywords, and then gives multiple entries that match for you to sift through. The entries are categorized by intelligence officers in terms of their likely validity; from the irrefutably correct to those that are little more than third hand hearsay. Contrary to popular opinion Police Intelligence is not a contradiction on terms. The facility allows you to build a picture of an offender's history or establish whether a particular address might be potentially dangerous to visit alone. It also allows you to establish possible links between different offenses or incidents.
Marcus types and enters 'Vampire' then clicks into the first of several hundred items returned. The entry relates to a guy called James Jones, who changed his name to 'Vampiricus Vampire' after his most recent conviction for indecent exposure in 1999. Using a separate part of the system, we retrieve his picture; short, morbidly obese, wearing a long black leather trench-coat, with greasy badly-dyed hair half covering his thick glasses.
“Probably not, mate.” Marcus grins.
“I'd better log on too, judging by the size of that list. I'll start at the last entry and meet you in the middle.” I pull up a chair and log on to the neighboring machine. An hour later my eyes are pleading for a break from the screen, and I'm reeling with information overload.
“How many people are calling their crazed dogs Vampire for God's sake?”
“They must all be in your half, I've only come across one. All my lists are wannabes, biting each other for fun and claiming that they're Lestat.”
“May as well jot a few names down though, and remember that the blond hair might not be natural.”
“You think he's just trying it to see if he'll have more fun?”
“Funny, Marco, funny. How many have you read so far?”
“Fifty-four, you?”
“Seventy-two. Let's try a different tact, how about release lists for the last six months. Search the interesting looking ones and look for a link?”
“Sounds good, but I need a drink and something to eat first. Remember this is on my time, mate.”
“We'll grab an unmarked and drive out for something. I'll just ask if anyone else needs something bringing back though.”
“Right, I'll get the keys then.”
I head into the briefing room and ask around, but nobody wants anything, so I head on up to the CID office. Kev Henshall is flicking through witness statements and grunts a 'no' in my direction without bothering to look up.
Karen is either on the phone or talking to herself out of sight at the other side of the room; battered filing cabinets obscuring my view of her.
I take a slow walk in her general direction, picking my way between overflowing desks adorned with circular coffee prints and an origami snail on top of a haphazard stack of cardboard files. She finishes up the call as I hover in her line of vision, and she flutters her eyelashes at me. I take a few moments to appraise her as we speak. She is striking for anyone who is prepared to look beyond the façade. Even now, tired and no doubt working the kinds of hours that most mortals would shudder at, she has an unmistakable presence that I wonder how I missed before we became intimate. Her eyes light up as she comprehends my expression, still slightly guarded and quizzical to see me here in her territory, but definitely pleased all the same.
“Constable Marks, how are you?”
“All the better for seeing you, Inspector Cobb. I'm on my way out for a snack if you'd like anything bringing back in?”
“I'm fine thanks; don't want to ruin my appetite for later on...”
I keep my voice low so as not to broadcast to Kev Henshall. “I look forward to it, Karen. Sorry I've not spoken to you much recently.”
I find myself compelled to instigate some sort of contact, strange for me – I'm not what you'd call the tactile type. I take a swift glance around to ensure that we can't be seen and lean in kissing her gently on the lips; the contact rising and blooming as a delicate blush in her cheeks. “I love what you've done with your hair, Inspector. See you later.”
She looks part shocked and part amused as I walk away. For one I choose to ignore the self-torturing voice beating against the inside of my skull.
An hour later and we're both back at the same computer screens, dropping flakes of chicken dumplin' pastry between the keys. The meat is moist and highly spiced, a floral curry aroma perfuming the air and attracting the attentions of passing nostrils. Marcus' father was originally from Jamaica, and my love of all things spicy and interesting makes me more than happy to head into the dark heart of St Ann's for the 'best Caribbean food in the city', on the regular occasions when he has a hankering for something authentic.
“Spotted any of your pals yet?” He grins with more pastry helicoptering to the floor.
“Actually, for a minute I thought I'd logged into my facebook account by mistake,” I reply, laughing and narrowly avoiding choking on a stray chicken fiber
“I've got three possible and a life to lead outside of here beckoning, so I'm calling it a day, mate.”
“I've got four more to go at, no pictures of two of them though, just descriptions.”
“We'll knock a few doors tomorrow then, enjoy your night big man.” He lingers at the doorway.
“What?”
“What do you Goths believe in?”
“It's not a bloody cult!” I reply amused now. “There's no real unifying theme of what it is to be Goth as far as I'm concerned, it's more of an aesthetic that values individuality. The guy we're looking for isn't a Goth though;
Criminal Investigation Department are missing the point.”
“How do you know?”
“Trust me; the people in those intelligence files aren't Goths either, even if some of them think they are. Besides, how many blond Goths have you ever met?” I laugh and wish him a safe journey home.
* * *
“You're in big trouble, mister.” Karen propels me backwards from the door, through the open living space and towards the bedroom.
“Why?”
She kisses me purposefully on the mouth, teeth nibbling my bottom lip. “Shut up. Sex first, talking after, or I might be too angry with you to bother.”
We reach the bed and she pushes me firmly down onto it, starting to strip and slowing the actions down, teasing and twirling, a study in balletic precision. I watch on mesmerized, fully present this time, starting to feel something for this naked stranger and unnerved by what that might mean.
The physicality as it unfolds is like music; the tempo varying, rising and falling, each crescendo more powerful than the last, the quieter lulls in between subtle and complex – somehow more intricate. I want to please her now, to involve her and own her. She tastes like summer rain, with the faintest salt hint of teardrops and the texture of warm velvet. Her long nails press hard into my shoulder blades and the curve of her hips rises up to meet me, inviting me to enter her as completely as possible.
I slip my tongue back into her open mouth, caressing her own, pushing myself slowly and deeply inside her then moving slowly back almost all of the way out again. We moan in unison and the kissing becomes more frenzied, the meeting of hips faster and more forceful, matching the twin rhythms of our heartbeats. At some point her nails break my skin and carve neat grooves down my back, sweat and blood running together, dripping onto white sheets.
Karen shifts underneath me and demonstrates her strength, rolling me onto my back and straddling my body in one fluid movement. She moves my hands to her breasts, hair falling over her face, body rippling as she controls the pace and rhythm. I come with a gasp, starting to rise, but she grabs hold of my wrists pushing me back down, holding me in place and continuing to claim me until her own climax arrives. Her face and chest flush with color, the firm contractions hold and release me inside her. We lay together for long moments, silent except for our breathing; the cotton sheets are moist with our essences and spotted with blood from my scratched back.
Karen speaks first.
“You've been having your own little investigation with Marcus.”
“You might want to rephrase that.”
“Now is not the time to be funny, you're in trouble so shut up. It doesn't bother me too much that you're looking into this thing, but you didn't have the courtesy to tell me about your discovery at the dentists, which bothers me a little more.”
“We only found out today ourselves, and we've not exactly got much to go on anyway. I take it you're already in the know about who this guy is though?”
“Yes, contrary to popular opinion we do know how to conduct a proper investigation.”
“Touchy!” I kiss her before continuing. “How did you get the details without a warrant?”
“I have my sources, including a dear friend who's a dentist at that particular surgery, so sheer luck on this occasion. She hadn't told her technician about it, but she was on the phone to me two minutes after Marcus left.”
“Is he in custody then?”
“No. He was released on license a short while ago and fell off the radar; we haven't been able to find him since he changed address and stopped reporting in to Central, which was shortly before the first attack.”
“Thoroughly rehabilitated then? The effectiveness of our system of punishments and correction never ceases to amaze me. I don't suppose you're going to tell me who he is?”
“That depends on how good your cooking is, but I have to say I found the starter very satisfying.”
“Come here.” I lean over to kiss her and the contact quickly becomes more protracted but languid this time now that the initial urgency has gone.
“Oh God! Sorry about your back.” Karen holds up a bloodied hand. “I hadn't realized that I'd gouged you with my nails.”
“Don't worry, you can make it up to me.”
I slide her hand over my body, leaving artistic red smears and she continues downwards, trailing her soft fingers over me, cupping and caressing my balls, computing my lack of reaction to the blood.
* * *
Karen talks to me from the bathtub, luxuriating amongst mimosa scented bubbles and vanilla candles while I cook.
“Smells great by the way, but do you make a habit of cooking while naked and bloodstained?”
“No, only on special occasions.” I add a little more olive oil to the lime and watercress pesto that I'm making.
“You mean birthdays and Christmases, I take it?”
“And Halloween of course, I'm a Goth remember?”
“Of course.”
“I'll wash after you, I just didn't want to make you wait for food while I cleaned myself up; I figured you might have worked up an appetite by now.”
“I have. What are we having by the way?”
“Crab spaghetti with a lime and watercress pesto. It's probably got a sexy Italian name, but I can't remember it right now.”
“Sounds great.”
“I've picked a nice Sicilian white wine to partner it too and there's home-made tiramisu in the fridge for dessert.”
“Tell me you do ironing as well and I think I'll keep you forever.”
“I do ironing.”
She laughs and gets out of the tub, catching the falling water in a thick cotton towel and standing on another that I've laid out on the floor. Turns a little pirouette up on her tiptoes, knowing that I'm watching. I give her a broad grin of appreciation in return for the show.
She speaks again. “Just one question for you before we sit down for dinner, and I do hope that you'll join me in dining naked … when exactly did you get to be so comfortable with blood?”
Just how do I start to answer a question like that? The evening just got interesting.
Chapter 9
The bright morning light threads highlights of pure gold through the sleeping woman's hair. She is naked on her front and facing away from me, the bloodied sheets covering her lower half but not obscuring the breathtaking view of her upper body. I stand beside the bed taking in the arc of her toned back and shoulders, the suggestion of the curve of a breast beneath her; the overall impression reminds me of the Degas drawing that hangs in my bathroom. From what I understand of him, he too might have appreciated the blood.
I feel a powerful surge of emotion at the sight of her, and it staggers me; I'm not accustomed to sudden sentimentality. The opportunity to view another person without the need to conceal the act and without either their or my own guard in place is a rare treat indeed. Some would doubtless be horrified to behold a scene such as this; the speckling of blood suggestive of violence. But isn't the physicality of the sexual act itself, the domination and submission, the penetration and the moaning and screaming, wrapped up in a certain measure of aggression and violence anyway?
I catch an unexpected glimpse of my own image in the tall bedroom mirror that Karen had moved into a new position last night, then look away again embarrassed by the smile that is pasted onto my face.
What the hell's going on? I thought you'd decided for yourself that this wasn't going to happen. Oh well, I'll worry about it after breakfast.
I set to on fixing coffee, strong Java done in the machine, and pause to flip on some music with the volume down low to avoid waking her up before I've cooked. 'The world is a vampire, sent to drain', thanks for the sentiment, I heartily concur with the idiosyncratic whine. I set a pan of water boiling and slice fresh sour dough bread, ready to toast once the eggs are poaching. The coffee is almost done already, exuding a rich aroma with each fresh release of steam; modern technology has its place.
There are f
aint stirrings from the bedroom, and Karen eventually emerges as I'm plating up eggs Benedict. She's wearing one of my plain black t-shirts, and wearing it well, the fabric coming down to her knees. I'd forgotten that she gives away almost a foot in height to me without the power heels. Her hair is in glorious disarray and she's rubbing lethargically at the corners of her eyes.
“I'm sorry, I probably look like crap.”
“Well then call me a coprophilliac.”
“What?”
“You look beautiful.”
I invite her to take a seat before she can bat the compliment away, and place her plate down in front of her along with the pot of coffee and an over-sized mug.
“Careful, I could get used to this. You cook almost as well as you ... you can complete that sentence for yourself.”
She laughs, like a gentle breeze through wind-chimes.
“How's your back by the way?”
“Tender, but don't worry about it.”
“Sorry.”
I pour out a couple of mugs of the richly fragrant roast, leaning over the table to give her a kiss.
“So are you going to tell me about the guy with the fangs then?”
“I wondered how long it would be before you asked. Anyone would think that you were just using me for information.” She's aiming for levity, but something flits behind her eyes and the smile is too taut.
“You know that's not true.” I meet her gaze, eyes still as ponds, letting her in only a little, but still much further than anyone else has entered in a long time.
“His name is Brett Dodds; well recorded for crimes of violence, against men, which is why he wasn't considered to be a natural suspect initially. Unfortunately, by the time that he was, after the DNA results came back in, he'd gone to ground and rather rudely forgotten to tell his probation officer about his change of address.”
“So why the switch to prostitutes all of a sudden?”
“We made some inquiries with the prison service and his probation officer, and apparently during his most recent stretch he underwent rehabilitation therapy and was able to revisit a few childhood memories. Having looked at that in the context of what else we know about his history, it appears that he might be lashing out at his mother; she was a prostitute who went missing when he was still very young. Brett went into care and suffered a significant amount of abuse at the hands of Craig Jensen-Jones.” She pauses as if I should know the name.