The Eighth Day (Jason Ford Series)

by Guy N Smith

  But she wasn’t there any more.

  The next time she came back she was naked. We can still do it, Ricky. I like big men.

  He glanced down at himself. Oh, Christ, he had always had a phobia about his smallness. It wasn’t small any more, it was huge. Swollen and bloated, it stretched the fresh cut, threatened to make it bleed again. The increased tension made him cry out loud.

  It had to be some kind of optical illusion brought on by his fever but he was too frightened to touch himself to find out, the slightest contact was agony. Yesterday he would have been euphoric to have had a member that size; today he was terrified. He took two more paracetamols.

  Some hours later, in the cold grey light of early morning, he saw that he was still over endowed. But at least the bleeding had stopped. He wouldn’t have to call the doctor, after all.

  Days and nights of alternative pain and discomfort. He had long run out of paracetamol. He slept fitfully and the big girl came periodically to see how he fared. She did not carry her knife now and she was genuinely concerned for his health. She was sorry about what she had done but she had had to do it. Because she only liked circumcised men. When he was better, she explained, she would visit him again. That was when they would enjoy themselves. Yes, she still had his foreskin, she was keeping it as a kind of momento.

  He was really getting to like her, especially when the pain eased.

  Some days later, he did not know how many because he had lost all conception of time, he saw to his amazement, and disappointment, that he was no longer over endowed, he had returned to his former inhibited size. The pain was gone, too, just a soreness remained and he had ceased to urinate in different directions at the same time.

  The big girl did not come any more because she was no longer interested in him now that he had shrunk back to his former size. But she still had his flesh.

  Ricky Reed was lucky. He would live.

  10.

  By midnight Kate accepted that she had drawn a blank. She was cold to add to the misery of her disappointment and frustration; the dark nylon zipper jacket which she wore because of the drizzle was no protection against the cool of an April night. Her fingers were numbed, she scarcely dared to trust them if the occasion arose. It was time to pack it in for tonight.

  From her vantage point she had counted at least seven prostitutes standing at various points down Barker Street. That was a good sign, the slags had overcome their fear of both the killer and the police and they were back on the game. They would lure the clients. And, hopefully at some stage, the man she sought.

  Two police patrol cars had passed. A token presence, maybe there was a lull in the cat and mouse tactics now, they were concentrating on finding Amanda Chapman’s murderer. At their approach the hookers had darted back into the shadows, emerged when it was safe. Several more cars had shown up, crawling the kerbs. Most had stopped, picked up girls. Later Kate had seen them return, alighting and resuming their soliciting. Soon business might get back to normal with a steady flow of customers.

  Everybody was getting bolder again. Kate knew that she would have to pluck up the courage to step out into the open when she heard a car approaching. It was a dual risk; there was a sex killer at large, the police were looking for streetwalkers and kerb-crawlers. If your luck was out you either got killed or nicked.

  She wasn’t going to find her man on foot.

  For two hours she had stood and fingered the knife in her pocket. So smooth, so beautiful. She clicked the blade in and out; she was tempted to test its sharpness with her thumb but that would have meant a blood soaked pocket.

  Her nostrils flared, she breathed in the damp, night air; it smelled and tasted like nectar, made her heady. Her skin goose pimpled, there was a pleasant tingling dampness between her pressed thighs. It was more than just a titillation, a turn-on, it had her hovering on the brink of an orgasm throughout her long vigil. But her overpowering lust was for neither mating nor money. She craved the feel of a cutting blade in her hand, the touch of soft, bloodied flesh.

  But tonight it was to be denied her.

  The anticlimax brought with it desperation, a slight headache. She shivered with cold, not anticipation. A sense of being unwell, the way she had been a short time ago. She remembered then that she was due a return visit to Doctor Whittaker. Strangely, this time she was not averse to it. In a way she found the GP attractive but not in a sexual way. Maybe it was because of his small build; she pushed the idea from her mind. She would visit him before the end of the week, as a patient seeking to be cured. For no other reason.

  She was about to step out on to the pavement when she heard soft footfalls. Somebody was close, only yards away. Her alertness had been fogged by fantasies, her ears had failed to warn her of an approaching stranger. She tensed, felt her flesh begin to tingle again.

  The footsteps slowed. Stopped. She heard an intake of breath, sensed the nervousness of the other. A throat was cleared. He had guessed her presence, was plucking up the courage to make an approach.

  “Excuse me …” A deep voice that quavered.

  “Yes?”

  He was bloody scared, she could visualise him fidgeting with his hands, frightened to look into the darkened doorway. Maybe he was thinking of changing his mind. Like yourself, he had his fantasies.

  “Are you free?” He stepped into full view, the light from the nearby streetlamp shining full on him. As Kate had imagined, he was nervous, fingers entwined, twisting them, standing first on one foot and then the other. He was big, maybe six-two or three, weighed around 200 pounds. Not fat, solid muscle, she thought he might play rugby. Dark wavy hair, early thirties, the kind of man the girls went for. She wondered what he was doing down here trying to pick up a slag; it was probably the sleaze that turned him on. If he had a wife or girlfriend she would be the kind that was the envy of all the other blokes.

  Kate experienced a momentary tautening of her stomach muscles, another shiver. Then she was shaking her head. “I’m sorry, I’m just packing up.”

  “Oh!” Disappointment, he looked down at his feet.

  “It’s only just midnight. My car’s parked in the next street. You could be back here by half twelve.”

  “Sorry, I have to go.”

  He nodded, hunched his shoulders, he wasn’t going to contest her decision and that was a relief.

  “There’s some girls further on down the street.”

  “Thank you,” he moved slowly away.

  Kate stepped out into the street, began to walk quickly in the opposite direction. For one brief moment she had weakened, almost succumbed to his request. But it would not have served any purpose, she wasn’t here for sex. Likewise, she had not the time to waste on big men. Her fingers came away from the hobby knife in her pocket. It would have been a pointless and risky exercise.

  There was always tomorrow.

  * * * *

  Paul had returned. He sat in front of the portable gas heater, fully dressed in a black leather jacket and jeans, a mug of tepid coffee in his hand. He looked up as Kate entered, anxiety in his expression. He said, “I’d almost given up on you.”

  “I’ve been visiting friends,” the lie was spontaneous, sounded convincing. She hoped that he wouldn’t ask who, she would have told him to mind his own bloody business.

  “Not a very nice night.” Small talk, he was edgy.

  “Could be worse”, she threw her zipper over the back of a chair. “God, I’m knackered.”

  “You don’t look well.”

  “I’m not.” And don’t make any crass remark about needing an early night. She wondered where he intended to sleep. She was psyched up, if he shared her bed it might prove too much of a temptation. And that could ruin everything. It was a frightening thought not knowing whether she had control of herself.

  “Any news?” She warmed her hands over the fire, saw how they shook.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Anything. Scandal, murders, muggings, you name it. Anything
to break the monotony of a humdrum existence.”

  “I’m a sports reporter,” he laughed, it sounded forced. “And they confine me to local sport mostly. John Rutter covers the city matches.”

  “Have they caught that killer yet? You know, the one that topped the slag.”

  “I’d’ve heard if they had. Which is one reason why you shouldn’t be out alone at this time of night.”

  “I can look after myself.”

  “Things are pretty quiet, they’re looking for filler stories. Matthew covered the courts yesterday, a few sluts up for soliciting but I think even the police are getting a bit pissed off. Fined fifty quid and go back out to earn the money to pay the fine. Pointless, wastes the ratepayers’ money.”

  Kate turned away to hide her quizzical expression. So no body had been found, no circumcised victim discovered bled to death in the red light area. No mutilated victim rushed to hospital. What the hell had happened to that guy? She didn’t give a shit but it would have been reassuring to know. Had the cops enforced a reporting embargo to try to lull the attacker into a false sense of security? Or hadn’t they found the body yet? That was always a strong possibility.

  But nothing was going to deter her. Tonight she had been deprived. So far. She found herself staring at Paul. Jesus Christ, no! I mustn’t.

  “Are you stopping the night?” The question was abrupt.

  “I haven’t made plans to sleep elsewhere,” he dropped his gaze, looked at his watch. “It’s getting a bit late for knocking up friends now.”

  “I see.”

  “Look, I’m sorry about that night, I shouldn’t have presumed.”

  “Too right, you shouldn’t.”

  “I won’t try anything again if you don’t want me to.”

  Her lip curled. An untrustworthy compromise. Let me sleep in your bed and I promise not to grope you. Maybe he wouldn’t. It was herself whom she could not trust. “I don’t like sex, I only used to do it to please you. I don’t want it any more.”

  “That’s fair enough.” He was clearly hurt but he would cling to her even if his only hope was a platonic relationship. He was in love, he would meet any demand she imposed upon him in the hope that things might return to normal.

  She poured herself a mug of coffee. This was getting her nowhere, Paul was determined to stay whatever conditions she imposed upon him.

  “Are you …” he hesitated, “are you … seeing anybody else?”

  The question took her by surprise. She could have turned the answer to her immediate advantage. Yes, I am, and he’s screwing the arse off me. So you’re wasting your time hanging around me. Piss off! But I’ve just said I don’t want sex. “Why do you ask that?” She stalled for time.

  “Because I’d like to know,” there was a tremor in his voice, he was afraid of her reply.

  “All right, I’ll be perfectly honest with you,” a double lie. “I am.”

  “Oh!” Kate felt a twinge of pity; it was as though she had kicked him. “Oh, I see. I thought perhaps you were.”

  “But not in the way you mean, Paul.”

  His head jerked up, he stared at her, clinging to one last vestige of hope.

  “We’re just very good friends. We don’t have sex. He paints, too. I met him through the art society.” The lies were coming easily now. “I’d rather not say who he is because people will get the wrong idea.” So maybe that’ll satisfy you and you’ll just fuck off.

  “I’m very pleased for you.” He obviously wasn’t, it was the gentlemanly way of conceding defeat. “There’s just one thing, though,” he was embarrassed, too. “You see, I don’t have anywhere to move to and I can’t keep on cadging nights with my mates. If I could just hang on here for a while, just a long as it takes me to get fixed up with a flat. It’ll have to be a cheapo, I’m broke, as you know.”

  “All right,” sod him, he was going to be a fucking nuisance, “so long as you really will look for somewhere.”

  “Oh, sure,” he was staring at his hands as if right now they were the most important thing in the world to him. “I’ll go round the estate agents first thing in the morning. And I’ll sleep in here if that makes you feel better.”

  “Thank you,” she breathed a sigh of relief. Her ploy to get rid of him had a fifty percent success: he was halfway through the door. It was just a question of how long it took him to get fixed up with alternative accommodation. “I’m sorry, Paul, I really am, but that’s life.” It sounded corny.

  “Thanks for telling me,” he was close to tears. He cried easily in emotional crises. “You hurt me the other night. Physically, as well as emotionally. I thought I was going to have to go to the doctor.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You could just have pushed me away. Slapped me, even. But you didn’t damned well have to virtually circumcise me!”

  Kate tensed, every nerve in her body tingled instantly, she felt the way she had whilst standing in the cold drizzle of Barker Street less than an hour ago. Orgasmic. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, consciously fought against it. Christ, no! Not here, not now.

  “I bled and swelled,” Paul wasn’t even looking at her, a hunched, dejected form. “I’m still bloody sore.”

  Kate’s impending orgasm threatened to explode. Shut up or I might … “I guess I was half asleep, I got angry and just grabbed. I’m sorry. I hope it’ll be better soon.”

  “Another day or two and it’ll be back to normal.” He looked up, saw her heading for the bedroom. Hurrying like she was ill and had to lie down. “Hey, Kay, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she slammed the door behind her. “I’m so exhausted I just have to get to bed.”

  “You just make sure you go and see the doctor again tomorrow,” he called after her, “you don’t look at all well.”

  Kate did not reply. She lay on the bed in the darkened room, her body starting to jerk as the full impact of her climax hit her, writhed her helplessly. In her crazed fantasy she saw Paul lying in the adjoining room in the sleeping bag. Sleeping.

  In the bathroom were her jars, waiting for trophies. One down and many more to go. Her knife was like a latent, living thing, quivering in anticipation of its next victim, the power that drove her, dominated her. He’s there for the taking, go get him.

  Once she swung her legs off the bed, somehow fought against the overpowering urge, slid helplessly to the floor, lay there.

  She knew that she would have to fight herself every second of the night hours to stop herself from going in there to Paul and taking him whilst he slept.

  She had become a slave to her obsession. Now that she had trodden the path of revenge there could be no turning back. Not ever.

  11.

  “You’re certainly not well, Miss Leonard.” Doctor Whittaker had used a torch to examine Kate’s eyes, he had instructed her to close each alternately and to follow his moving finger with the open orb. He had taken her blood pressure. In between all of which he had made notes on her file.

  She felt decidedly uneasy. Last night she had slept in snatches, afraid even of what she might do in her sleep. She had shot the bolt on the inside of the bedroom door but that was easily withdrawn. Even in a state of subconsciousness.

  The following morning it was with no small amount of relief that she had listened to Paul dressing. She heard him shaving in the bathroom. Shortly afterwards the outer door banged. There were times when even an atheist thanked the God in whom they did not believe.

  But there was still tonight. And as many nights that might remain until her one-time lover found himself somewhere else to live.

  She had considered moving out herself but that, too, would take time. By which time Paul would probably have found a place of his own.

  So she had gone back to Doctor Whittaker. In desperation. But the last thing she would confide in him was her obsession and its symptoms. She hoped he didn’t guess. No, that was an impossibility even for one so shrewd as himself.

  “It’s jus
t that I’m unable to sleep, Doctor,” she rolled the sleeve of her denim shirt back down. “If I could sleep nights I know I’d be fine.” At least until Paul has left for good.

  “Sleeping tablets serve a purpose but they don’t cure the illness, they just enable the patient to get more rest than he or she would otherwise,” he smiled, sat down and crossed one leg over the other. “I’m more interested in getting to the root of the problem.”

  “Stress and exhaustion caused by doing a mundane job under pressure,” she offered in the hope that he would accept it.

  “Just symptoms,” he removed his rimless glasses, wiped them with a tissue. “I don’t want to refer you to a psychiatrist. Really, I’m one myself,” he added with a hint of embarrassment, “except that I ended up as a GP. I would think that your condition has originated within your private life and that the rat race of bank work has merely accelerated it. Tell me your daily routine. In normal times, I mean, not when you’re off sick.”

  She told him, included weekends. It all sounded extremely boring. Only so recently had the excitement in her life begun.

  “Painting is therapeutic, you must do more of it. What do you like painting most?”

  She answered “ducks” unhesitatingly and felt foolish.

  “Interesting birds, we humans can learn an awful lot from them,” he put his glasses back on. “Observe the way they live. They are gregarious. Polygamous. They eat voraciously, exercise continually, and mate in the spring with unbelievable regularity. Do you exercise much, Miss Leonard?”

  “I go for walks. Mostly to paint.”

  “That’s good. And what about your appetite?”

  “I’m lazy. I eat when I’m hungry, take the easiest way out. Junk foods. I can’t afford to eat out.”

  “Have you ever noticed that there is an increasing number of malformed ducks appearing on the park lakes in recent seasons?”