by Lee McGeorge
Steady... a breath of wind pushed into his face, blowing past his ears as though somebody was breathing on him. He realised just how alone and secluded he was. This person was toying with him, playing a game.
Movement, twenty yards out, behind a bush. It was a man. It had the shape of a man, but all he really saw was the trailing edge. A disruptive pattern of snow white and lattice branches to blend with the forest.
RUN!
Get out of here, just go, go, go. Paul was sprinting back along the trail. Create some distance. Oh Jesus, what if they have a gun, what if they’re lining their sights to shoot now? They’ll hit me in the back. Dodge, zigzag, move!
Paul took a sudden turn off the trail by twisting to his right and jumping down a steeper incline into deeper snow. His foot snagged on something and he fell forward, losing his balance through a combination of the incline and speed. He fell face flat on the snow, reflexively allowing the fall to happen as a way to hide and cover from view. He broke the fall with his forearms and felt snow push up inside the cuffs of his jacket on landing. He lay prone for less than a second. This wasn’t safe. Keep running.
Jumping to his feet he felt another breath of air, blowing on his neck and with the same feeling of an exhaled breath. Get out of here, just keep running and... The terrain ahead was steep, jagged and tangled with fallen branches. Coming off the path was potentially fatal. Look around. Quick! Ten yards to the left, a small trench of about six feet deep and ten wide, a miniature valley heading straight down the mountain. It looked like an extension of the V shaped gully he’d traversed earlier. An exit if he could run along it.
He went over the crest, glancing to his side and for a split second saw the disruptive pattern moving through the forest parallel to himself. It was a man... What the hell?
His heart was already breaking but seeing this man giving chase made it burst with a charge of adrenalin. “Oh fuck, get out of here, get out of here.” Whoever it was, they had stalked him first. Now they were chasing. What would they do if they caught him?
The trench looked good. He was already running downhill but was still high on the sloping side, gradually falling towards the base. He took a slight leap sideways to hit the nadir but on impact there was a strange crack and a rush of pain... Broken leg... he didn’t even have time to complete the thought when it happened again with the other foot. It was ice. The trench was a stream or underground spring. It had running water gushing through with a layer of ice over the top and snow disguising the whole thing. Paul screamed out in a yelp, his feet punched two holes through ice leaving him up to his knees in running water. His momentum still carried him and he fell forward on the snow feeling the ice beneath him break. His knee dropped into the water to touch the stream bed and the searing stabbing pain of ice water rushed through his legs.
With an awkward crawling leap, Paul somehow managed to throw himself at the opposite bank and start scrambling away. His breathing wracked his lungs, his heart was bursting, bleeding into his chest with exertion and desperation.
Words or moans slurred from his lips as he found extra reserves of panic fuelled energy to keep running and pound his feet along the edge of the trench. Don’t fall back in, please don’t fall back in.
The position was good. So long as he stayed on the lip of where he felt the stream was he got good purchase on the ice beneath.
As his body started to fail he chanced a glance back. He had to decide now whether to continue running or just use the last of his strength to defend against whoever was following. He didn’t see them, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.
Running low on energy his sprinting became a steady run, his desperate strides became considered paces. He looked back four or five times before he left the forest but never saw whoever, or whatever it was again.
As he fell from the forest into the village he placed his hands on his hips and walked, gasping for air, burning with heat under his coat. His feet and jeans were soaking wet and ice cold. It felt safer here. He was stood on a real road and he could see people queuing for the bus to Brasov. He could see the shop and the tower blocks. He was back to civilisation, away from haunted forests of vampire graves and camouflaged crazy people.
“Thank fuck I’m here,” Paul gasped, “and don’t ever go back in those forests again.”
He remembered what Ildico and John had said about not going back, he saw Ildico in his mind’s eye being scared and telling him not to go in the forest. Paul nodded as though agreeing with her, still gasping for breath, trying to regain composure enough to answer Ildico in spirit. “You got that right, Ildico. Don’t go in the forest. Don’t go in the forest.”
----- X -----
Walking in socks soaked with ice water was miserable. His shoes made a squelching noise and his legs felt chilled to the bone from the wet jeans. More than that, his groin was chaffing against the wet denim and it was becoming seriously uncomfortable. At the same time he could feel a burning heat from under his collar as his body stressed itself trying to raise his core temperature to counter the cold. Freezing cold legs, overheating body and delicate skin rubbing raw. It was just misery.
That misery threatened to extend as Paul approached his block. On the opposite side of the street, Big Man was stood with his arm around the young boy. The moment Paul saw them he slipped around the back of a parked van and watched them from cover. The kid looked totally spaced out. There had to be something wrong with him. He was docile, staring into space. More than something wrong with the kid, there was something wrong with the whole picture. Big Man had Boy positioned directly ahead of him to hug the kid close. One arm reached over his shoulder and held Boy’s chest, pushing him back, pushing their bodies together. Paul realised they were rocking side to side, grinding, as though Big Man was rubbing his genitals on Boy’s ass.
“If you’re going to do that,” Paul whispered, “do it with a girl on the dance floor.”
It was wrong. Very wrong. Big Man looked around thirty years old, Boy looked twelve, no more than fourteen. There was always the chance that Big Man was the kid’s father, in which case the close hugging would seem affectionate, especially as the kid looked mentally vacant.
Big Man stroked his hand over Boy’s chest.
He wasn’t the kid’s father. This was sexual and it made Paul feel sick. The kid looked like a victim. Big Man was a predator. And there wasn’t a damn thing he would do about it. He had to get back into the apartment without causing trouble and that was difficult enough.
Every tower block had four or five steps up to the main entrance and Big Man was holding boy at the top of the stairs to the block directly opposite Paul’s. No more than twenty feet from his front door. Here in Noua, kids standing on the entranceway seemed the equivalent of British kids hanging out in the streets. He’d noticed this just looking through the window, but Big Man and Nealla weren’t kids; they shouldn’t be hanging around in the streets. The thought occurred that they might be drug dealers which could explain the weird behaviour he saw when they tried to hide something the previous day; perhaps it was drugs. For someone as batshit crazy and violent as Nealla, it was probably a fair career choice.
“How do I get inside?”
Just go for it. Walk straight and firm, get into the building, don’t look over.
No sooner he emerged from behind cover than Big Man was turning his face towards him. Paul ignored the gaze but watched Big Man raise his hand above his shoulder and rap his knuckles on the door behind him. A moment later and that door opened for Nealla to step outside.
Nealla saw him immediately and jauntily hopped down the steps to approach.
“Oh, fuck.”
Paul’s jeans and shoes were soaking wet. He didn’t want a confrontation, but he especially didn’t want one looking like he’d fallen in a river. “Stick with the plan... stick with the plan... stick with, oh fuck!”
Nealla had sauntered across the road to intercept. Big Man let go of Boy and ambled across the road w
ith Nealla. They did it real cool and casual, like bad actors making a theatrical gesture of casually walking that was overly suspicious.
There was no way to avoid them. Push past and get inside, or turn, run, and go somewhere else? It was early, not even 9:00am. Turn around perhaps, and get on the bus to Brasov, spend the day there wearing soaking wet clothes.
“Pizda Englezeasca!” Nealla called. There was a mischievous joviality in his voice and he was wearing that same grinning smirk as when he’d held him down and threatened with the razor.
Paul blanked him and headed towards the door. The decision was made invisibly, the commitment to go forward was made either by accident or momentum. He would try to ignore them and get inside the block. His heart was banging in his chest and he could feel his face flushing. Nealla was already giving the victory strut; he seemed pleased with himself, happy to have won the face-off before it began. Paul made a sudden dart forward heading for the doorway. Nealla jumped to the side to block his way, throwing his arms wide as a barrier. He jokingly said something in Romanian that Paul non-verbally translated as ‘not so fast, Englishman’.
Be ready to run.
Make plans, quick, have a contingency.
If he makes the slightest move, get back up the street to the bus stand, there are people there, witnesses, protection.
Paul stood still and allowed Nealla to come to him.
“Tot aici esti, englezoiule?” Nealla asked. He pointed a finger in Paul’s face and said a few sentences of threats that contained the name Ildico. There was something in his eyes; cold grey eyes that contained a fierceness that seemed like a volcano ready to erupt. Nealla really was angry about something and he was barely keeping it under control. One look at his face, twisted in anger told you everything. Something was eating away at him.
Stay calm, Paul thought. Let him have his moment, let him feel he’s had a victory.
Paul dipped his head to try and show submission and noticed Nealla sliding his hand into his pocket.
Not the razor, Paul thought, please not the razor.
“Eh, English Man?” Nealla snapped with harshness, expecting an answer.
“I’m sorry,” Paul said. He raised his palms in surrender. “I don’t understand.”
“E un retardat. Nu intelege nimic,” the Big Man said. His voice was low and gravelly, the sort of voice that sells horror movies.
“Nu? Nu inteleg?” Nealla asked. It sounded like he was saying ‘do you not understand?’
Paul shook his head, hoping that was what he’d asked.
Then Nealla said something about Ildico which made both he and Big Man burst out laughing. Ildico, Paul thought, he mentioned Ildico again. Everything came back to her.
As Nealla and Big Man laughed they looked to one another and Nealla shifted his weight onto the back foot, easing off the pressure for a split second.
Paul dashed to the side and sprung up the steps to the entrance without even thinking. Fox like reflexes. It was the slimmest opportunity and he had taken it instinctively. He threw open the door with far too much power and sprinted up the stairs. Halfway up the first flight he heard the metal squeal of the lobby door and Nealla’s voice yelling Romanian words. He wasn’t following any further than the lobby, but the threats and insults were loud; they echoed and reverberated throughout the staircase as Paul dashed to his apartment. He didn’t understand what was said, but the intention, the hostility and the threats were clear and those threats hung in the air like poison gas. It felt as though he had to hold his breath whilst struggling with the key, trying to unlock the door. He didn’t dare breathe in any of Nealla’s words, but in his haste he was working the keys and lock too fast, slowing himself down through haste.
The door opened and he slipped inside before slamming the door behind him to lock Nealla’s booming voice outside. He stood with his back to the door and released a long pathetic groan. This place was god-awful. His shoes, socks and jeans were soaking wet and ice cold. He’d been stalked by some dressed up lunatic in the forest, threatened in the street and chased into his own building. He also realised this was his second full day in Romania. When he checked his watch he saw it was only 8:45am.
----- X -----
His jeans hung on a clothes-hanger in the kitchen drying out from the warmth of the oven; there was no food in there, it was just burning gas to heat the room. His shoes were close by, the insoles pulled out to speed the drying. Although the rooms of the apartment had radiators, there didn’t seem to be any controls and he assumed it was like the hot water, turned on and controlled communally. To the touch they held the tiniest amount of warmth and he figured they were never turned off completely otherwise the building would freeze.
The drying clothes made the kitchen cosy and mildly humid and Paul used the time to finish reading Shadowbeast. It was enjoyably stupid and he could see why kids liked it. It was fast paced, high-concept action that was very sexy and raunchy but written in a vocabulary that teens and young adults would enjoy. There were many memorable scenes that he knew teenagers would love because they weren’t supposed to read it. One of the most memorable featured the male hero being stripped naked, tied to a rack and stretched by witches, whom all had huge heaving breasts. It was the sort of stuff that made schoolchildren excited. There was nudity, sadomasochism, bondage, domination and the only person who could save him was a young nun who was having all manner of immoral thoughts as she looked at the naked hero stretched on a rack before her. Fantastic stuff for school kids.
It set Paul reminiscing to a schoolyard experience of his own where a girl had read out a passage from a novel featuring a man with a black, inflatable penis sleeve. The storyline saw an evil man fucking a bound woman into submission. Wow, what a story. But who was that girl? The one with big glasses who was always reading. Nicola! That was her name... “I remember you, Nicola,” he said aloud. “You had some dirty books, girl.” They’d all laughed and giggled as this schoolgirl had read the filthiest passages from her library... What was that book? I’d love to read it now. God, I’d love to do that to Ildico. I’d love to hold her down and play with her pussy and...
Where the hell did that thought come from?
It was completely out of the blue...
He pictured Ildico in his mind. She was kneeling, her wrists were bound above her head from a rope hung from the ceiling. The image lasted only a second but in that time he ripped her blouse open like a maniac to expose her breasts.
Simultaneously, Paul felt a sting of embarrassment and a swelling in his pants. The thought persisted. He wasn’t in the usual habit of fantasising about girls he knew; somehow that had always felt off limits, something to be ashamed of. Better to stick with fantasising about porn stars, or movie stars, women beyond reach.
But the thought wasn’t going away. He really did want to touch Ildico. He wanted to tweak her nipples and make her cry. What the hell? He’d never hurt any woman or wanted to. Not ever. Why on earth should he think that?
In his mind’s eye he saw her crotch in the thinnest, most transparent panties and saw his own fingers slipping under the waistband.
“Stop this,” he said to himself.
But it wasn’t stopping.
He saw his fingers move deeper, following the contours of her pubis, imagining her bald and shaved, sensing the warmth and moisture. He saw her face, wet lips parting, eyes closed, head tilting back as he slipped a finger inside, feeling her hot wet cunt.
Paul coughed roughly, forcibly, and stood up to make coffee. In the space of a few seconds his cock was hard and squashed in his pants. He filled a small pan with water and set it on the gas stove. The image came back briefly to which he hit his fist against his breastbone. “Stop, Paul. Stop that... Just stop.”
His lips were pressed tightly and his face wore a serious expression. Something about that little fantasy had felt so very, very wrong. As though he’d just caught himself fantasising about having sex with a ten year old girl. Perhaps that was the re
ason why it felt wrong. Ildico was lovely and sweet, but despite being nineteen years old she had the gawky innocence of a child.
He had a theory that the longer one goes without any form of sexual outlet, the weirder and more extreme one’s fantasies and ideation become. Hence the reason you should never trust priests or listen to the clergy’s opinion on sexual morality.
Perhaps that was his problem. Too long without sex. Too long without quality, meaningful sex. His last encounter had been haunting him for months; a drunken unsatisfying mess at a Halloween house-party.
Nisha.
She just wouldn’t stop haunting him.
Nisha was dark skinned, dusky, with a touch of Indian blood and the sex appeal of a Bollywood hottie. He’d admired her for months before he found the courage to talk to her. It was Halloween and he finally approached her on the staircase as people pushed past in a queue for the toilet. She was dressed as one of the chopped up little girls from The Shining. He was dressed in a simple Hockey Mask with a plastic machete. She was completely drunk and feeling horny. He’d barely said hello before she’d wrapped her arms around him, pulled off his mask and sloppy kissed him in public. God, he could remember it all, the coldness of her mouth as she kissed him after sipping a chilled drink, the taste of strong spirits on her tongue, the strawberry scent from her brown hair. He’d wanted to talk to her for such a long time, to pluck up the courage and make the first advances toward a relationship. She had other ideas, she was horny, gagging for it, like a cat in heat that was mewling for a mate. She’d pulled him to a bed covered in coats for sticky fumbling in the dark. There was minimal foreplay before she was on her back with her blood-stained dress hitched up. He could see it all in his head; legs up to her chest, white knee high socks, her lace knickers hanging from one ankle. He was on top of her, trying to penetrate but so far off the side of the bed he couldn’t get any purchase with his feet. Trying to fuck whilst hanging from the side of a bed. People came into the room and saw them, grabbed their coats and left. He could relive it all in high-definition memories, the muffled music from downstairs, the awkwardness of his trousers about his ankles.