Suzie and the Monsters

by Francis Franklin

  Suddenly I recoiled. Was there no limit to the sinfulness? I had drunk the blood of a woman, had killed the woman, had made love to my husband like a beast, and now I lusted after a woman. I wanted to run away into the night, far from these temptations. I wanted to tear deep into this woman and drink the blood pounding out from her heart. I sat still, caught between these twin desires, and cried tears of self pity — for myself, that is, certainly not for the poor woman staring in terror at my blood-stained lips and the knife in my right hand.

  I looked at her, imagining tracing lines across her skin and licking the blood along the scratches. I wondered what it would be like to taste between her legs, make love to her there with my mouth the way my husband liked to do to me sometimes. Slowly I crept towards her again, only to hesitate at the last instant, point of the knife pressing gently in the valley between her breasts. Suddenly I hated my weakness, and knew there was only one way to destroy the evil that had possessed me. I reversed the knife and pointed it at my heart. Taking my own life I considered as just one more sin on a list of the many I had committed over the past day or so, and at least this would be my last. Even so, taking that final step and plunging the knife into my heart wasn’t easy. I didn’t want to die like this, painfully and still young. I almost yielded again to the those beautiful breasts heaving in panic next to me.

  And then I did it, and the agony astonished me, incapacitated me. I tried to take the blade out again, but movement had become difficult, my muscles weak. I crashed onto the bed and lay screaming silently until everything faded.

  When I awoke the knife was gone from my chest. I was lying on the bed next to the woman, whose eyes went wide in fresh terror when she saw I was alive. I didn’t stop to think about it, I just straddled her and plunged my teeth into her neck and drank long and deep, until once again there was only the frustration of death. Suddenly my husband grabbed me and threw me onto the bed, and himself onto me, and we lost ourselves in this carnal pleasure for hours until we slept the sleep of exhaustion and satiation.

  The Schubert has finished. Staying with Richter, I scroll back in time to Beethoven’s Appassionata, a piece with strong currents of rage and determination. I need an antidote for my depression.

  After killing myself that first time, I stopped struggling with my nature. I gave up in many ways, and just let my husband move me from place to place, city to city, down through France and across Italy and eventually to Venice, pretending always to be a good Christian wife when out in public. The hunger I felt during those first few days lessened over time, so that there was no need or desire to kill the victims he brought home for us to feed on, but he enjoyed watching me kill and often waited for a few days until I was crying of hunger, knowing that I would show my victims no mercy, and that afterwards my sexual appetite would peak and he could use me in every way he wished.

  I believe he loved me, in a very twisted way, and he gave me such pleasure that I conspired in my own monstrous degradation, but there was never any prior, informed consent, so to speak. He controlled me completely, with his trickster eyes when I was still human, and through his understanding of my fundamental nature after the change coupled with my vulnerability as a woman in the sixteenth century in a strange country with no family besides himself.

  Suddenly the Allegro is rippling around me infusing me with a cold hatred, partly directed at myself for having endured him for so long. It’s a cruel thing to lie here thinking of all the ways I could have killed him or escaped, but the torrent of music has at last banished my tears, and filled me with a new energy. As the last, fantastic chords give way to audience applause, I stand up and scroll further back in time to Mozart’s Don Giovanni. God I love the 21st Century. Hundreds of years of music compressed into this tiny gadget.

  Suddenly I’m laughing at the idea of myself standing out here in the dark in my five-inch stilettos and Dolce and Gabbana dress soaked from the cold, wet grass. I walk back towards the Lion Gate and, not caring who may hear me, join in Donna Anna’s tirade against her seducer, ‘Al traditore! Scellerato!’ I’ll never be a professional opera singer, but I can sing soprano well enough for my own enjoyment.

  Hanging Out (Sunday)

  The man from outside Alex Graham’s place, the man who shot me, wakes up and immediately and frantically struggles against the cord that binds him thickly like a spider binds the prey it catches in its web. The right side of his face is cut and bruised from when my gloved fist hammered through the driver’s side window. Otherwise he’s not unattractive, short fair hair and blue eyes, lean and fit without being over-muscular. I would guess he has served in the army.

  I went to the 24/7 last night after leaving Kew Gardens, got there half an hour before it shut which was enough time to buy a dark, hooded tracksuit and new trainers, as well as gloves, cord and a few other things. I parked a few streets away from home and approached on foot, dressed appropriately for a night of skulduggery, and was pleased to discover this man parked across and down the street from my flat, keeping watch by himself, although for what and who I’m not sure. I’ve had to knock him out a few times getting him here, and at one point made him walk, hobbled, the silencer of his own gun digging into the back of his neck.

  But I have him finally in position, hogtied at the base of this elevator shaft, the lift itself currently on the first floor and the ground floor doors are open. The lights in the corridor penetrate the shaft well enough for him to see what a fine mess he’s in. He’s swearing and yelling and threatening and calling me all manner of horrible names in a strong Cockney accent.

  Eventually he understands that there’s no point struggling and that I obviously don’t care how much noise he makes, and with one final curse he relaxes. ‘I thought I killed you.’

  ‘You nearly did. Somehow you managed to miss everything vital. Seems a steel-boned corset makes surprisingly good armour.’ He doesn’t look entirely convinced. ‘So, what’s your name?’

  ‘Fuck off, I’m not talking.’

  He’s naked from the waist down, although I’ve left the shredded remains of his trousers under his legs to shield them from the cold concrete floor. I reach for his wallet, and open it to find a thick wad of twenties, and bank and credit cards that identify him as John Smith, which may be real, I suppose. ‘I’m really quite annoyed, John Smith,’ I say quite calmly. ‘I loved that corset. Who do you work for?’ He doesn’t answer, just glares angrily. I wonder what he’s imagining doing to me when he escapes.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Why did you try to kill me?’ Bitterness and doubt mixing with the rage. ‘No? How about Alex? What was the naughty Mr Graham up to?’ Confusion this time. Either he doesn’t know, or he thinks I should.

  Wrapped securely around the base of John Smith’s scrotum is several turns of cord, tied off in a collar, a hangman’s knot. His balls protrude comically, grotesquely, and he must be in some pain. The cord runs up into the darkness above us. I give it a gentle tug, and he starts swearing at me again, and strains to lift his pelvis.

  I wait for him to quiet down. ‘The Inquisitors would hang men by their balls,’ I tell him, and pull harder on the cord for a few seconds. ‘Now, I don’t like torture. It’s not that I’m squeamish, just that I’m ethically opposed to it, in general. But you did try to kill me, and I’m worried about my girlfriend, so I’m willing to make an exception in your case. I want answers, John Smith.’

  ‘Let me go and I’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘Tell me everything and I’ll let you go.’

  ‘Right,’ he says, one word of purest sarcasm.

  ‘I know you have no reason to believe me, but it’s true. I’ll give you your freedom. But I want you out of the country in twenty four hours, and if I ever see you again you will wish I’d left you here to die.’

  ‘Look, just fuck off, will you. We both know there’s no way I’m walking out of here, so just get it over with.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ I shove his sliced up boxer shorts into his mouth, a
nd wrap cord around his head, and between his teeth, to make sure they stay there. ‘In twenty four hours, people will arrive here for work. Monday morning. This lift will go up and down all day. And you see this cord?’ I pull it upwards sharply, making him scream through his gag. ‘It’s attached to the lift. You’ll be fine so long as no one goes higher than the first floor. I think you can imagine what will happen when they do.’

  He shouts furiously at me through the gag. I put my finger to my lips and wait until he quiets down. ‘I will return only once. Think about my offer, John Smith.’

  I blow him a kiss as I climb out of the elevator shaft, then remove the screwdrivers so that the doors can close. I leave him there in pitch blackness to contemplate a horrible fate.

  *

  Back at my flat, unobserved as far as I can tell, I get a couple of hours’ sleep before waking, heart racing, from dreams of terror, darker and more intense than usual. I take a long shower, aromatic with almonds and carnations, to wake up and ease the tension from my muscles, then sit down for a few minutes with a mug of hot, sweet coffee to plan my life.

  One thing is certain at least. I can’t stay in this flat. Cradling my coffee, I sit at the computer and start backing up everything important to an encrypted disc image on the external hard drive. I also start copying my CD collection onto the external drive. It’s going to take hours to get through the collection.

  Eventually the coffee cools, and with that excuse gone I make myself go through the rest of the house sorting out what can be left for charity and what really needs to be thrown out. The Meteoritas and Tributes, much as I love them, have to go, but there’s a large collection of designer clothes and footwear that can be left. I can’t take everything with me.

  I pack a suitcase with what I consider to be essential, including the dark goddess ensemble from last Saturday, the black corset, gold-studded Dior sandals, the Oroblu Milly hold-ups and Dolce and Gabbana black tiered skirt. I also pack my backpack and my stripper gear, a couple of T-shirts and lots of make up. The one thing I’m missing is trousers. I’ll keep wearing the Dolce and Gabbana floral print dress for now, although it’s a little crumpled and stained from the wet grass and the dirty elevator shaft, and the Burberry sandals. And Cleo’s pink jacket, even more precious to me now, although it’s a stark mismatch.

  With that all sorted and decided, I get to work cleaning the house, removing as far as possible all evidence of who has lived here. From what I’ve seen in CSI, it certainly wouldn’t stop the forensics experts finding plenty of DNA, and they’d have a field day in the stairwell, but I’m not really expecting them to come looking. I’m just being cautious, and it’s one way to make absolutely sure I haven’t accidentally left something important behind.

  Finally, about two o’clock, I’m happy with the place, and have one last shower to take the smell of cleaning chemicals and dust away. By three o’clock I’ve finally finished with the CD collection, packed the external hard drive in the suitcase, and erased the internal hard drive. After thinking about that for a moment, I remove the internal drive from the computer and throw it into the black bin bag that I will be taking to the skip. I check my iPhone one last time before switching that off and throwing it into the bin bag too.

  The were several messages from Alia, all about the contents of the briefcase and security chest, the earliest last night, the latest saying that Peony and Andy were round at her place helping. It’s all quite cryptic.

  *

  I met Peony through Waterfront Dave. I call her the queen of the underworld, because she knows everyone. She’s forty-something, quite attractive but quiet, unobtrusive, so that she often just fades into the background, untouched by the arguments that cascade around her. She often appears distracted, lost in thought, frequently forgetful, unaware of subtlety and innuendo, and she will react to verbal abuse with an innocent confusion. But this is just her Clark Kent disguise, because hidden behind the glasses is a mind of steel that observes everything and forgets nothing. She is also a money launderer with a large international network of agents who can distribute cash and create ghost companies.

  I’ve gotten to be good friends with her, as good as two people can be who keep deep secrets. She has given me lots of advice on how to maintain and create my various alternative identities. The whole problem of biometric passports, for example. Through me, she and Alia have got to know each other quite well.

  Andy is Jamie’s little brother. He and I studied computer science at Edinburgh University back at the turn of the millennium, and even shared a flat for a couple of years. As nerds go he’s pretty cute, and I enjoyed flirting with him and going out with him on ‘not a date’ dates. When he tried to push the relationship further, despite it being clear I was generally only interested in girls, I told him, ‘I’m not, and never will be, your girlfriend or your lover, but you can give me oral any time you like.’ Which turned out to be really very often, whenever he didn’t have a real girlfriend, and sometimes then also. In return, I was quite happy to advertise his linguistic skills to all my girl-friends.

  It was at one of our Christmas parties that Alia and Jamie met, and they’ve been inseparable ever since, which is great for Alia but rather a problem for me. Both Jamie and Andy knew me as Sarah Bartlett twelve years ago, and here I am as Suzie Kew, not having aged a day. Jamie is darkly suspicious of me, while Andy is just full of curiosity that I can usually divert into other entertainment.

  When I arrive at Alia’s flat at five o’clock, having been first to the skip and then to check into a suite at the Renaissance St Pancras, it’s Andy who opens the door excitedly, and within seconds our lips are locked, French kissing hungrily in the open doorway, a familiar contest to see who will break away first. A few minutes later, Alia grabs my ear and pulls me away, leaving Andy to bring in the two jute bags containing my wine collection which I’ve brought as a gift for Alia. ‘Come on,’ she says, ignoring my plaintive mewl, ‘and please try not to piss off Jamie too much. I’m the one who has to sleep with her.’

  The other two women are seated at the dining room table. I may be hundreds of years older, but I always feel a bit like a guilty teenager in situations like this. I am much better at dealing with people on a one-to-one basis. Peony acknowledges me with a glance and a wave of her fingers, but stays focussed on the conversation she’s having quietly over the phone. One of her hands is scrolling through screens on her iPad, while the other taps intermittently on the keyboard of her Sony Vaio. Jamie ignores me, glaring furiously at the pages of her novel — Atonement, I think.

  Alia sits down in front of her laptop, between Jamie and Peony, and I can’t see what she’s working on. Scattered across the table are the remains of a third laptop, the hard drive having been removed and attached somehow via USB to Alia’s computer. This is obviously Andy’s handiwork.

  ‘Charlie cut open the box and briefcase yesterday,’ Alia explains. ‘When you didn’t respond, I picked up the contents. The box contained about fifty thousand pounds, mostly in twenties, a lot of it sequential, and there was a laptop in the briefcase. I’ve sold the cash to Peony for a clean forty, and I’ve promised Charlie five. What do you want done with the rest?’

  ‘Fifty-fifty? Half for me, half for the agency?’

  She nods. ‘Good. Thanks. We need it. Andy has bypassed or cracked Alex’s passwords. The only thing of interest is spreadsheets going back five years which Peony and I have been working through. We think we may have figured out what he was up to. The really interesting thing is that there are account details, including names, passwords, security questions and answers, for well over a hundred accounts. Eighty six of these are active, all with a balance over one hundred grand.’

  ‘So Alex has access to eight and half million pounds?’

  ‘Closer to twelve million. All transfers from these accounts go to two accounts. The large payments go to an account in the Caymans, a company called Victoria Carlos Investments. The smaller payments are marked “bank ch
arges” but match payments made to Alex’s personal account.

  ‘So, we think Alex has been giving preferential treatment to these selected accounts within his wider portfolio, although it’s never obvious. On any given day, only a few will profit massively, while the others may take a hit, but the average interest rate across these accounts is significantly higher than the average across the other accounts in his portfolio.’

  ‘So in a way he’s stealing from his other clients to make a larger profit for Victoria Carlos Investments, whoever that is.’

  ‘It’s just a shell company,’ Peony says. ‘The money bounces elsewhere and disappears.’

  ‘So was Alex funding this himself, or is this just a sophisticated money laundering operating?’

  ‘Looks like the latter,’ Alia says. She’s obviously quite excited by this investigation. ‘The way it works is, about once a month a new trading account is opened with Alex, with a hundred thousand pounds initial capital. Over time, this accumulates interest at, let’s say, two percent each month, it varies of course, and after three years the balance reaches two hundred thousand and the account is closed.’

  ‘I wish my ISA had that interest rate,’ I joke. ‘So why take the money out?’

  ‘Probably because all these accounts are based on stolen identities,’ Peony explains, ‘and the bigger the account the more likely someone is to start paying attention. This is a nice little earner, and if one of the accounts gets spotted by the authorities then, well, it’s not a huge loss. It’s a really nice scheme, in a way, but it does rely on having a quick-thinking trader to manage the accounts like this without being detected by the company’s internal watchdogs.’