Undone

by Kristina Lloyd

‘Yeah. And I need to let go of this. Of this dumb idea I can find out why Misha died. Accept it was a tragic accident. Move on. I shouldn’t have left you alone in the club like that. I’m sorry. But I wasn’t thinking straight. My priorities were fucked. I thought I’d got a lead on Misha and, suddenly, that was all that mattered. Selfish. Irresponsible. I know. I don’t want to harp on about this, Lana. Don’t want to make you my shrink. But like I said, there’s been so much death in my life. It’s as if that’s compelling me to find a reason to explain it all, to make sense of it. Truth is, shit happens. I’m not to blame for these deaths. Mustn’t feel guilty. Don’t need to hunt for a reason to let me off the hook for something I’m not even responsible for. Sorry. About tonight. About this. About me being a prick.’

  I wriggled around to lie on my back so I could see him. In the room’s heavy darkness, his face was pale and indistinct. A shoulder was angled above the bed covers like a listing ship, a film of sweat glossing its muscular curve. He gazed beyond me into the middle distance. I slipped my fingers under the cover to stroke the side of his torso where the drifting seed heads were inked, one for every loss.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘Your life hasn’t been easy.’

  ‘No. But I mustn’t let that ruin the life I’ve got ahead of me.’ He looked down, a hand rubbing my stomach, his smile tired. ‘I like you, Lana. You’re hot, smart. Fun to be with. You don’t take any shit. I love what we’ve got together. Love spending time with you. I don’t want to spoil it by sending us on some wild goose chase that’s basically all about me and my fuck-ups. I want to keep this, us, going. I like it.’

  ‘Yeah, I like this, us, too.’

  ‘So how about we try for a fresh start?’ He snuggled down closer to me and pulled me tight, edging me back to spooning, his arm beneath my breasts. He kissed my shoulder and his ever-hungry cock poked at my buttocks. ‘Forget about Misha,’ he said. ‘Quit playing detective and hanging out in dungeons. Focus on us instead.’ He stroked my thigh, his caress tender and comforting. ‘I’d like that. What do you think?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe. We could try.’ I rubbed my backside into the crook of his groin, suddenly worn out and eager for calm. His cock twitched higher, hardening. He draped an arm around my waist, holding me with tenderness, and printed tired, fond kisses on the slope of my neck.

  For a while we lay in comfortable silence.

  ‘We could go out for dinner,’ he said softly. ‘Or I could cook something for us.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I said, drifting towards sleep. ‘Sounds nice.’

  His hand stroked my stomach, cock poking more insistently. We rubbed and nudged, encouraging each other to continue while equally too wrecked to take the lead. The room was hot, even with the aircon on, and we were sticky beneath the thin sheets. Eventually, we fucked as if we’d been fucking for years. One of those lazy, domestic, Sunday-morning fucks, far beyond the place where you feel the need to impress or put a bit of effort in. He fucked me from behind. I wriggled to get a better penetrative angle. He came. I didn’t. So I masturbated, because I knew how to bring myself off better than he did. He kissed and caressed me as I fretted myself. Then we broke apart and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

  Except, of course, I woke before too long, roused by the shadow of a shadow, or a gull opening its eyelids, or a crab scuttling in the shadows. When I’m awake, that’s it. I struggle to go back. Instead of sleeping, I write, recording events and thoughts in these pages.

  Or I used to. Since Sol and I have started spending so much time together, that’s altered. We’ve stopped chasing Misha’s ghost. I sleep soundly now and I neglect my journal. But I don’t mind. Maybe it needs neglecting.

  Thursday 21st August

  I’m so happy, I’m almost sad. Strange, I know, but my days have a melancholy pleasure to them. The change Sol has brought to my life allows me to see the bigger picture, and with that comes an inevitable tinge of loss. How long will this last for? How long will we live for? Will our world end with a bang or a whimper?

  I guess I’ve caught some of Sol’s anxieties, the difference being I accept loss as part of life, and see mine as a wise happiness. I’m not scared or brooding. Rather, the awareness of loss makes me grateful for my present joy.

  I’ve created a new cocktail using a French violet liqueur described as having an ‘endless finish’. I want to develop a blue menu for the bar featuring blue-coloured cocktails, some old favourites and new twists, all without relying too heavily on blue curaçao. The range will span the seasons with, at one end of the spectrum, summery drinks reminiscent of Caribbean beaches, and at the other end deeper, gothic numbers evoking darkness and midnight skies. Inevitably, the blues will bleed into indigo, violet and the black raspberries of Chambord. A touch gimmicky, I’ll grant you, but I need to get the punters in and it’s good to have something they’ll remember you by.

  Sol was having a night off from me – his words, not mine – and I was feeling in need of company. It was a Wednesday, Misha’s former hour. It’s been almost two months since he died but Wednesdays haven’t yet become ordinary, each one marking another week that’s passed since his death. The coroner’s inquest was held just over a week ago. Prior to that, Sol had been fearful we might get called as witnesses or be required to submit statements but nothing came of it, thank God. Some other people from Dravendene had to give evidence, the ones who’d found him and tried to save his life. But not us. Because the threesome never happened.

  So it’s all over. He drowned. He had high levels of alcohol in his blood and a head wound but he was alive when he was submerged. Water in his lungs. Death by misadventure. He must have slipped on the poolside and fallen into the water, possibly unconscious. Sol got the details from Lou. We’ve been lying low for the most part.

  Once or twice, I’ve wondered if Sol knew Misha. The night we met, he kept saying he recognised him from somewhere. Was there unfinished business between them that got wrapped up at the pool with Misha’s death? Since I wrote my last journal entry, I’ve been thinking more about Sol’s unconvincing claim that he’s new to DS. Sure, there could be a perfectly innocent explanation behind it: he’s a fast learner, an instinctive dom and a skilled, imaginative lover. Or it could be he’s hiding something about his past with Helena and others. I wonder if something about his secret, sexual self links him to Misha. For the most part, I regard Sol as a man who wouldn’t set out to hurt someone. And yet sometimes, when sex is getting hot and nasty, I see a dark, cold look in his eyes and I’m forced to ask myself: who is this person? Where do his limits lie?

  Yesterday, when I went downstairs to open up at five, the sky was crouched and murky, the air oppressively humid. The prospect of a storm added to my Wednesday wobbles so I cupped a hand to the window of Katrina’s bookbinding workshop, hoping she might be free. The window features a display of her work, handbound books in a range of styles from rustic brown leather threaded with matching thongs through to vintage-lace wedding albums and ornately stitched journals backed in Indian silks. She does restoration work, commissions, supplies gift shops and sells from the premises too. She waved at me from the murk of the workshop. I see less of her since Sol’s been on the scene. She used to pop up for a drink every couple of weeks, or we might chat on the doorstep until my first customers arrived. Now she keeps a respectful distance, and I’ve failed to carve out time for her.

  ‘Hey, come in!’ she called.

  I checked no likely customers were approaching, locked the street door of the bar, and joined her. She has a wonderful antique bell above the door, which jangles to announce visitors. The smell of the workshop always enthrals, a mix of old paper and earthiness. I inhaled as I entered, goosebumps lifting on my skin. The equipment puts me in mind of medieval dungeons. Frames and presses both large and small, in cast iron, brass and oak, are dotted high and low, their screws and clamps sadistically suggestive. I could almost taste the stories which seem to hang in the air like a magical mist of secrets.

 
; Kat had a large bag on her shoulder as if she were about to leave.

  ‘You got time for a drink?’ I asked. ‘I’m about to open up and I have a new cocktail that needs test-driving.’

  ‘Love to,’ she replied. ‘Got to dash to the post office before it shuts though. Back in ten.’ She flicked a switch behind a small serving counter and the shutter outside began to rumble down over the window.

  ‘Excellent, see you in a bit.’ I stepped outside again. Shadows darkened the street and the clouds were lined with an ominous anthracite glint. A few fat, warm raindrops fell, each one printing a splodge on the hot, dry pavement. A couple touched my bare arm, and one my face.

  I ducked back into the workshop. ‘You might need a brolly, Kat!’

  ‘Bollocks, I don’t have one,’ she said.

  We both stepped out onto the street, Kat hastening to lock her door as I opened mine.

  ‘Well, I might make it back before it pisses it down,’ she said, glancing skywards.

  ‘Hmm, good luck with that.’

  I didn’t bother setting up the A-board on the pavement. It would only get soaked. I returned upstairs just as distant thunder grumbled. It grew gloomy enough to warrant me turning up some of the evening lights. Despite the muggy warmth, the bar felt cosy and winterish. Leather, oak and glass gleamed in the half-light, and the cream satin walls took on a luxurious sheen. The row of church-pew booths along the wall opposite the bar looked as if they were in a creepy train station, waiting for the undead to board. Pale light glossed the floor in front of them, puddles of poisonous mercury on the train-station platform. The stuffed crow in its glass dome gazed dead-eyed into the freaky emptiness. This bar, I thought, relishes a good thunderstorm. It’s almost as if its moment has arrived and all the ghosts of the Victorian funeral parlour will be joining us for drinks.

  I was less keen on the prospect of a storm. Takings would be low. I left the stained-glass balcony doors open, hoping to feel the rush of a cool breeze descending with a downpour. The back of my neck was clammy so I scraped my hair into a ponytail before selecting my bottles to mix the cocktail with no name. Maybe Kat could help me christen it.

  I took down gin, Cointreau and the crème de violette from Provence or, as I think of it, romance in a bottle. For a long time, crème de violette had been a bitch to get hold of, even in France, where it’s made. Jonathan and I had once traipsed around half of Nice in search of a version from Benoit Serres containing hints of vanilla. And, oh God, it was worth every blister. My nameless cocktail was a twist on the classic Aviation and called for mathematical precision in its measures to achieve the perfect mix with a colour that was just so.

  Beyond the balcony, rain started to fall as I tipped jiggers of liquor over ice. Minutes later, Kat came rushing into the bar with a whoop, hair dripping, as I was shaking my shaker, ice clattering. ‘I love it when you do the maracas,’ Sol had once said. ‘Makes your tits jiggle.’ Even though he wasn’t there, I felt him watching me, smiling lecherously.

  ‘I’m fucking soaked,’ cried Kat, holding her hands out as if to dry. ‘You got a towel?’

  Water fell from her, sprinkling the varnished floor. Her hair seemed longer and blacker than ever, thick strands plastered to her head and clinging to her shoulders.

  ‘That way.’ I laughed, nodding to the galley kitchen adjoining the bar. ‘Cupboard to the left of the sink.’

  She followed my directions, leaving a trail of wet footprints and continued exclaiming about the awful weather through the open door. Lightning shuddered, making the bar flicker. After a pause, thunder grumbled and then rose to a bang. I glanced at the rain pouring down on the balcony, droplets hammering on the glass-topped tables, splashes jumping. If I didn’t get any customers in the next couple of minutes, I probably wouldn’t get any all night. I wondered where Sol was. Probably in his car and heading westwards to Brighton. I hoped the coastal road was safe.

  Kat emerged from the kitchen, cheeks pink, her hair wrapped in a bulky turban.

  My stomach fell away.

  ‘What?’ She frowned, touching the heap of towel perched on her head.

  The towel was the colour of cheap, supermarket salmon, threads straggling from its edges.

  ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ continued Kat. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing, it’s fine,’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘Just the storm. Makes me edgy. I reckon it’s going to be quiet tonight.’

  Kat returned to the public area of the bar, rubbing lightly at her wet hair beneath the turban. She sat at a glass-topped table in a silver and black Rococo chair. ‘Can’t believe how fast it came down,’ she said.

  My hands shook as I strained the mixed drink into a martini glass. I bent close to ensure I didn’t spill, wishing I could hide somewhere safe. How had the towel ended up in the kitchen? It wasn’t a towel I ever used. It didn’t match my bathroom, for one thing. I recalled bringing it from Dravendene, packing it in my luggage with the bondage gear bundled inside. Back at home, I’d washed it twice, and then stashed it somewhere out of sight and out of mind. I couldn’t even remember where.

  I strained the second drink into an identical glass, upended the shaker in the washer, and went to join Kat at a table on the other side of the counter.

  ‘Wow,’ said Kat as I stood our drinks on black cocktail doilies. ‘Gorgeous colour. What’s this one?’

  ‘My new creation,’ I said, returning to the bar with my tray. ‘Currently nameless, so if you have any ideas, share.’

  ‘Oh, that smell. Takes me right back. What is it? No, don’t tell me!’

  I sat at the table and watched her. She gazed at our cocktails and leaned forwards to inhale, holding on to her turban. The liquid was a dusky lavender grey, sitting in the glasses like a eerie, twilight-hued smoke. The colour hovered on the edge, in the zone between overcast skies and an unearthly luminescence.

  ‘Parma Violets.’ Kat sat back in her chair, triumphant.

  That towel on her head was such a dreadful colour. Too much orange in its pink. I must have brought it across from the flat with the other cloths and towels. I do the bar’s laundry at my place, tumble drying it as well because there’s no room for hanging, indoors or out. At some point in the process, the towel must have made its way into the load.

  ‘Lana?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Parma Violets. Is it?’

  ‘Yes sorry.’ I sat upright and drew a sharp, head-clearing breath. I could smell the rain, the wetness of hot concrete and the freshness of drenched trees from further along the street. ‘Crème de violette. But only a smidgen. Don’t want it to be too perfumed and sweet.’

  Kat raised her glass, examining the contents. I raised mine. The room flared with lightning and for the briefest instant, the flash was caught in our drinks. The afterimage was branded in my mind, the liquid lit like the final colour of the rainbow, about to vanish beyond the visible spectrum and become an apparition. Ultraviolet, a dangerous, hidden light.

  ‘To stormy weather,’ said Kat. ‘And to being stranded in a top-notch bar on a wet Wednesday evening.’

  Carefully, we clinked rims and sipped. Thunder rolled and boomed as if careening around the room. Glasses tinkled behind the bar.

  ‘Beautiful,’ said Kat. ‘I’m feeling better already.’ She set down her drink and unwrapped her hair, draping the towel over her shoulders as she rubbed her ends. ‘So how’s life? Haven’t seen you for ages. Mr Macho still around? Business booming?’

  We chatted about this and that, and all the while questions about the mysterious re-appearance of the towel clamoured for my attention. I could only conclude Sol had found it somewhere, had presumably used it, then added it to a bag of towels and cloths, not realising the contents were bar laundry as opposed to domestic. It would have been easy enough for me to miss it in the mix of other items. Then if one of my bar staff had unpacked the bag of laundered linen, I’d have been none the wiser to the towel’s presence. But where had Sol found the
towel in the first place? He was getting too comfortable in my space if he thought it was acceptable to go rooting around in bottom drawers and backs of cupboards.

  And I was getting too careless, too casual.

  ‘Purple Haze?’ said Kat.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The drink,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to think of names.’

  I laughed. ‘Would you order a drink with the word purple in the title?’

  ‘Good point.’ She twirled the stem. ‘Ghoul in a Glass?’

  ‘Maybe for Halloween.’

  ‘Stormy Sunset?’

  ‘Too naff.’

  ‘This is difficult.’

  ‘The more you drink, the easier it gets,’ I replied.

  ‘It reminds me of stone. No, of marble. Medusa!’

  ‘Already taken.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘Opals, that’s it,’ declared Kat. ‘That’s what I’m reminded of.’

  ‘Ah, I see what you mean.’

  ‘With an edge of pearly moonlight,’ Kat continued. ‘This is fucking good stuff, Lana. It’s turning me into a poet. What about Opal – Opulence!’

  ‘By Jove!’ I cried.

  We clinked glasses. ‘To Opulence.’

  ‘I’ll fix us a couple more,’ I said, standing. Lightning shimmered, eerily silent.

  ‘That weather,’ said Kat, as thunder began to roll.

  Behind the bar, I scooped ice into a shaker and selected the same set of bottles. I glanced out at the rain, still pouring down and leaping from the tables on the balcony. In the barrel-vaulted alcove, water was pooling on the floor. Health and safety. I’d need to mop that up if any customers arrived, although I doubted they would.

  ‘Oh, I knew I had something to tell you,’ called Kat. ‘There was a guy looking for you the other week. One afternoon. He had the most amazing colour of eyes. Sort of blue-green, and kinda dark but bright. Yeah, that’s helpful, isn’t it? Anyway, he wanted to know when you were around so he could catch you.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Dunno, didn’t give a name.’