Kissing a Killer

by David Carter

  TV that night was even worse than usual, the more channels there are, the worse it gets, or so it seems, and that boredom was only broken when one of her friends, Lena, rang. Bel knew her from the travel company where they both worked. They were planning another trip abroad, and Lena had read all about the Baltic States. ‘They’re fab,’ she’d said, though Bel remained to be convinced, and they could not yet agree on a destination.

  Bel wasn’t happy with the TV being on at all, what with the continuing thunder and lightning, and recalled how her mother always insisted that not only was the TV turned off at the first sight and sound of thunder, but that the mains plug was pulled out of the wall, and the aerial disconnected too.

  Often they would do that, and the storm would pass over, and they would reconnect everything, only for the lightning to return ten minutes later, much to everyone’s annoyance.

  She smiled to herself and thought of her old mum and dad. How nice it would have been if they were there with her again, but how awkward too, for they would never have accepted her drinking alcohol, and having affairs, and they wouldn’t have been happy with her sleeping in that king-size bed in the main front bedroom either, their room, that Bel rarely entered as a child and teenager.

  So maybe it was just as well they were now gone. After all, they had had their innings, and a pretty good one at that, seeing as they never once lived alone in their whole lives, and never endured loneliness, something that didn’t worry Bel overmuch, though she was always aware that it could creep up on single people with no warning at all. ‘Watch those creeping years, watch that creeping loneliness,’ one of her friends was fond of saying, though Bel couldn’t recall which one.

  She shrugged her shoulders and rewarded herself with a hot herbal bath, and a cold bottle of Pinot Grigio, which she set on an old wooden tray that her father had made in the shed at the foot of the garden, and duly varnished, she remembered him presenting it to her mother as if it were made of gold, and the big kiss that was planted on his five o’clock shadow cheek, as his reward. Happy days, but days long gone, days of yore, days that would never return. She shook her head and tried to think of other things, for if she didn’t she knew she’d shed a tear.

  Twenty minutes later, with the latest American bloodthirsty crime novel jammed under her arm, tray and bottle and wine glass before her, she was happy to prance up those dancers, as her mother always referred to the thirteen stairs, that took her to the first floor.

  Ten more minutes slipped away and she was in bed, book in one hand, glass of chilled wine in the other, happy and content, seeking her place in four hundred pages, for she had forgotten to run down the corner, something that she knew was frowned upon by many, but a simple trick that did the job. Who cared anyway?

  It was a particularly violent and bloody book, one of those blockbuster female American novelists who specialised in gory details, and ample murders and autopsies, and handsome men, and mentally damaged wicked murderers, and precisely the kind of thing she went for every time. She adored it, for it gave her a real thrill, and there were not too many of those in Belinda Cooper’s life.

  She wasn’t the first woman to imagine that the world inside books was a whole lot more exciting and fulfilling than the real one in which she found herself; and she wouldn’t be the last either. Come to think of it, she wasn’t imagining it at all, it was a cold hard fact, and there was no doubt about it.

  She slurped another mouthful of fine wine, and was surprised to find her overlarge glass already empty. Not a problem, she reached across and topped it up. The bottle was nearly empty too, though that didn’t matter, for she always kept ample supplies in the old pantry just off the kitchen. Those damned supermarkets gave a ten percent discount if you bought a box of six, an offer she could never refuse, though she didn’t really want to get out of her warm bed and go downstairs for another.

  She had no mortgage, she’d never had such a thing, courtesy of her ma and pa, in fact she’d never even taken out a loan in her entire life, and being an only child there had never been any thought or possibility of sharing her inheritance with anyone else. She possessed a decent job, was good at what she did, so it was unlikely she would ever be fired, and she didn’t smoke, or spend too much cash on clothes.

  She never bought expensive designer items unless she happened to come across something decent in a charity shop, so in Bel’s happy world there was precious little to spend her money on, other than holidays, and drink.

  A huge flash filled the room.

  Bel jumped in her bed.

  Three seconds later and a thunderclap almost deafened her, so powerful was it she could have sworn the white wine waved and vibrated in the glass like a mini tide coming in and going out.

  Another hefty gang of bangs came out of nowhere.

  Boom – Bang! Bang! Tumbledown-Bang!

  The old wooden floorboards vibrated.

  Bel swore at the storm, as if that might chase it off.

  There would be no point in settling down and trying to sleep, for that would be impossible to find, and anyway, the young doctor, in the book, had just found a severed woman’s arm in a barrel, loosely covered in hay, at the back of the barn, and there was a chestnut horse loose in the lane. Bel shivered and sucked her lips and couldn’t possibly stop reading now. Whatever had happened to the poor girl? Dreadful! And was she already dead when the arm was severed? Or was she mutilated whilst still being alive? Bel shuddered at the thought.

  Another huge thunderbolt tore down the street, so much so the thick curtains danced and fell still.

  Bel grimaced, and considered running downstairs for another bottle, but thought better of it, and then it happened. She heard the sound of breaking glass.

  Nine

  Karen had hurried home to run a bath. She tossed some perfumed herbal relaxant oil into the water, tested it wasn’t too hot. Slipped from her day clothes, blouse and tight slacks, and stepped in and let the water run as hot as she could bear, until the bath was full to the overflow, and leant back and closed her eyes. Why did she enjoy hot baths so much? She had no idea, but knew she always had, for as long as she could remember.

  She had been thinking about what to wear. Over a hurried light lunch she’d read a woman’s mag. Dress to impress, was the definite advice for new or recently met dates, and with that in mind she’d settled on the tried and tested LBD. David hadn’t seen it before, and Gregory had always been excited by that little black dress, so much so that he couldn’t keep his hands off her, and if it had the same impression on Dave, though he didn’t like to be called that, well, the time was fast approaching where their relationship needed to be consummated.

  ‘Maybe tonight,’ she said aloud, and followed that with a wicked giggle. ‘If you are very lucky, Mr Baker.’

  She wondered where they might go for dinner. She hoped it would somewhere nice. She was sure it would be somewhere nice for David had a good job, and earned far more than she did. He wasn’t stingy with it too, or at least that was the impression he gave in the four dates they had so far enjoyed.

  He was a good kisser too.

  And that was incredibly important, as it is to most women. A better kisser than Greg ever was, though his body wasn’t in Greg’s league. Oh, he was fit right enough, David that is, slim and toned, or so she imagined beneath his tight fitting clothes, but not a muscular hunk like Gregory, but David was six feet and that was all good too. But then again, neither of them were as funny and amusing as Rodney had been. That was for sure, because Rodney was the most amusing and desirable man she had ever met, and she sighed hard, though that was all over now, and always would be.

  She had taken to fantasising about him, David that is, and it took a lot to remove Rodney from the position of Fantasy Man Number One, but he had, recently he had, and that had to mean something.

  And that was another thing about very hot baths. They really did relax her and lull her into a place that few other things did, so much so that the passage of
time meant little to her. It flew by, and it was only the significant cooling of the water that brought her back to the here and now.

  ‘Shit!’ she said aloud. Standing up and reaching for the fresh white towel, and realising that she was going to be late. She dried herself and went through to the bedroom and opened the wardrobe and took out the dress. It still looked cool, and new too. She’d only worn it two or three times, and was confident in its magic. She slipped it on, zipped up the back, looked at herself in the long mirror, front, side, and back, and rubbed her flat hand down her slim taught body, smoothing out a couple of tiny creases.

  Yes! She would do. Damned right she would do. If Davey boy didn’t fancy the backside off her in this, there must be something wrong with the man. She brushed her straight blonde hair, added a little make-up, though not a lot for she never needed it. Grabbed the incredibly expensive American perfume that her father had brought back from New York for her, and sprayed a little, and then a little more. Returned to the wardrobe, took out the black patent leather heels and slipped them on.

  One last look in the mirror, and that brought forth a satisfied smile. She was a lucky girl and she knew it. She had everything in life, a nice apartment, good car, great job that she really enjoyed, good looks, great health, but no steady boyfriend, or husband, and definitely no children, so maybe not quite everything.

  Her mobile was on the small dining table in the living room. It began that old fashioned jangly double ringing tone.

  She ran through and picked up.

  It was David. Karen smiled.

  ‘Haven’t you left yet?’ she said.

  ‘I have a little problem at this end.’

  ‘Oh, what?’

  ‘Something’s come up.’

  ‘What’s come up?’

  ‘Work issues.’

  ‘What kind of bloody work issues?’

  ‘The boss wants me to go down and see someone in Malpas.’

  ‘What? Now?’

  ‘Yep, sorry. Right away. He was going to go himself, but he’s had a fall at home and sprained his ankle, or so he says.’

  ‘Typical! Can’t it be rescheduled?’

  ‘No. The contract has to be signed tonight, or we’ll lose it to the competition.’

  ‘Well, how long are you going to be?’

  ‘All night. You know what these corn millers are like. Staying power of long distance runners. It’ll go on long past midnight. I’m really sorry, Karen. Can we do it tomorrow night instead.’

  ‘I can’t do tomorrow!’ said Karen in a rush.

  ‘Well, we’ll talk about it tomorrow night and sort something out.’

  ‘If you want.’

  ‘Course I want. Look, I’ll have to go, ring you, yeah.’

  ‘Yeah,’ but by then he’d already gone.

  Karen tossed the phone back on the table with a clunk.

  ‘Fuck!’ she said aloud, and returned to the bedroom and kicked off her shoes, and removed the dress and slipped on some loose jeans. Returned to the kitchen and took a vegetable cannelloni from the freezer and set it in the microwave with a bang.

  Why did so many men have to be such complete absolute and utter dorks? It always seemed to come with the territory. She wouldn’t fantasise about David bloody Baker that night, or any other night, come to that, or if she did, it would only be in his gruesome bloody murder. She glanced at her watch. A quarter to nine. Another wasted evening spent alone with nothing to show for it.

  Maybe Internet men were just too much trouble. It was beginning to look that way. The microwave pinged. She took the meal out. It didn’t look great. She ate half and left the rest. Went to the fridge. Took out a big pack of fresh raspberries. Saw a half drunk bottle of chardonnay there. Took that out too and poured a large glass. Sat in front of the rubbish telly and sipped the wine and pigged out on the berries. They were good. Best thing of the whole evening. By miles.

  A huge flash of lightning lit up the flat. Somehow that seemed to sum things up. All flash and no bang.

  Walter had done what he always said he wouldn’t do, he had made far too much spaghetti Bolognese, but when do you ever see half size jars of that delicious and very fattening sauce? Answer: Never, so what are you meant to do, throw half of it away? He wasn’t a throw food away kind of guy, and promised himself that he would only eat half, and maybe save the rest for tomorrow. But it was so tasty, and he hadn’t eaten that much all day, and he really didn’t fancy eating the same thing again tomorrow, and he’d let temptation get the better of him, and returned to the pot and taken a little more, and then there was only a little left, and there was no point in keeping a smidgeon, so he had eaten the damned lot.

  Not so long ago, weren’t spaghetti Bolognese sauce manufacturers forced to admit that it was bad for you to eat too much of the blessed stuff? Maybe once a week tops, they recommended, and he comforted himself that he would indeed only eat such a thing the once that week, conveniently overlooking the tiny fact that he had eaten enough for three or four people.

  ‘Bugger!’ he said aloud, and followed that with a hefty burp that he wouldn’t have released if there had been anyone else in the house.

  The old landline phone in the hall rang.

  Walter’s mood lifted for it would be one of three things. Work, and he always delighted in such things; it could never be too late for that. He glanced at his large watch. Just gone nine. It could also be those fools in India who pestered him occasionally. Usually to assure him that his computer operating system was not working properly, and they could fix it right there, right then, for less than three hundred pounds, which was fucking ridiculous, because he did not possess a bloody computer at home. Go away! Clowns!

  But then again, it could be the lovely Carlene Henderson, and thinking about it he knew which he’d prefer, though secretly he’d have to admit his preferred caller would still be a close call between work, and Carlene.

  Walter grabbed the old phone and set it to his ear.

  ‘Darriteau towers,’ he said, his rich earthy voice winging its way down the line and out into the night.

  ‘Indeed? And how is Mr Darriteau today?’

  She possessed quite a deep voice herself, did Carlene.

  ‘I am fine thank you, and how is Mrs Henderson?’

  ‘Oh, please don’t call me that, I haven’t been a Mrs in ages.’

  ‘So what can I do for you, Miss Henderson?’

  Carlene giggled wickedly at the thought of being a “miss”.

  ‘Actually I thought I might be able to do something for you.’

  ‘Really? Go on.’

  ‘The thing is, I’ve done barbequed chicken, and of course I have done far too much for one, as you do, and I was wondering if you might like to come round and partake.’

  For a second Walter thought of juicy barbequed chicken, one of his all time favourites, and he tapped his full tum and wondered if by the time he went round there, maybe he might be able to fit some in. But no, there comes a time when even he had to say “no thanks”.

  ‘It’s the best offer I have had all day, but sad to say, I have already eaten, too much, if truth be told.’

  ‘Ah well. That’s a pity. Never mind, it’ll keep. What did you have?’

  ‘Spagbol.’

  ‘Nice, but fattening.’

  ‘Yes, but so is barbequed chicken.’

  ‘Not in moderation.’

  ‘My trouble is the “moderation” part.’

  Carlene laughed that earthy laugh again.

  ‘You and me both.’

  There was something quite endearing about it, that voice of hers, like an old fashioned Hollywood film star from the fifties or sixties. No Hollywood stars seemed to laugh like that these days, though come to think of it, the starlets in the twenty-first century came and went without ever making much of a lasting impression on the world, certainly that was how Walter saw things.

  Carlene’s deep voice was talking again.

  ‘You could come roun
d for a glass of wine anyway, if you fancy it, stay over even.... if you want.’

  Wow, thought Walter. I hadn’t expected that.

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Any time you like.’

  ‘You got it. Be with you around ten.’

  ‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘See you later, WD.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there,’ setting the phone gently down.

  A thunderbolt rained down on the district.

  Walter laughed heartily.

  ‘Thor’s at it again,’ he said aloud. ‘Maybe it’s a good omen,’ and he headed for the shower, and the fragrant shower gel he was intent on soaking himself in.

  Ten

  Belinda Cooper stepped silently from the bed and slipped on her soft white slippers. Behind the bedroom door was an old wooden baseball bat. It had been there for almost thirty years. Her father had picked it up in some local house clearance auction place, and had described it as a burglar deterrent, and all the while it had stood quietly there, it had worked, they had never once been troubled by burglars and thieves.

  Bel didn’t think she was being troubled by burglars, not really, but one couldn’t be too careful. She bent down and silently picked up the heavy timber bat. Tried to open the bedroom door quietly, but knew that was impossible because the closing mechanism always creaked when being open and closed, but luckily, another thunderclap blanketed the sound.

  She stood on the landing and listened.

  Not a sound, other than the heavy rain on the stained glass window at the far end of the landing, and the distant sound of wind in the almost leafless trees across the road.

  In films and TV programmes whenever someone was alone in a house, and that person thinks that someone else might be downstairs, they always go to the top of the stairs and call out, ‘Hello, is there anyone there?’