by Carla Blake
Getting up, she checks her coat for creases and steps onto the gravel path. Rows of rose bushes line either side, some with simple plaques, others smothered with lanterns and photos and flowers and cards wrapped in cellophane to keep out the wet.
Above her she can hear birds singing and the distant drone of a lawn mower. She passes a waste paper bin, crammed full of dead flowers and plucks out a leaf to give her fingers something to shred and thus something to do.
The crematorium is quiet. Everyone has gone. Hannah’s flowers are still there, fresh and new and bursting with a life Hannah will never see again. She thinks of Susan Barrow, the foul mouthed bitch responsible for her lover’s death, and a black hatred fills her heart and escapes out of her mouth in a small moan. How she would love to get her hands around that bitch’s throat and throttle away that cocky, ‘it wasn’t my fault’ smirk from her face. But she is far from reach and probably will always be that way, so the leaf gets it instead and she pulls it apart with a viciousness it wouldn’t have suffered otherwise.
The sight of smoke almost brings her to her knees.
She doesn’t realise she has come this far. But her feet have carried her blindly and now here she is, standing next to a plain, brick building with an enormous chimney tall enough to carry departing souls half way to Heaven.
It is too much for her to take.
The realisation that it is her Hannah in there.
Her Hannah being reduced to ashes. It is too horrible to contemplate. She is burning! Leaving her! Never, ever coming back!
Falling to her knees, she hangs her head and sobs. She has no dry tissues left and she wipes her nose on her sleeve, not caring anymore. Not caring if anyone sees her. Not caring if the whole world sees her.
Hannah is dead.
Twenty minutes passes before she gets up. Her knees are sore, her shoulders aching. The sleeve of her coat slimy from repeatedly being used to wipe her nose.
Eyes closed, she tilts her head to the afternoon sky. The wind is a little brisker now, blowing in the start of evening a few hours away and she wonders why no one has disturbed her or asked why there is a lone female on her knees in the middle of the path?
She opens her eyes and blinks, feeling the last of her tears dry crustily on her cheeks.
The tall, damning chimney is quiet, finished with obliterating the body of her beautiful lover and she purses her lips into a determined line.
Her grief is done now and she will not cry again.
She is Katherine Johnson. Strong. Capable.
Taking a deep breath, she feels an icy barrier fold itself around her heart.
Hannah is dead, but she will go on.
She has to.
She doesn’t have any choice.
Chapter Three
Seven months on and Katherine Johnson is still sitting on the edge of her bed in the Marble hotel room. She hasn’t moved, other than to breath. Her backside is getting numb from all this sitting and quite possibly from the colossal amount of weight she’s lost, but she doesn’t want to get up and move. Getting up means action and purpose and she doesn’t have one, not really. Instead she allows herself to flop back onto the bed, hardly bouncing as the firm mattress absorbs her weight. The ceiling is white and smooth and devoid of anything in the way of light fittings. Illumination at the Marble is provided by up lighters mounted on the walls, together with stylish and very expensive lamps, so there’s no overhead.
There isn’t even a decent crack for her eyes to follow so she closes them and forgets about the conference and the possibility of Alex going quietly nuts downstairs waiting for her and thinks of Hannah. Only of Hannah.
They met, she and Hannah, at the cinema.
Katherine, not usually in the habit of going to the pictures alone, had nevertheless dragged herself out because she’d recently split up from her latest girlfriend and was sick of moping about at home waiting for a text that was never going to come.
And she’d deliberately chosen to see a romantic comedy in the hope that if she witnessed someone’s else’s misery, then it might open the flood gates for her own, because nothing else had and she was desperate for a damn good cry if only to get it all out of her system. It wasn’t natural not to cry over someone she’d been seeing for over a year, but she hadn’t shed a single tear yet and her sorrow was starting to stick in her throat like a solid lump around which she was starting to find it increasingly difficult to eat, sleep or even speak on occasion. Therefore, this movie was her last hope. A damned sad plot, a good cry, and voila! Her problems would be over.
She arrived late, thanks to a bus, a lorry and the usual testosterone fueled stand-off that meant sirens had blared through the darkness and a couple more police cells were kept warm for the night, and the usher had to show her to her seat by torchlight, warning her to watch her feet as she picked her way past a couple sharing popcorn and a teenager with bad acne before finally settling in the seat next to another girl.
The girl had greeted her tardy appearance with a smile. Don’t worry, she’d whispered, she’d only missed the ads and Katherine had smiled her thanks, slipping off her coat just as the screen had gone dark and the main feature had come on.
Only then did she realise she’d walked into the wrong theatre.
How she got through the whole movie, she never knew, but she spent an awful lot of it staring at her feet or defocusing her eyes. Anything to prevent herself from seeing the horrific images of heads being chopped off and someone having their stomach ripped open and their entrails pulled out. But the worse thing was the laughter. The teenager with bad acne clearly loving every gut wrenching scream, as he frequently let out a deeply satisfied, ‘yes’ and a delighted chuckle every time another fountain of blood exploded across the screen. The girl sitting beside her was obviously enjoying it too, because her reaction to all this blood, guts and gore was an occasional nod of the head followed by a quiet ‘dear me.’
Katherine merely wanted to be sick. In her shoes if necessarily and as much as she wanted to get up and walk out and never, ever seen anything so bloody awful ever again, she couldn’t quite bring herself to walk past the teenager and popcorn sharing couple - how could they eat! - without giving away that she herself couldn’t stomach the gruesome scenes without wanting to puke.
Never had a movie lasted so long.
Never had she been so glad to see daylight.
Never had she jumped so high when a hand lightly touched her arm and asked if she was okay?
It was the usher, torch now stuffed in her belt and wearing an expression that told Katherine this wasn’t the first time she’d seen someone come out of that particular movie looking like death warmed over.
“Tea.” She said simply, steering Katherine towards the refreshment area. “Or strong coffee. With plenty of sugar. God, I don’t know why they make films like that, do you? They’re bloody horrible! What were you doing in there? You don’t look the sort, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Thought it was ‘ Catch me before summer,” Katherine answered, “got the wrong movie.”
The usher smiled. She had nice teeth, Katherine thought. A nice mouth.
“Well, they both have a similar effect.” The usher said. “In as much as they both make you feel sick. So, what you having then. Tea or coffee or a large cup cake with toxic coloured icing and enough calories to bounce the scales?”
They’d gone home together, or at least back to Katherine’s. The usher was Hannah, of course, filling in at the cinema for a sick mate who’d picked up a nasty virus whilst holidaying in Greece. Her real job, she told Katherine, was as Sou chef at ‘Flavor’. Had Katherine ever been there?
She hadn’t, but she went three nights later. At midnight. The restaurant now closed to the paying customer. A single table, adorned with white tablecloth, burgundy table mats and a single
burgundy rose, set for two. Hannah had cooked, served and then settled down opposite her. Soft music had played in the background and after eating, they’d danced, just the two of them, alone in a deserted restaurant.
They’d made love for the first time that same night although Katherine had worried it might be too soon. They’d only known each other a few days, after all, and she didn’t want Hannah to feel she was rushing her into anything.
Hannah had soothed her fears with a kiss on the lips. She didn’t feel rushed at all. and yes, she was sure. But not here. Let’s go somewhere more comfortable.
They’d made love in a tangle of kisses and limbs. Their clothes strewn around the bedroom, the kettle Katherine had put on to boil, cooling in the kitchen whilst they’d peeled off each other clothes and giggled with nerves and Katherine had taken her first look at Hanna’s naked body and fallen instantly in love. She was perfect. Lovely. All smooth, soft skin and delicate curves. Her hazel eyes smiling at her as Katherine ran her hands over her stomach and though her short, brown hair and told her she was breathtakingly wonderful.
“And you’re not?” Hannah had asked. “Look at you. You’re gorgeous. And that hair! God, I’d die for hair like that.”
They’d tumbled onto the bed, mouths hungry for each other’s lips. They’d kissed long and hard. Hannah’s tongue teasing the edge of her mouth before hungrily delving inside. Their hands touching everywhere.
Katherine had forced Hannah onto her back, kissing her neck, nibbling her ear, telling her she was lovely, sexy, beautiful. Her mouth had kissed her throat, then the hollow at the base, her hands softly cupping her breasts, until her mouth could get down there and encircle her nipples. She’d sucked them then, teasing the dormant, pink circles into hard discs, listening to Hannah’s small moans of contentment as the stimulation traveled straight from nipple to cunt. She kissed her stomach and swirled her tongue inside her belly button, her hands now caressing her soft, inner thighs as Hannah sighed and moaned and told her not to be such a tease.
She kissed her fluff, inhaling the musky smell of feminine lust and dropped the lightest of kisses onto her pussy. She wanted to lick her, and lap at her pink folds until there wasn’t a drop of moisture to be had, but she made herself wait and instead slipped easily from pussy to thigh, covering Hannah’s skin with feathery touches whilst her fingers sought and found the warm, wet moisture of her slit where she’d moved within the warm, wet confine with ease, finding it wonderfully effortless to rub her clit and tease the entrance to her vagina, all the time thinking how much she wanted to fuck her.
Hannah wanted it too. “Take me.” She sighed, “please babe. Fill me up.”
In went two fingers, then three and four, and Katherine screwed her. Slowly and carefully at first, afraid she might hurt her before the moisture really started to build and she felt she could move with more confidence, fucking Hannah in smooth, firm strokes until the woman beneath her started to move in time, pushing her pelvis onto Katherine’s hand, urging her to take her, fuck her, make her come. The inside of her cunt opening up and sucking her in, the juices flowing, warm and liquid over Katherine’s fingers and down her wrist as she wriggled up to Hannah’s breasts and began to work her nipples again. Her hand pounding in and out of Hannah’s cunt, her wrist starting to ache with the effort as her mouth locked around her nipples and over her breasts, smothering her skin with kisses and whispered encouragement for Hannah to come for her.
“I am!” Hannah gasped. “Katherine!”
She came. Thrashing on the bed, her body wearing the sweat of her pleasure like a second layer of skin. She came, calling Katherine’s name and gushing liquid from between her thighs, her cunt muscles gripping hard, her nipples like bullets. She came, the tendons in her neck straining like cords as she gripped the sheets and tipped over the edge into utter oblivion.
She came and Katherine smiled.
Alex comes to get her of course. All red faced and flushed from a combination of too much champagne and a frantic dash from conference room to lofty hotel suite.
“Katherine!” She cries, bursting through the door whilst fanning herself with her one hand and attacking Katherine’s luggage with the other. “The conference is about to start for Heaven’s sake! What are you doing? Why haven’t you changed? God Almighty woman, wake yourself up! You have to get a grip! You’re letting your career go down the fuckin’ toilet here!”
Katherine answer is a shrug that doesn’t go down well and Alex takes hold of both of her shoulders in a vice like grip. “NO!” She practically screams, giving her a good shake. “I will NOT let you do this! You’re Katherine Johnson, editor of ‘Clothes and Catwalk’, not some dippy little cow who can’t get her act together. Get changed and get down there girl. Show ‘em what you’re made of and do not let that fuckin’ bitch Claire get her grubby little hands on your magazine. You’ve worked too damn hard! Fuck, I’ve worked too damn hard to watch it all go down the toilet now! So come on! On your feet. You haven’t got time to shower now but you can still put on that killer dress and go slaughter some mutton.”
Katherine makes it to the foyer of the Marble hotel. The concierge smiles at her twice. The receptionist once. She imagines both of them are probably wondering why she is just standing there in this kick-ass red dress, beside this mock marble pillar, instead of striding into the conference room opposite and knocking ‘em all dead with a single look, and to be honest, she isn’t sure why not either. Alex is right. She is Katherine Johnson. She is riding high. What she says matters. Christ, it more than matters! She is Queen Bee. In charge. In control. In fear of bursting into tears if anyone inside that room so much as mentions Hannah’s name.
Alex rescues her again by pushing through the glass double doors of the conference room looking distraught and contrite and for the sake of those sticky- beaking around them, apologising profusely for keeping Katherine waiting.
Now Katherine has no choice. She has to go in and she grudgingly accepts what a clever, little minx Alex is, nodding her head when Alex tells her to ‘ flip the switch and put a smile on that bloody face.’
Somehow she gets through it. She smiles and accepts tall flutes of champagne and dainty little nibbles designed to be admired as much as eaten. She sweeps over to Claire Swallow and cuts her down to size with a single remark, moving on before the startled woman can think of a pithy reply. She charms old men in suits and designers desperate for a good word from her. She coos over models obsessed with their hair, their looks, the amount of calories in a wafer thin slice of celery and makes friends with the people she knows might be useful in furthering her own career.
And throughout it all, Alex is by her side, encouraging her, telling her she is doing great, reminding her that before she leaves, she ought to throw Claire a small crumb of comfort and in front of as many guests as she can. That way if the cow decides to bad mouth her, the only person who’ll look bad is her.
Afterwards, she is exhausted, mentally and physically. Her shoulders are killing her. Her stomach is in knots. Alex orders her a stiff Brandy to ease her pain and settle her stomach but Katherine pours most of it down the sink. Alcohol is not the answer. Nor is a warm bath, or a sandwich or a three course meal down at that new Indian place.
Alone is what she wants. Alone and darkness so if Alex would kindly piss off and leave her be right now, she’d be eternally grateful.
Alex duly pisses off.
Katherine has her quiet.
She falls asleep sobbing into her pillow.
So much for no more crying.
Chapter Four
The night is chilly and there is the smell of threatened rain in the air.
Katherine Johnson, new to the murdering business, but still buzzing from her evening’s work, steps out onto the pavement and breaths deep of the freshening ozone.
Smiling, she secures the strap of her handbag on her
shoulder and pulls the collar of her jacket closer to her neck. A small act of defiance against the February breeze that has picked up and is busy nibbling at the ends of her hair and the tip of her nose.
She rummages through her handbag and pulls out black, suede gloves, slipping them on, she wonders if she should have done so earlier, before she throttled the unfortunate Angela, she of the quiet little orgasm, to death?
It is too late now however. Little Miss ‘hmm,’ is gone.
Smiling to herself, she walks down the pavement, making little noise. The heels on her boots are rubber and are practically soundless on the grey, bubblegum pocked concrete. She passes a heap, huddled in the doorway of a wine shop, and answers the plea coming from the mountain of grubby blankets with a withering look. The beggar almost immediately responds in kind, complemented by two upright fingers, and Katherine briefly contemplates turning on her very expensive heel and stamping on his hand.
Except she has other, more urgent needs. A drink for one. The need for a pee, the other. She should have gone at Angela’s, she muses. Treated herself to whatever pink and fluffy delights her bathroom would have had in store for her and saved herself this discomfort now, except she didn’t need to go then.
The underground is, as always, hot and crowded and filled with groups of foreign students and drunks singing loudly, although not always the same song. She waits close to the tiled wall, next to a poster for the musical ‘ Wicked’ and keeps one hand buried in the jacket pocket, her fingers wrapped around her can of pepper spray.
The spray is yet another of Alex’s idea after Katherine announces she wants to move around London without the use of her chauffeur.
Alex, naturally, is appalled - Katherine sometimes thinks Alex is an even bigger snob than she is - but Katherine is having none of it and tells her that although the chauffeur is fine darling, its all too much of a drama. Soon as she steps out of the car, everyone looks at her!