She nonchalantly studied each and every painting Chris had created, paying him no heed as she did so. Was this her seduction routine? Chris watched her, his green eyes narrow with suspicion. Just what was she doing?
Alexis reached the portrait he’d deliberately turned to face the wall. She spun it round and cocked her head at the enigmatic painting. She absorbed the deliberate details, surprised that the face was entirely absent. It was unfinished like Chris couldn’t manage it. How peculiar…
She slowly turned to Chris, she then made a small smirk. It was something of a habit for Alexis, she smirked a lot. “You don’t mind do you…” she gestured to her breasts.
He didn’t answer.
She closed in, then turned to the blank canvas.
“I think you should paint me…” she purred.
“Do you…?” Chris’ brow furrowed.
“Yes I do…” and with that she hooked her thumbs into her leggings, she pulled them down and exposed a smooth and hairless groin. He recoiled a little.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed.
She shrugged and smirked. Her eyes seemed a little loose in her skull, was she high?
He asked her so.
“What are you, the drug police?” she shrugged him off. She removed her boots and stepped out of her leggings. She then padded stark naked to the side of the studio, she dragged a stool into the middle of the room. She took her seat upon it, but sat with her legs wide and giving Chris a very revealing view of her vulva.
“Paint me bitch,” she lolled her head back and dragged her hands through her blonde mane.
He bristled once again.
He failed to comprehend the point of her actions; was there even one? Was this the actions of someone intoxicated?
“Or we could do something else…” she offered suggestively, her tongue rolling over her lip slightly.
For a moment Chris considered the plausibility of doing such a thing. He’d never slept with a woman, the opportunity had never presented itself but he’d never actively sought it out too. In his mind he’d never been anything but gay, not that he’d ever really stopped to consider there was a potential to be anything else. It just was, as it always had been.
How did he know he didn’t like women? He caught himself having the exact same question heterosexuals posed gays. A little part of him was tempted, but common sense prevailed.
This was Samuel Le Bont’s girlfriend and he really didn’t want to go pissing him off.
A little experimentation was not worth that.
“Put some clothes on…” Chris ordered flatly.
“Don’t ya wanna fuck me?” she cooed. She must definitely be high, nobody would sound like they’d just strutted out of a porno movie otherwise.
“I’d rather not, if I was going to fuck anyone it wouldn’t be you…”
She recoiled, her ego wounded.
“I like dick,” he added feeling he ought to stymie the damage he’d just inflicted.
“I know,” she suddenly snapped back to a cheery self, she hoisted herself off the stool and collected her clothes. “See you tomorrow,” she walked out into the rain without dressing.
Chris watched her disappear around the side of the studio.
What the fuck was that about?
----------------------------------
A week later Chris arrived on college grounds to rather surprising news. A student was dead and it was news that had brought the college to a standstill. Suddenly there was posters of a boy everywhere, applied to every surface and anything that stood still long enough. Chris had a leaflet, pleading for potential witnesses to come forward, flung in his face the moment he climbed out of his aunt’s car. By the time he reached class he realised the college was almost hysterical with sorrow, borderline neurotic with the great tragedy that had stolen an innocent and beautiful soul like Geoff Ponte. Geoff was a student that Chris didn’t know existed until now, he actually knew more of him in death than he did during his living days. The seventeen year old boy had been brutally murdered two nights previous, and the police were reaching out for anybody who knew anything.
Chris took his seat, the talk in the classroom was pointing towards the “Fairy Killer” being the one responsible for such a shocking and grievous crime. Chris turned his attention back to the flyer, printed on neon pink paper. The black and white picture of Geoff was grainy, but it did little to disguise the bad skin and the general ugliness of him. Perhaps it was amoral to talk ill of the dead, but Chris couldn’t bullshit. The guy was ugly, overweight and pouting like he had fish lips. Surely they had a more flattering picture? Or was they celebrating his life in one big disaster of a selfie?
Chris placed the flyer face down, he wondered whether Geoff had more friends now than he ever did. Death had a peculiar way of turning bullies into friends.
Alexis arrived, she touched Chris’ shoulder as she brushed past heading for her seat opposite him. Pierre arrived shortly after, he managed a small smile and nod at Chris before he brushed past and took his own seat between he and Alexis.
At the beginning of term they’d been joined by Adelise and Celie, but Adelise had already dropped out for whatever reason and Celie had swiftly changed tables. It meant the table was only theirs, they shared it with nobody else.
Alexis shrugged out of her coat, today she was wearing a fashionable red dress and a black long sleeved T-shirt underneath. Her blonde hair was styled in two braids.
Pierre was dressed in a flattering white shirt, black skinny jeans and a black vest underneath. A silver cross hanging around his neck caught Chris’ eye as the boy shrugged out of his coat. He’d dialled back his eye make up, today was just simply eye-liner.
He looked good for it, a little vampy and a little less die-hard goth.
Chris was dressed in a green chequered shirt, blue skinny jeans and a charcoal jumper. The saying was blue and green should never be seen together, but he thought the jeans balanced out the deep green quite well. He hadn’t done much with his hair, it was all pulled down one side and hung past his chin. He was still seriously contemplating cutting it all off, but his sudden reconnection with his old self had made him feel some nostalgia for it.
In the last week it had been rather uneventful, which was perfect. It gave him time to reflect and develop his newfound identity in the world. His reconnection to his past had been exhilarating and heartening at first, but as time dragged on he felt a sense of disparage from it. It had felt like slipping into old slippers at first, now he felt like the slippers didn’t fit comfortably anymore.
He wasn’t that boy anymore… It just had been good to revisit it.
If for no other reason than now he realised he really wasn’t his old self.
“Sad…” Alexis tore the flyer in half.
Pierre recoiled, “That’s a bit cold isn’t it?” the shy boy had slowly come out of his shelf over the last week. He had surprised Chris with his deft grasp of English, and with quite how deep his voice was.
“What? I’m supposed to be crying because some homo got killed? It’s not like he was a homo I care about,” she shrugged indifferently, “it’s not like it was Chris,”
It was a peculiar thing to say, but Chris had grown to realise that Alexis did that quite often. Her strange outlook was as curious as it was frightening. Was it a backhanded compliment, or something else? She was very difficult to read, and Chris was beginning to suspect she was a little unstable. Neither of them had spoke of, or acknowledged, her nude little stunt in his studio since it had happened. She’d not invited herself over unannounced either, but he was aware that she might at any moment. She was unpredictable, much like the shit that fell out of her mouth. Her little comment made Pierre regard her warily and Chris merely sighed disinterestedly.
“So because he died, I’m supposed to cry and wail how unfair it is? I didn’t know him. It’s just bullshit to pretend I give a shit about someone I didn’t give a shit about when he was alive…” she had
a point, no matter how ugly she presented it.
“You’re so heartless…” a girl called Emma Canute suddenly interjected into the conversation. She was a girl of the “fuller figure”. She was also proving herself to be something of a busybody and had the nose that poked itself in other’s business. She was a blonde, but her hair was never styled. It hung limply at the base of her neck like a tail. She adjusted her thick black glasses and the three at the table saw she’d recently been crying. In one plump hand she held a tissue and she dabbed her nose.
“And you’re full o’ shit, bet you didn’t know who the fuck he was before he died…! Why don‘t you just go comfort eat yourself to death…” Alexis snapped back. Horrified Emma spun back around on her chair and burst into tears.
Chris was just about to intervene, meaning to reign Alexis back in when Juno entered the room.
“Hello guys! Jesus, what news…” he shook his head in a dramatic expression of pain.
Alexis’ eyes rolled to the back of her skull, but Chris paid her no heed. He turned to face the tutor. He kind of understood Alexis’ points, but the girl needed to learn some tact.
But then again this was probably one big stunt of hers, she had a great taste for pushing buttons.
“Emma are you okay?” Juno suddenly noticed his student crying into a tissue quietly.
“It’s just… I can’t believe it happened,” Emma whined through sniffles.
Alexis audibly groaned.
“Alexis?” Juno turned to her.
“Oh please. Nobody here shed a tear when my dad was fucking kneecapped, now everybody’s wailing like fat banshees over some guy they never knew…”
“I did know him!” Emma roared spinning around in her seat.
“Guys!” Juno raised both hands to silence them both. “Come on, a boy’s died. Let’s have some decency and respect…”
Alexis’ expression turned dark and cold as she stepped down from the argument. Emma got up and left the room, Juno let her go and didn’t follow. His expression was of disbelief and it rested on Alexis, he was simply astounded by the depth of her coldness.
Chris slowly slid his gaze to Pierre who exchanged a similar look. Even they were surprised at the hostility and coldness of the girl.
----------------------------
There had been a peculiar atmosphere for the rest of the day, most of it focussing and swirling around Alexis. Nobody knew how to interact with her, uncertain if she was likely to explode or annihilate them in a blast of cutting words instead. So when Chris watched her slip inside the gold sports car and drive off the college grounds he was relieved. Even he had felt the strain.
He had come to the conclusion she was indeed unstable and the drugs she was on were only exacerbating the situation. His approximation that she was a girl going bad was right, he just never had guessed to the extent which she was going to go.
He was drifting along in the river of his own thoughts when a silver car pulled up nearby.
“Chris!” came a voice.
He roused from his idle thoughts and saw Pierre gesturing him over. Chris didn’t know that Pierre drove, let alone owned his own car. He glanced and saw the bus was not in sight, so he could afford a short conversation with the boy. Pierre hoisted himself partially out of his car, peering over the top of it.
“Can I give you a lift home?” he asked when Chris neared.
“Pardon?” Chris recoiled in surprise. He certainly hadn’t expected that.
“Can I give you a lift home?”
“Sure…” Chris answered hesitantly.
Pierre stepped back into his car, unlocking the passenger side and turning the radio down as Chris climbed in. The inside of the car was neat, pristinely neat and smelt strongly of polish and bubblegum air freshener. The music playing was Marilyn Manson, and it didn’t surprise Chris. He recognised the song but didn’t comment.
“Thanks…” Chris felt awkward as he tugged the seatbelt into place.
“No worries, just gotta be careful these days… Serial killers and all that,” he gave Chris a little smile that was meant to be endearing and comforting, but only looked odd coming from a boy with a silver hoop in his nose, a partially shaved head and black eyeliner.
He put the car into gear and he set off. For a few moments there was a peculiar silence between them.
“Can I ask, why don’t you wear nail varnish?”
“Nail varnish?” Pierre stumbled on the English word. He flashed his guest a perplexed look as he scanned the road for the opportunity to join the traffic.
“Nail polish? Colour that goes on your nails?” Chris gestured.
“Oh…” Pierre laughed. His laugh was soft and warm, it made Chris smile. “Too girly I guess,”
Chris shook his head, that was not the answer he expected.
“Would you like it if I did?” Pierre pulled out into the traffic but managed to cast a flirty glance at Chris. The smile that hadn’t left Chris’ face turned into a modest blush. Chris didn’t know why this boy made him act this way.
“I don’t know…” he shrugged.
“Maybe I’ll get some, just for you…”
“Now don’t disappoint me, I like it when people keep it interesting…” Chris flirted back.
“Like Alexis?” Pierre probed lightly.
The smiles faded a little as both boys recalled the terrible day they’d spent in her company.
“Maybe not that interesting…” Chris remarked.
“She’s a little too much,”
“You’re telling me…” Chris sighed. And Pierre didn’t know of the peculiar intrusion the week before.
“She’s going off the rails…” Pierre surmised as he turned his attention to the junction that demanded more of his concentration.
“She said something about her father being kneecapped…” Chris offered hoping that Pierre would be able to elaborate.
“A few years ago, her father was attacked at home by a gang and they beat him pretty bad. He’s lost both of his legs…”
“Wow…”
“She’s had to grow up pretty quick and care after her father,”
“That explains the derailing…”
Pierre glanced at Chris, they both agreed on that.
“Why did he get attacked?”
“She told me once it was because he was an informant for the police,”
Chris didn’t respond, instead he nodded and digested the news. It suddenly made sense; the dangerous boyfriend, the drugs and the erratic behaviours - all a retaliation to her father’s illness.
“How long have you known Alexis?”
“A while, I wouldn’t say we were friends. We knew of each other, that’s about the sum of it…”
A pause fell in the conversation as Chris resolved the recurring feeling he was a stranger in a very strange land. He felt like he was an intruder. Everyone was interconnected, had history.
“What are you doing Saturday night?”
“I don’t think I have many plans beyond spending it in the studio…” Chris answered honestly.
“The studio? You have your own studio?”
Chris nodded, “yeah, I do…”
“Wow, I’d love to see it sometime…”
Chris realised that Pierre had spoke more in this one car-ride than he had in the week or so they’d known each other.
“I was wondering if you’d like to catch a movie, and a drink… with me?”
Chris’ attention drifted from the passing scenery to Pierre, had he just asked him on a date?!
“As in a date?”
“If that’s cool?” Pierre answered stammering a little with nerves.
Chris was speechless. He’d never been asked on a date, it had never occurred to him he should even be dating. Suddenly Pierre took on a different light, this was someone who potentially wanted to start a relationship with him. An alien and strange concept to suddenly embrace.
He hadn’t even considered the fact Pierre was gay. It was
a pleasant revelation.
“Yeah, sure…” he heard himself say in small surprise.
“Cool, I’ll pick you up at seven…” and that was that, Christopher Bourgh had his first date planned.
CHAPTER SIX:
“What the fuck is happening to my little town?” It was not a question, it was far-far-far from a question. The Commissioner turned his attention to Jean and Arron sat before him.
The guy was in his late fifties, looking down the barrel of early retirement and was quite looking forward to retiring, rather peacefully, somewhere hot and tropical with his young third wife. Somewhere well removed from all the bullshit politics he was constantly embroiled in.
He had grey hair that he had slicked back, a grey moustache and the type of face that looked Russian but was actually thoroughly purebred French. When he talked his moustache swept from side to side and always reminded Jean of a walrus. The Commissioner was large like a walrus too, rotund from a life of wine and good cheese.
He wasn’t an unpleasant man, but he was never someone Jean would invite over for dinner. If he held dinners. The man liked to talk work, and liked to talk it a lot! Jean had a private joke running that his boss had talked his last wife to death, the sudden heart attack was just a cover story.
“Sir, we’re-” Arron was cut off by a stubby finger.
“Save it shitbreath, I ain’t interested in your bullshit theories. I want COLD. HARD. FACTS. Not some, I think. We think. We suspect. Blah-fucking-blah,” The Commissioner was heated, which was nothing new. When he burned he burned white hot. “I want you two to do your fucking job and catch me the bastard that’s making a mockery of this town!” a fine mist of spittle caught Jean on the cheek. He didn’t immediately wipe it away, instead he opted to wait a few moments before he discreetly wiped it off pretending to scratch. “Another dead kid! The schools are in arms, the people are running scared! We need to catch this sonofabitch!”
Ok, maybe he was laying it on a bit thick now.
The Killing Games Page 6