Deceit

Martin hadn’t driven his 4×4 since the accident. The bedroom was stifling hot. Sian had set the heating too high. He was claustrophobic. He needed fresh air. He slid open the glass partition, stepped out onto the veranda, and chilled as an invigorating blast of frigid air whipped his chest. Martin sneezed, smelling the fug of her stale scent.

Slick watched him from across the road in her copper chrome Fiesta. Their eyes met. She turned cooked-lobster pink, swung her cramped stiff-hurt legs out of the car, and hurried off towards the communal recreation facility and sports hall. He wondered if she’d ever leave him alone.

Sian was lying on her side, fast asleep, shattered. Martin closed the smeared partition between them carefully so as not to wake her, crossing the bare pine floor, sealing his auburn woman in her crystal cube –  and went to the toilet. The bathroom was a shrine to his masculinity. It had a black slate floor, marbled walls, a white porcelain toilet, bidet, deep-curved bath, a wash basin.

Martin locked the door, enacting his intimate ritual of body cleansing. First, he sat on his throne, and peed. Then, painstakingly, he set about removing every trace of Sian from his body: her putrid cheesy sediment, her slick body fluids, her acrid body odours. Once he’d smooth-shaved, showered, sanitized himself, and rinsed his hairy hands, he wandered through their lounge to the kitchen to cook himself some brunch.     

The lounge was littered with a contemporary sideboard, a vast media unit and coffee table. He had bought a royal blue sofa for Sian to luxuriate on, a criss-crossed, coarse sisal rug for her tantric yoga moves. The kitchen had a dual-purpose fridge, an overhead storage unit full of her seeds, pasta, his nuts, a trendy cooking hob, and a small breakfast bar with three poseur stools, still wrapped in polythene.

Starving, Martin raided the fridge, shredded some plastic ham, beat three big eggs, and rustled up a ham omelette with grilled turkey rashers. Next, he cremated three thick slices of granary, plastering them with low fat spread under thick-cut marmalade, and downed two black coffees. He threw all his dirties in the sink for Sian to deal with later, before hurrying to the spare room.

His new smart casual outfit was laid out neatly for him on the bed. His woman had clearly gone to a lot of trouble to choose him suitable spring clothing: a pair of lovat moleskin jeans, a sea blue, soft cotton chambray shirt, navy-blue waxed jacket, tanned leather brogues. He felt remorseful.

These clothes must’ve cost Sian a fortune.

He snipped off all the price tags then cautiously opened the mauve envelope lying on the bed. The gilt embossed card read:

Thanks for last night’s sex, Darling. Fondest Love, Sian xx  

Martin returned to the bedroom, lump-in-throat, his beautiful Celtic princess lain out on the bed, ready for his silent kiss. One of her beige-tanned knees was protruding awkwardly at a right-angle from under the ruched candyfloss duvet emphasising her sexual exhaustion. Her lover admired her maternal breasts heaving, gently, with the rhythm of her breathing, resting snugly in their quilted nest of furled down. Her nipples still erect, strawberry red, from having sex. He was struck dumb by her native Welsh beauty. Could almost hear the crash of the waves. Taste the smack of salt on her lips. Feel the sand on her skin. From when she first made love to him, clinching him, clamping him inside her, loving, stark naked on Morfa Dyffryn beach.

*****

Martin stood without using his arms, stripped off his olive t-shirt and shorts, and tested the sand with his toes. The heat was bearable. He flexed his biceps for Sian, stretched out on the beach mat, taking in the vista before him. The sky was clear, azurite blue, the sand tinged with ochre, liberally strewn with bladderwrack, flotsam, jetsam, amber froth, and plastic, along the tideline.

The glass-clear water, slapping the shore in teasing ripples, herald of the rare, becalmed sea, looked deceptively inviting. Not to Sian though. Impish, elfish, Sian dressed only in a soft turquoise cheesecloth dress, her arms, and legs bare, tanning under the searing sweltering summer sun.

Amaze me, Sian. You really do! Tell me girl, what’s going on it that strange mind of yours?

Martin cast his gingerbread brown eyes over the deserted beach. He and Sian had chosen well, nestling out of the cutting wind.

‘My Welsh Mistral!’ Sian proudly called it.

Nestling where the sandy dunes, stiff with marram grass, met the exposed foreshore. Nestling.

‘Our little love-nest, Martin!’ she laughed nervously, blushing.

He turned to face her. He couldn’t quite make her out. Her undying love for him. Despite his sinful tasks. The trust she placed in him. On many occasions. Her lonesome nights. When he played away. His endless overnight stays: ask-no-questions: discreet inns, guest houses, luxury hotels. All expenses paid. Ask-no-questions. He watched as she drew the hem of her crimped dress high to the small of her slender back pressing it to her front, lowering her head, showing him herself, revealing the fullness of her pale, bare rump, ever the Celtic maiden.

‘Look, see, I’m not wearing any knickers!’

Martin blew out his cheeks, ‘Sian! Don’t do this to me. Please, don’t do this to me! You’ll give me a bloody heart attack.’

Sian lay flat on her back on the mat, ‘Well, darlin?’

He struggled for breath: her knowing allure, her wanton temptation, his guilt at all the women.

‘Coming in for a dip, Sian?’

She lifted the hem of her dress, ‘You know I don’t like it when the water’s cold. You know I like to stay warm. You know I want a little baby, darlin. Don’t you think it’s time we tried?’

Martin ran to the sea, ran away from her: the guilt she racked up in his mind. His duplicity. The selfish way he treated her. His disdain. His total lack of respect for her. He shouted at her over his muscled shoulder,

‘Presently, Sian,’ was all he said, ‘Presently.’

He waded into the sea, splashing his barrel chest with freezing water, rinsing his arms and thighs, cooling his loins, and swam.

*****

The water never really warms off the Welsh coast. Within minutes of diving in, Martin was on his way back, wading, trudging through the shallows, sand between his toes, an oil blemish staining his right calf. Crude oil.

Enjoying the heat of the sun on his shoulders, drying his torso he padded as far as Sian – who’d stood on her beach mat – and grabbed his towel. Sian wasn’t amused by his selfish act. She had a face like thunder. Her face was flushed red and angry, she stormed.

‘Enjoy that, did you? Feelin’ better now, are you? Get it off your chest, did you?’

Martin dried his hair, ‘Sorry? Get what off my chest?’

‘Whatever it is that’s bugging you.’

‘There’s nothing bugging me, Sian, okay?’ he stressed. Martin was usually stressed these days.

Sian threw her arms about in frustration. She could strangle him when he misbehaved like this. Strangle him!

‘Don’t give me that tosh. I know when you’re upset. I’m supposed to be your best friend, your wife, y’know,’ she stared down at her bare feet, wiggling her toes, trying to stay calm, ‘Though I wonder sometimes. Wonder about you.’

Her lover slowly drew his beach towel over his back of rippling muscles, back-and-forth, up-and-down. Women adored his back, the hairy-nest small of it, his tightly clenched buttocks. He was handsome, rugged, muscular, manly, attractive, well-built, but possessed the tenderness of a woman’s touch, their softness. Women loved that about Martin,

‘What do you mean, wonder?’

Sian fixed him with her hardest stare, ‘You’re always so quiet, Martin. Distant. As if you don’t love me anymore. Do you, darlin’? Do you love me?’

She pulled her dress off over her head. Martin marvelled at the lift and flop of her ample breasts, her sensitive, distended, rose-tipped nipples.

‘Of course, I love you, Sian. You mean the world to me.’

Sian was naturally beautiful, beautiful as the sun, sea, sand, and sky. He choked on his shameful deceit. How could he treat her like this? Martin watched eagerly as his woman arranged herself on the beach mat, her breasts heaving with passion, her soft tuft of pubic hair matt with sand. She opened her thighs for him, her voice took on a husky tone, she arched her body upwards.

Sian made him need her, ‘Then give me a little baby.’

Straining hard, bursting, Martin pulled down his wet trunks and went to her. He threw his body on top of hers, crushing her fulsome breasts, her rib cage, loving her moans and sighs of ecstasy as he mounted her, fucking her so hard that she flailed her arms and legs tearing at his buttocks until they bled.

*****

They’d been trying for a baby ever since. He wondered if he was infertile. Overwhelmed by a rush of guilt to the heart, he stooped and kissed her perfect breasts, her twisted lips, tenderly brushing the damp wisps of hair off her cheek. Watching the sleepy-land smile spread over her blushing face. Screwing his eyes shut to stem the tears. Today might be the day that changed her life. His life. He tucked Sian in, whispering his love for her, turning to go, atoning for his guilt,

‘I love you, Sian. The last thing in the world I’d ever do is hurt you. But we need the money.’

*****

A vet’s overlooked their luxury apartment full of dead or discarded pets, a 15^th century inn. Martin took the fire stairs to the secured exit, quit the block, and crossed the road. As he left, he noticed, the entry to the disabled parking bay was blocked – by a makeshift flower bed.

How could someone do that?

Slick’s Fiesta was parked in one of the bays reserved for residents, next to his 4×4.

The terracotta-brown fence skirting the pub beer garden had collapsed in last night’s storm-force winds. Several branches hung precariously off the trees, reminding him of the tenuous tightrope he trod with Sian, the causeway of deceit that led to his murky life. As if to stress his seedy, dirty existence, the back street was festooned with split clear sacks spewing out soiled plastic boxes, fishy-smelling tin cans, greasy fish and chip papers, winter fodder for the starving foxes.

Martin had been so busy satisfying Sian’s libido that he didn’t hear the raging wind. Smiling at her memory: how she had got up on all fours for him, ‘for better penetration, darlin,’ he cut through a dingy alley, past some derelict garages, avoiding the desiccated turds, then jogged downhill to the station.

*****

Amber Slick zipped her sage jersey jacket and pulled on some thick grey woolly gloves. Her quarry felt the wind bite his cheeks as he stepped off the train. The sky was pencil grey; flecks of sleet floated in the air. It was bitterly cold. He walked the length of the platform to the tourist information office. Inside, he was greeted by a blast of warm air, a fat-jolly-hockey-sticks type with a sad squint, green eyes, curly ginger hair, freckles. She spoke cordially in an elocuted old girl accent,

‘How can I help you? Do you want to buy a postcard? We don’t sell stamps, only cards. Diaries are half price.’

Feeling his bladder protest, Martin ignored her tedious waffle. Instead, he asked for directions to Palisades.

She sounded impressed. ‘Palisades?! I have a map!’

Hurry up you stupid old cow, I’m bursting.

Unhurried, she spread out a street plan on the counter, scribbling an x for the station, another x to mark the location of the five-star hotel. 

‘We’re here, your hotel’s there,’ she said, spreading her webbed fingers, ‘It’s a thirty-minute walk through the city centre. Are you in a hurry?’

No, I always stand with my bloody legs crossed.

Martin told her he wasn’t in any hurry. He had two and a half hours to prepare himself for his client. More than enough time to see the city sights, enjoy some lunch. What did she suggest?

‘Why don’t you take the sightseeing bus from outside the station? It stops beside the hotel at stop 11. The ticket is valid for twenty-four hours. Can I interest you in one? You do get to see the Roman Baths, the Royal Crescent, Thermae Bath Spa, the Jane Austen Centre…’

‘How much?’

She laughed, enjoying his custom, his good looks. If only she were fifty years younger.

‘Twelve-pound-thirty. Terrific value if I say so myself.’

‘What time’s the bus?’ he asked, waving his debit card at her.

‘There’s one on the hour and every half hour.’ 

He spotted the name badge pinned to her grey lapel, ‘Thank you, Juliet, you’ve been helpful.’

Julia Cavendish flashed him an embarrassed smile, ‘A pleasure, young man. Enjoy our city.’

‘Where are the Gents?’

‘Outside, left, next to the Buffet, you can’t…’

Slick waited until he had left before she entered the shop.

‘I’m in a hurry. Give me a tour bus ticket.’

She paid the shop assistant in cash, took the pink ticket, pulled on her gloves, and walked out. Slick caught up with him at the ticket barrier. Her man left the station, crossing Dorchester Street at the red lights, then disappeared inside the Southgate Centre.

Prêt was a short walk away. Slick watched enviously as her quarry treated himself to a chicken Caesar salad, a tub of sliced mango with lime, and a steaming hot pot of spicy tomato soup. She made do with an egg mayo sandwich and a cup of milky tea. There was an empty seat by the exit.

Martin took a pew at the back, opposite two chatting students who were busy tucking into an early lunch. He always ate heartily before meeting clients. Working on a full stomach helped to calm his nerves, suppress his guilt. He thought about Sian, waking alone, taking her pregnancy test.

Sian sat up in bed, her tablet open on her naked thighs, duvet round her feet, as her partner took a sip of piping hot soup. She sensed his soup, feeling the steam wet her face as he lifted the lid, feeling the hot liquid blister the roof of his mouth. He spilt vinaigrette down the front of his shirt. She saw the brown oily suspension: all greasy and damp.

‘Careful, darlin’! I can feel you, see you.’

He found a vacant toilet and cleaned his teeth using his finger as a brush. Meanwhile, Slick left Prêt and hobbled to the bus stop in nearby Manvers St.

The bus was late. Martin checked his Rolex: he’d arrive at the hotel just in time. He climbed the spiral stairs, sat on a front seat, clipped on a plastic headset, and dozed. Slick sat downstairs staring vacantly through a window at the flimsy snowflakes, fluttering down, celestial dandruff.

Sian checked a second time, just to be sure, put the pregnancy testing kit on her bedside table, then she rang her man to share the wonderful news.

‘Martin! I’m pregnan! I’m goin’ to have a little baby!’

There was no answer. She bit her lip. Her heart filled with anguish.

‘Why won’t you return my call, darlin’?’

She tried again. The call went to voice mail.

‘Answer me, won’t you? For cryin’ out loud, Martin!’

Sian texted:

Call me, Darling. Urgent. Sian xx

His phone was switched off. He left the bus. Slick knew this bus, waiting in the square, giving her quarry a head start. She removed her bobble hat, shaking out her wavy, greasy hair as he vanished through the rotating door into the uninhibited luxury that was Palisades.

*****

Amber Slick was divorced, bereaved. Once a slim, attractive brunette, she’d let herself go after the terrible hit and run accident involving the 4×4. She’d grown jelly belly, a fat bum, chunky thighs. The impact of the collision had hurled the buggy into a stone wall, killing her baby boy instantly. Amber was catapulted under the wheels of an approaching lorry, maimed for life, left a cripple. Her sardonic grin masked her inner pain, an abiding bitterness, a sense of injustice at the outrage.

The driver of the 4×4 didn’t stop.

This woman was obsessed. Frightened by her disturbed behaviour, her husband had fled the nest. The infernal voices inside her warped mind spoke to her again last night, creeping into the darkest recesses of her tortured, scrambled brain:

Not going to forgive and forget are you, Amber? Are you listening to me, Amber? Is that bitch with him? The one who watched Timmy die through her rear car window? Is she? Or is he with another slut?

Amber was greeted like an old friend by the trainee manager at Palisades who offered to take her jacket. She walked past her man to the bar where she treated herself to a rare double Bombay gin with Fever Tree tonic. Slick took off her jacket, sitting well out of view, innocuously dressed in a cheap, mint green cardigan, tummy-slimmer slacks by Damart. She swallowed the gin in one, enjoying its biting, piney taste.

Then she waited.

Amber Slick had all the time in the world – to wait.

*****

Minutes later, a smartly dressed, middle-aged, redhead entered the lounge, biting her lip. Other than the inconspicuous woman seated at the bar, the lounge was empty. She saw him slumped in an ornate red velvet armchair, recognizing him from the naked selfie that he sent her on her phone. Her casual playmate for the afternoon, 

‘My goodness, he’s sound asleep!’

She gently shook her toy boy awake, whispering in his ear, so that no-one else could hear her.

‘Martin is that you?’ she asked in an eloquent, middle-class voice.

Slick surmised that this was her first illicit affair. The sad woman was carrying a smart, tanned, overnight bag.

A change of clothes, love? Satin perhaps?

Mature women preferred the comfort of satin. Amber Slick had witnessed many mature women like her in the company of Braker.

The bastard woke up, ‘Yes, and you are?’

The woman introduced herself, ‘Angie, my name’s Angie. You agreed to sleep with me today?’

‘You agreed to sleep with her?’ Sian shrank, feeling sick, her worst fears realized, flopping in her bed. His discarded rag doll. She threw the tablet on the floor unable to watch, touch, taste, feel him anymore, and burst into tears.

He appraised his client. He’d never met a woman like her before. She was ageless, evergreen-young, with pure, tanned, perfect skin, roses-in-her-cheeks, melancholy-in-her-eyes, shocks of ginger curls kissing her shoulders. A proud face: high cheeks, piercing shiny grey eyes, cute toffee nose, pursed, thin, rouged lips. A woman of considerable standing and upbringing. A woman to show respect. She was wearing a plain indigo dress, bared arms and legs, poppy red stilettoes. Angie looked fantastic. He tried to age her: late thirties, mid-forties, early fifties? It was impossible to tell. He softened in her presence, becoming more human, loving, caring, than he had felt in his life, finding himself apologizing, sitting up straight for her, like her good boy, her puppy, about to be fed.

‘I’m sorry, I’m Martin. Did you bring the…?’

She clumsily unzipped her leather bag, extracting a wad of used banknotes: £500 in £20 notes.

‘Mm’ she bit her lip, her stomach churned, she felt a hot, burning sensation in her urethra, and badly needed a pee, ‘It’s all here, would you like to count it?’

He shook his head, sadly, feeling sorry for her. Her first time. She must be absolutely petrified.

‘Please, no, there’s no need. Let’s wait until we’re safely inside the bedroom, shall we, Angie?’

She was touched by his surprising consideration for her. His warmth towards her. He’d used her name deliberately. Feeling a warm glow of contentment inside, Angie permitted herself a nervous smile.

‘I need the loo, Martin. Can we go, please?’

‘Of course, let me carry your bag.’

‘Thank you.’

‘If you’d like to follow me. Please.’

She wiped her lips with her wrinkled fingers, licking her fingertips with the end of her tongue, biting her rose gloss nails, overwhelming the man with her innocent, sensual allure, her scent.

‘Thank you, I’d love to.’

They enjoyed a polite smattering of conversation as they left the bar, taking the grand, spiral, crystal-chandeliered staircase up to the first floor.

Slick maintained a discreet distance, watching them zing-card their way into room 124 from behind a turn in the corridor, then waited patiently in the lift lobby for one of them to leave. Her pent-up fury, her lust to wreak havoc, painful revenge, welled up inside her like a parasite worming its way out of her broken heart, into her distraught, demented mind.

*****

By any modern standard, Helen Carswell-Jones (she insisted upon retaining her maiden name when she was married) was well-off, seriously wealthy. A socialist might say stinking rich. She lived on a stud with her husband Bryn who was big in moulded fittings, flat-pack furniture, her fine young sons, Ollie and Seth, who boarded, several racehorses, and a golden retriever called Sandy. She had a live-in butler-cum-gardener, Sutton, who mucked out the stables, fed the horses, and fed her. She authored books: dark, erotic fantasies like the international best-selling Taut Neck.

Helen owned several acres, horse fields mostly (she had been known to ride), a smattering of apple and pear trees, heated outdoor swimming pool, private tennis court, wine barn, carp pond, and a wild swimming lake that was rumoured to contain trout. Her sons both owned quad bikes, semi-amphibious vehicles which they rode through the shallows when they were at home. Ollie and Seth were away at boarding school. Bryn was in Leeds. Leeds of all places. Away on business.

When the cats were away the kitten would play.

She smiled to herself, sinking inches deeper into the mint green swimming lake, stroking her fat cherry lips with her small brown hand. She was wearing mint white nail varnish, a mint white dress, just the dress.

Doesn’t matter, no-one can see me. Only you, Hamish. You can see me, can’t you?

‘How’s it going,’ she shouted, with a posh bark, ‘Caught any carp yet?’

Helen had agreed with Sutton that his sixteen-year-old nephew could fish for carp today in her murky horse pond before the pond dried up in the summer heatwave. In return for beers with whisky chasers, a swim with her, in the lake. Sutton had served the lad his bevy of drinks from a silver salver and been given the rest of the day off. The boy looked decidedly worse for wear, half-cut, more-than-merry, drunk. Helen was stone-cold sober, scheming, always scheming. The boy replied,

‘Caught some, on bread. Put ‘em in the far end of the lake, I did. So, they can eat your weed.’

He staggered along the bank so that he could get a better view of her. Mrs Carswell-Jones was very attractive: straight long nut-brown hair, a hint of grey tumbling down her lightly freckled back, nut brown eyes, turned up toffee-nose, fat pouting lips, bushy brows, an all-over toffee suntan,

‘Right!’ she said, laughing, ‘Very good, Hamish. So, they can eat my weed. You look hot, sweetheart. Are you hot?’

‘Must say, I am. Just a bit, mind.’

Helen pulled her dress off over her head, nearly drowning herself in the process. She sputtered.

‘Do you fancy a swim with me?’

The boy’s eye’s attempted to grow stalks, ‘I didn’t bring no trunks.’

‘Who said anything about you wearing trunks?’

After she had used the farmer’s boy, she let him go, a man now not a boy, home to his grandma. Her thoughts turned to Bryn, her cruel control of him. Play as she would with the farmer’s boy, the butcher’s boy, the builder’s lad, in the pond, the lake, the pool, rolling around in the hay after Sutton had mucked out the stables, Helen, a control freak, would never allow her husband to stray. She thought of the remarkable hi-tech, state-of-the-art, gadget, the intrusive device she had Bryn fitted with. Thought of Sian, poor Sian. Her best friend must be lonely. What with Martin, shame-faced Martin, working (playing?) away from home every night. At their recent dinner party in the wine barn, he couldn’t even look Helen in the face.

I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can throw him, she thought, Perhaps I should invite Sian over for a swim, a game of tennis.

Helen waded to the bank, leaving her mint white dress, their entrails, floating in the water, and clambered onto the bank. She found her phone in the grass, got a signal, then called Sian. Her call was answered immediately.

‘Sian?’

‘Yesss,’ the voice sounded slurred, dreamy.

Helen was concerned, she knew Sian, knew her moods, her highs, and lows, ‘Are you alright?’

‘Not feelin so good. Goin’ down with a bug or somethin.’

‘I was going to invite you over for a swim, a game of tennis…’

‘Best not,’ Sian said, ‘Not while I’m feelin so low.’

‘Low?’ asked Helen, sounding worried, ‘What’s the matter, Sian. What’s happened?’

‘Remember that funny gadget you gave me, to keep an eye on Martin?’

The miniature camera with built-in sound recorder and odorometer made in Japan.

‘The fake button with the tracker device, you mean?’

‘Yesss, that.’

There was a pregnant pause while Sian pulled herself together, while Sian tried to find the words.

‘Well, it worked.’

Helen breathed a sigh of relief, ‘Good, I’m pleased it works.’

‘You don’t understan.’ It, I, caught Martin red-handed.’

Oh God! Something’s wrong.

‘Go on…’

‘Martin’s about to have sex with some woman for five hundred pounds. Five hundred! Do you believe that?’

I do, no, no…

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘It’s true! It’s true, I tell you!’

Helen flopped down on the bank, sat on a thistle, jumped back up again, ‘Oh Sian, I’m so sorry. What can I do to help?’

‘There’s more, much more…’

Helen closed her eyes, saying a little prayer, Please God.

‘I’m pregnan,’ Helen, ‘Goin’ to have a little baby. Now, I’m sittin’ on the carpet with this bottle of sleepin’ tablets…’

‘Don’t Sian! Please don’t!’ her best friend screamed, scrambling for her clothes, ‘I’m coming over. Stay on the line, Sian. Sian? Sian!’

The line went dead.

*****

I’m floating. Floating on air. Floating above the coarse, green grass. I struggle to move my arms, my legs. My bare, pale, broken, arms and legs. Struggling to retain my modesty. Crippled in my black dress. Shorts, I’m wearing tight, black shorts. To protect my modesty. Conceal my injuries. I levitate, rising, high in the sky. I see faces beckoning me upwards. My head turns to face you. My dead eyes open and close. My damp brown hair hangs in drapes off my head. I’m scared: I reach out: I kick out: I scream blue murder:

Help me!

I open my mouth to speak. But it isn’t my voice I hear. Isn’t Amber’s. It’s Sian’s voice. Calling. In the dark. Fade to black. Sian’s voice calling me from the dark. Fade to black. Telling me.

Voices, ringing, in my head:

Amber?

Yes, Sian?

You’re goin’ on a killin’ spree today, darlin’…

I watch and wait.

*****

Angie sat on the loo, her indigo dress hitched as high as her breasts, her beige satin knickers rolled down to her knees, thinking to herself,

What am I doing here? What’s got into me all of a sudden? I should be ashamed of myself. For what I am about to do.

She let go of her dress, shut her eyes, and clasped her hands in her lap, as if in silent prayer.

For what I am about to receive may somebody up there, someone who loves me, make me truly thankful.

Prayer over, Angie sighed a long, deep sigh of relief. The luxury braided Palisades toilet roll hung off a brass ring on her left. She pulled off a thick wad wiping herself, enjoying the softness of the tissue against her cleft, the imaginary softness of Michael’s fingers rubbing her tenderly, rhythmically, caressing her in the way she used to love being caressed.

Michael used to caress her the way she loved most. Michael made sweet passionate love to her on the sun lounger, on the veranda, in the half-light of dawn, her favourite time of day. Once.

Angie dropped the wad into the lavatory pan, twisted her supple body at the waist, and reached for the tube. She removed the cap, squeezed an ample blob onto her fingertips, and rubbed it in.

‘Forgive me Michael,’ she said to herself, opening her eyes, imagining his rugged face smiling at her from inside the vanity mirror, ‘It’s been five long years. I have to move on now, darling.’

He was waiting for her next door, through the bedroom wall. Martin. Waiting to make love to her. One last lingering moment of doubt,

‘I’m not sure I can do this.’

‘Of course, you can,’ she told herself, ‘You deserve it. After all you went through caring for Michael.’

Angie shook herself, pulled up her briefs, flushed the toilet, threw the used tube into a bin under the wash hand basin, washed her hands, fluffed up her ginger hair, and opened the bathroom door.

She cast her eyes to the right, seeing the brass latch and chain drawn across, securing her inside.

No sign of a Do Not Disturb notice. Must be hanging on the doorknob.

Angie would hate to be found out. How would she explain to her friends: at the Bridge Club, Aquarobics, Swimming, Zumba, Pilates, Tennis Club for that matter? How could she explain?

I can never tell them. Not in a thousand years. My friends wouldn’t understand. Think of all the gossip, the scandal in our village.

She permitted herself a wry smile.

He’s gone so far as to stick a blob of blue tack over the spyhole! Martin certainly isn’t taking any chances, taking any chances with me. I wonder how many other women he’s had, here, in this bedroom. Wonder if he’ll be kind, gentle, and tender with me. I wonder if he’ll hurt me.

The nerves returned to haunt her. She found herself trembling, shuddering, at the idea of him, his lips kissing hers, his hands caressing her, his body interlocked with hers. Blinking her insidious fears aside, she stepped into the bedroom. Facing her was a full-length, glass-fronted, wardrobe with its doors closed. Next to that, a polished wooden shelf filled with notepads, the hotel guide, two menus, a full tray of cups and saucers, selected fine teas, coffees, shortbread and a kettle. At the far end of the shelf, next to some flutes and Slim Jims, stood an ice bucket filled with bottles of mineral water, a bottle of champagne, sparkling wine, and some miniatures of claret? Angie couldn’t tell from where she was standing. There was a narrow mirror over the shelf, a telephone for room service, a wireless internet connection. And, lying beside the ice bucket, a bunch of blood red roses. She thought of the five hundred pounds tucked inside her overnight bag. He had left it on the chair for her, considerately, unopened,

How much has this cost? she asked herself, the champagne, wine, flowers, room, and bed?

The bed itself was sheer unadulterated luxury, a layered wedding cake of a bed: an eiderdown, indigo bedspread, fluffy cream pillows. Cosy and snug. Her heart warmed, she felt herself relax.

Indigo. Cream. My favourite colours.

A bed in which to curl up with her lover.

He lay on top of the bed at the centre. He was naked, well-tanned, with an incredibly muscled physique: barrel chest, taut abs, and extremely well hung. Angie could barely bring herself to look at him. She stood at the far end of the bed, turning away, facing their mirror, murmuring.

‘Martin, can you help me unzip my dress, please?’

*****

He didn’t respond, didn’t answer her. Instead, Martin lay, spreadeagled, on the king-size bed, studying her. Truth be told, he had never encountered a woman so beautiful, fragile as a porcelain doll, so vulnerable, in his life. He found himself intrigued, beguiled by her, the sadness in those big, tired, grey eyes. He desperately wanted to help her.

Neither of them spoke.

Angie glanced up at the hideous plasma screen tv hanging off the wall to her left. There was a slideshow playing shifting images of Palisades: the restaurant, lounge, cocktail bar, a bedroom featuring a luxurious four-poster bed, a table setting for afternoon tea, the rooftop garden, palm tree, indoor heated swimming pool, underground car parking facilities. She found it distracting. Her brief encounter, her fleeting romance, she hoped, with him, her craved-for reawakening, would be testing enough for her without the distraction of an advertorial. She picked up the remote and switched it off.

Martin closed his eyes and pictured Sian asleep in bed, her magnificent breasts cushioned by their duvet, kissing her soft lips before his illicit meeting with Angie. Sian, forever demanding, challenging, insistent that he make love to her until they created her new life, her baby. They’d been trying for so long. He questioned whether she was infertile. How would their lives change if Sian’s dreams of motherhood ever came true? Did he want a child at all? How would he cope as the baby’s father – with his terrible shame? His mind returned to the fragile porcelain doll.

Was she a mother?

The wall between the bedroom and bathroom was covered in floor-to-ceiling mirror, a hallmark of the lover’s suites at Palisades. Angie set down the remote. She suddenly realized they might be being watched. The floor-to-ceiling glass pane looked out over a square, a green space dotted with elm, oaks, a few wrought iron benches clustered round a stone water fountain, a statue of a cherub with a harp, spouting water into a basin. A tramp stretched out over one of the benches enjoying the warm afternoon sunshine. A plump elderly woman with her hair tied in a bun fed a flock of pigeons, titbits, crumbs of stale bread from a paper bag.

Angie thought that will be me one day.

She drew the curtains, plunging the room into darkness. He was afraid of the dark. The shock of the dark brought back vivid memories of the horrid day when Martin and Sian, yes Sian was there, mowed down a young mother and her child, killing her baby instantly, the force of the collision hurling the buggy against a stone wall, her bloodied baby hanging off the straps of the buggy, the poor woman lying, bent, and twisted, under the wheels of their 4×4. How Sian pleaded with him to leave the scene with the maimed woman screaming in agony under their wheels. How Sian forced him to reverse off her mangled body. How Sian insisted that they leave her. Driving off. Their collective guilt: manslaughter.

Miraculously the woman survived, returning to stalk and terrorize them, to endlessly haunt them for their sins.

Angie broke the silence, ‘Turn on the lights for me.’

Relieved, his nightmare was over for now, Martin fumbled for the dimmer light switch.

The main bedroom light came on. Angie moved to the other side of the bed, more confident, ready now, for him. She stood facing the full-length mirror, watching him slide across the bed to be with her. He stood behind her, pressing his body against her smart indigo dress, her back. Offering him no resistance, she explained, her classy, articulated voice reduced to a whisper.

‘My husband died five years ago, Martin. He was my steadfast pillar of support, my best friend, my lover. I talk to him every morning when I wake and pray for him each night before I go to bed. I think of him every minute of the day. My life is empty, pointless, without him.’

‘I’m sorry. How long were you married for?’

‘Thirty years.’

Martin felt an overbearing sense of remorse, a compassion for her. Felt sorry for her. He wanted to love her, care for her, make up somehow for the loss that she’d endured, her loneliness, to do something good in his life for once.

Thirty years? She must be fifty, maybe as old as sixty, and yet she didn’t look a day over thirty.

‘That must be really hard for you, Angie.’

‘It is hard. Michael and I were inseparable. We played together, shared the same interests: golf, tennis, swimming, keeping ourselves fit. Even worked together: we set up a successful cleaning company.’

Martin looked surprised, ‘Cleaning company?! I thought you might work as a beauty therapist.’

The slightest hint of a smile appeared on Angie’s thin, cherry red lips, ‘Why do think that?’

‘Because you have such a beautiful face.’

She blushed, ‘You’re very kind.

‘Not at all. You’re a very attractive woman.’

‘I try to stay young.’

He changed the subject, ‘Do you have any children?’

‘No, I couldn’t have children.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Please, don’t be. Michael and I were perfectly happy without children. We led very busy lives.’

She paused for thought: And you, Martin. Are you married? Do you have children waiting for you at home? Are there women, passing strangers, in your life, rearing your unwanted bastards? Tell me your secrets.

She decided against. The thought of discussing his marriage (surely he wasn’t married?) she found distracting, his illegitimate children.

Do I really need to know?

She ran out of small talk. He talked silently, exploring her with his fingertips, his puckered lips.

Angie sighed as her gigolo gently unclasped the hook on her indigo dress, drawing its zip down as far as her bra strap, fluffing her red hair, kissing her earlobes, the tell-tale gingery-red hairs on the nape of her neck, pressing his lips into the soft tanned skin, kissing her tattoos, the hairy down on her upper back. She felt the goosebumps rise on her exposed skin. Felt him pull the zip as far as the small of her back, licking a trace down her spine, savouring her skin, she felt him lick her body, felt a fresh, tingling sensation in her body, one she hadn’t felt for years.

God, it’s started!

‘Martin,’ she murmured.

He eased the dress off her shoulders. She slipped her dress down her arms, pulling it down as far as her hips, exposing her shoulders, her slender back, her midriff, her waist, for him to hold to kiss. His lips pressed into the small of her back. He held her by the hips. The dress fell in a crumpled heap round her ankles. She stepped out of her dress showing off her beige underwired bra, her satin briefs. Angie’s body was magnificent, perfectly proportioned, well cared for, she had a blemish-free tanned complexion, her skin was well nourished. He leaned into her. His lips brushed her golden skin. Addicted to her intimate body scent, he couldn’t stop kissing her divine flesh.

‘Mmmn?’

‘Be Michael for me.’

*****

There wasn’t a moment to lose if Helen were to save her best friend’s life. Still wet from her sexy swim, she tousled her damp brown hair with her gym towel, wondering what to do. Should she call 999, ask for emergency services? Ask for who? On what grounds? On the basis of a snatched conversation? Or should she get herself over to Sian’s flat as soon as possible?

She procrastinated, unfamiliar with emergencies. Procrastination led to indecision. Indecision led to panic. Her panic brought her out in a thick daub of sweat. She inhaled, sharply, restoring her inner calm. Helen recovered. She wished Bryn were here. He’d know what to do. But Bryn was in Leeds, attending his moulded fittings conference, phone switched off, not to be disturbed. She dried herself, threw on her tracksuit, her soft running shoes, grabbed her phone, and made a beeline for the house.

The imposing Georgian manse overlooked a pink gravel drive. Standing on the forecourt were two muddy quad bikes and a post box red Mini Hatch Classic. The keys were still in the ignition from when dreamy Helen forgot to take them out. She threw open the door, threw her sports socks, towel, and phone on the passenger seat, jumped in, belted up, revved the engine, and shot off down her private driveway, weaving between the opening security gates, out, onto the forest road.

Sian’s apartment was three miles away in the suburbs, a ten-minute drive at the best of times, thirty when the schools came out. Helen checked her gold wristwatch: ten-past-two. She sighed with relief. The narrow winding lane took her past the golf and country club, a chain of less-than-well-appointed abodes, to a sharp bend. She glanced at the mirror, applied clutch, selected third, glided round the bend, then had to brake. The queue of traffic stretched into the distance, as far as her eyes could see. There was a bright red sign at the side of the road with faded white lettering:

Road Works

Cars streamed towards her in the opposite direction. Unable to turn round, filled with road rage fuelled by frustration, Helen thumped her fist angrily on the steering wheel, sounding the horn. Just as she was about to pick up the phone and dial 999, the car in front of her edged forward.

Her mind was in a quandary:

Should I stay or should I go?

Helen went. Three red lights, twenty minutes later, she arrived outside Sian’s apartment block. She clapped her sticky mitt over her forehead, staring in disbelief. The block had a common entrance, secured door, entry phone. Helen Carswell-Jones stamped her foot on the accelerator pedal, stalling the engine.

Why didn’t I remember that?

Unless her luck changed very quickly, she would have to call Sian to enter the building. Assuming Sian was even conscious.

Helen climbed out of the Mini, slammed the door, and rushed up to the entry phones, selecting: Flat 5 – Braker

She held the button down for a full five minutes.

Sian didn’t answer.

*****

Roleplay. Martin had engaged in roleplay for clients before as part of their erotic fantasies. But this was the first time that he’d ever performed the role of a woman’s dead husband. He found the prospect strangely daunting, detecting a change in Angie who had shaken off her pre-sex jitters, becoming more strident, more dominant. Martin suspected she had a plan, a screenplay, for him, her performing sealion, her captive puppet-on-a-string, to act out. He wasn’t far wrong.

‘How would you like me to act, to talk to you, Angie?’ he asked, gently massaging her shoulders.

She smiled for the first time. The smile lit up her face, ‘I’ll help you, Michael. Listen to me, carefully. Listen to what I say, what I tell you to do. Pretend you have just come home late after a long, gruelling day at the office. You find me waiting for you in our bedroom, getting undressed for bed. You love to watch me undress. You love me to wear satin for you. I dress in my silky satin slip for you. Pretend for me, please? Then you can let your imagination run wild. Is that any help?’

Martin swallowed hard, ‘I think so.’

Angie reached behind her back, unclipping her bra, ‘One more thing. Call me Angela, Michael. My husband always used to call me Angela when we made love.’

Made love. Such an old-fashioned expression. We’re about to fuck, and she wants me to make love to her, as her dead husband, he mused.

He remembered her five-hundred-pound payment, the cost of hiring the lover’s suite for the night, the cost of Moet & Chandon, his train tickets. Sian, awaiting his return, none the wiser. What would she do to him, to herself if she ever found out? The consequences of his infidelity, his fake life, didn’t bear thinking about. Martin re-focussed, checking his watch. If he got his skates on, he might just catch the 16:43 back to Paddington. He could be home with Sian by eight, pretending he’d had another tiresome day, selling financial investment proposals to recently bereaved widows. He heard Angie’s refined voice, articulating in the background. She hadn’t paid yet.

‘Shall we make a start?’

She had his full, undivided attention. He held her slender waist, ‘Yes, where do we begin?’

His client was sweating profusely. She commenced, ‘You’re home late tonight, darling.’

‘I had a hard day at the office, Angie.’

‘No, not Angie,’ she chided, ‘Angela.’

Martin removed his hands from her midriff realizing that he shouldn’t be touching her there yet, ‘Sorry, I meant Angela.’

She unclipped her bra, ‘There’s no need to apologize. Being so in love means never having to say sorry to each other, doesn’t it?’

He nodded his understanding, as the truth finally dawned on him: this fantasy, this roleplay of hers, isn’t just make-believe. This is for real! She thinks I’m him!

He watched dry-mouthed in the mirror as she casually slipped the bra straps over her shoulders, let the straps hang off her elbows, easing the cups off her breasts. She let her bra fall on the carpet, reaching for him, wanting him to touch her. He gasped at the sight of her buoyant, busty, buxom, breasts, her round cherry red nipples, speckled with sweat. She craned her head. They kissed, deeply, pausing for breath.

She spoke, her voice was hushed, ‘You can rub my breasts, if you like, Michael. Would you like to rub my breasts?’

He cupped her breasts in his hands, loving the feeling of the soft undersides, her sore bra weals, kneading her rounded, doughy breasts, flicking, rubbing her nipples, until her teats stood erect.

‘Love that, don’t you? Love it when you rub my breasts. I love you, Michael. Do you love me?’

He gulped, lost for words: he’d never felt, touched, caressed, loved, a woman like this before – a mature woman like Angie. Her allure erased Sian from his mind, obliterating her completely. After several tense silent moments her gigolo found his voice hissing the fatal words in her ear, his voice slurred, dreamy, happy, held in a magic trance, her trance.

‘I do, Angela, I love you so much, I worship the ground you walk on.’

The sad truth was he really meant it.

*****

Getting the shakes. Struggling to control myself. Angry, feel angry. Frustrated. How long do I have to wait…

Not much longer, darlin, Sian’s subliminal voice reassured her, Now have you remembered everythin’?

Amber Slick steadied herself, pressing the flat of her hand, feeling the vintage mural wallpaper. She surveyed the corridor, the ornate passageway to their luxurious love-nest. Lucky them.

She felt the hatred boil up inside her, threatening to spew out of her face like hot bloody vomit. Clenching her fists, she brought her deadly rage under control. The lift lobby was empty, there was no-one coming,

Thank God! she sighed, inside her warped mind, can’t catch me, can you? Ha! Wait a minute…

One of four sets of lift lights changed, a red light moved: basement, ground floor, first floor…

Amber held her breath…

…second, third, fourth…

She sagged at the knees crouching like a leopard poised, ready to pounce on her unsuspecting prey, then checked the bucket bag wedged between her knees. Still there. Her lethal weapons were still there. Relieved, content to wait, Amber shut her eyes, swimming in an imaginary tide of blood, her black dress clinging to her body as she turned scarlet, puce, crimson, purpled with pent up rage, to Sian, for comfort.

Nearly there, darlin,’ nearly there, shut your eyes, Amber, shut your eyes an’ I’ll take you there.

*****

Helen reasoned, since the summer holidays had just begun and she knew from Sian that several of the apartments were occupied by wealthy students, there was a good chance that some of them might still be in bed, sleeping off the excess of the night before.

She pressed: Flat 6: Smart, there was no reply.

She pressed: Flat 4: Gelding and struck it lucky.

A knackered voice replied, ‘Hello?’

‘Please help me. I need to see Sian Braker in Flat 5 urgently. My name’s Helen,’ she explained, ‘I’m her best friend. Please let me in!’

The voice sounded agitated, ‘I know who Sian is. She lives next door with the weird guy. Martin, I think his name is. Not that he’s ever here. Anyway,’ he asserted, ‘how do I know you’re who you say you are? How do I know you’re not the crank?’

‘Sorry, I don’t understand. What crank?’

‘Sian’s being stalked by some mad woman. Stands in the car park most days, staring at her flat. Funny, haven’t seen her today. Must be having a day off.’

‘Stalked! By a woman?!’

‘You heard,’ the young male voice faded, ‘If you don’t mind I need to snatch some sleep.’

Helen shouted, ‘Wait! Sian told me she’s taken a bottle of sleeping tablets. She needs urgent medical assistance!’

She heard the click of the door, a sudden alarm in the young man’s speech, ‘Come to the first floor. Meet me by the lift. I have a key. To her flat.’

Helen couldn’t believe her luck had changed, ‘A key?’

‘Yeah, Sian’s always losing hers. Asked me to keep a spare. Come up.’

He was waiting for her in the lift lobby, the most beautiful young man she had ever seen. Wild staring eyes, scruff of teak hair, fat cracked strawberry lips, a long melonic face smattered with freckles, black tee-shirt, boxer shorts. A little bit old for her liking, student, eighteen, nineteen? Still, on another occasion. She shook the wicked thoughts from her mind, tried to take his hand.

‘Helen,’ she said, pleasantly.

‘Tom. Come on!’

He hurled open the lobby doors, sprinting down the corridor, closely followed by Helen. Sian’s flat was at the far end of the corridor. There was a sisal doormat outside that read: Step Inside, Love

Helen felt sick, had no desire at all to go inside, dreading what she would find. Tom unlocked the door. They entered Sian’s flat to find her lying sprawled on the bedroom carpet clutching an empty phial. Tom closed his eyes out of respect for her – the young woman was naked – he knelt beside her, feeling her neck, struggling to find her pulse. Helen rued her best friend. She was barely breathing.

‘Cover her with the duvet,’ Tom yelled, ‘We must keep her warm. Are you trained in first aid?’

Helen shook her head, pulling the duvet off the crumpled bed, covering Sian to keep her warm, ‘I’m sorry, Tom, I’m not.’

‘Me neither,’ he mumbled, standing, remembering the phone in the hall. He left Helen to watch over her stricken friend, ‘I’m calling an ambulance. Stay with her, Helen. Stay with her.’

‘Is she going to be alright?’ she asked out of desperation.

Tom looked away. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her the shocking truth.

*****

He moulded his body round hers freeing her, releasing pent-up inhibitions, mournful grief. Languishing under his forceful pressure, relishing the rub of his cusps of muscle against her back, the divine sensation of his proud flesh: erect, turgid, pressed into the crevice between her fleshy buttocks, she relented, capitulating. Angie lost control, gasping as he kneaded her breasts. She reached behind her, and drew his hungry mouth to hers, kissing-him-some-more. She covered his hands with hers, sliding his palms over her tummy, pausing to explore her deep navel, her pearl charm, her neatly concealed belly button, his rough hands, caressing her belly as she slipped his fingers inside her satin briefs. She tantalised him, allowing him to fondle her soft, hairy mound.

‘Pull down my pants,’ she croaked, her voice hoarse, husky with sex.

Martin obliged her, stripping Angie’s satin briefs off as far as her knees. Mesmerized by her explicit nudity, her daring, final exposure in the mirror, he let her go. She dropped her pants, stepped aside, reaching for her bag, breathing sharply, struggling to speak, she was so aroused.

‘Fetch the chair, Michael. Sit facing the mirror. Close your eyes. And wait.’

Angie went to the bathroom. Martin fetched the padded chair. Sat, shut his eyes, and waited…

‘You can open your eyes now.’

He opened his eyes. Angie knelt between him and the mirror, sipping a glass of red wine. She’d applied fresh lipstick, make-up, he noticed: a bold slash of blusher, primal warpaint scarred her cheeks. She downed her glass of wine, and moved in, closer. Angie reeked of statement-making sexy perfume. Martin had only smelled it once before, at an exclusive perfumery in Paris. The unmistakable fragrance of chocolates, red berries, with caramel: Angel, the twenty-three-year-old cult fragrance by Thierry Mugler, the sexiest scent in the world. He was impressed. Her sharp aroma, her irresistible masque, her satin fetish panties, took his breath away. Overcome with pride for her, he wanted to fuck her, hard,

Angie. Angela. Angel. My Angel. My Angela. My Angie.

‘Well, Michael?’ she asked, posing for him with one hand on her hip, ‘Will I do?’

She was wearing single chain diamond dangle earrings that accentuated her tired face, gilding her swan neck. She stroked the base of her throat with her wrinkly fingers. Her lips were sealed. Her eyes shone with tears. For one sacred moment, he was lost for words. His heart went out to her.

‘You look beautiful, Angie, just beautiful.’

She sat on his lap, facing him, her arms wrapped around his neck, kissing him. With just one secret left to share, she showed him her intimate tattoo.

He protested, ‘Angie, I’m not wearing a…’

She pressed her fingertips to his lips, ‘It’s alright. I’ve had my menopause.’

They kissed-some-more. She impaled herself on him hungrily, feeding him inside her lubricious cleft, sliding up and down his slippery shaft. He bore her body weight, grasping her small buttocks, stimulating her naughtily with his stubby middle finger. She shuddered at his intervention, writhing in ecstasy on his glorious spear, cupping her breasts, forcing her stiff nipples between his dry lips, suckling the baby she couldn’t birth. They ascended, flashing pinpricks of light, glowing scarlet fireflies pervading their ruptured minds. They bonded, their bodies melded, locked-together-tight, they gripped, clawed, clenched, tore, and fought each other.

Soaring to her climax, she screamed out loud, ‘Miss you, Michael! Love you!’

Spent, shattered, a tarnished doll, she flopped against Martin’s slumped body, whispering softly, lovingly,

‘Do you love me, Michael? Please tell me you do.’

‘Yes, I love you, Angela, very much,’ he groaned.

Tenderly, she slipped him out of her, kissed him on the forehead, and stood.

‘You made me all sticky, darling. I think I need a shower.’

He smiled, genuinely happy, truly content for the first time in his life, ‘I think you do!’

He shut his bleary eyes, fell asleep, dreaming of her, the craving love she just made to him.

Angie said a fond, ‘Goodbye Michael’ – under her breath.

She gathered her clothes, grabbed her bag, spread five hundred pounds over the bed, had a shower, dried herself, did her hair, put on some fresh make-up, got dressed, then left him, slumped on the chair.

*****

His routine was always the same. Martin met his client in the bar, went to the room, had paid sex with her, kissed her goodbye, then, exhausted, he took a rest. Later, he would bathe, shower, and sanitize, removing all traces of her sediment from his body, dress in fresh clothes, take the early evening train to London.

Angie, still red-faced, feeling ashamed of herself, was in a hurry to leave. Unaware of the threat posed by the crippled woman, she passed Slick in the lift lobby. Slick followed her to the dingy, oily, smelly, underground garage where she attacked her from behind. She strangled her victim gracefully, silently, drawing the garotte tightly round her neck. The woman thrashed her head from side to side. Her brittle nails tore out her assailant’s hair. Her elbows pummelled her ribs. The victim strained and stretched, kicked, and bit. But Slick clung on. Until her death. Calmed, the woman relaxed onto Amber’s flat chest. Angie fell asleep one last time dreaming of the time when a gigolo made love to her, pretending to be her dead husband. Her neck still in twine, her sad head flopped forward, her dead eyes rolling up, staring into empty garage space.

Amber carefully unwound the sacrificial wire, with its carved acorn handles, from the corpse’s neck, as if she were peeling nylon sea fishing line off a reel-spool, stowing it in her bucket bag. She locked Angie’s corpse into its new 4×4 jeep casually dropping the keys down a storm drain, left the garage, and took the staff lift to the first floor.

Martin stirred from his slumber thinking of her, playing out her fantasy. How she’d left him asleep, left his fee on the bed, then bolted like a frightened deer. He wasn’t surprised. No matter how promising their intentions, clients never stayed long once their sex was over. And yet, she found a kind of love with him. He felt sorry for her, more than sorrow he felt he loved her. He reflected forlornly on their brief encounter.

At least, he made her happy.

He heard a gentle knocking on the door, the charming, feminine, squeaking of a stalking bird.

‘Room Service.’

He stared at the bottle of champagne lying unopened in the wine cooler. Her empty glass, the crimson stain on the carpet. He didn’t recall ordering food. He eyed the door, recalling the Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the doorknob outside.

‘Room Service,’ the high-pitched voice repeated, ‘Fresh supply, coffee, tea, milk, biscuits for your bedroom.’

Martin checked the beverage tray on the sideboard. It hadn’t been touched.

He shrugged his shoulders, ‘Just a minute.’

He went to the wardrobe, took out his fluffy white gown, put it on, tied the cord at his waist

… and opened the door,

‘No! Please! No!’

Martin Braker put up his fists, boxer-style, in a vain bid to defend himself.

Slick was insane. She went berserk. She swung the meat cleaver at him with all her might, slicing a deep red gash in the man’s forearm. Horrified by the sight of his blood soaking the white gown red, he recoiled, collapsing, falling to his knees in prayer, praying for his life. Slick swung the cleaver, slicing into his neck, again and again and again. He keeled over and toppled forward.

His final act was to kiss a cripple’s feet.