Asking For Trouble (23 page)

‘Christ,’ he said through set teeth. ‘Can’t you just keep your distance? Wasn’t that the deal we had? A game. A stupid, meaningless fucking little game. And we – you,
you
– you thought you could handle it and you can’t. You’re always crowding me. You think I owe you something and I don’t. I fucking don’t. Just like you don’t owe me. It’s –’

‘But at least I give something,’ I argued, nervously backing away. ‘I don’t put up some great big barrier. I tell you stuff about me, about what I do . . . what I think of –’

‘Well maybe you shouldn’t,’ he snarled, fury etching a groove between his dark brows. ‘Because maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe I’m not that interested. Can you get your head round that? That I’m not interested in you – in who you are deep down inside and what goes on in
that pretty little head. I’m interested in your cunt. Nothing else. It’s a game. It’s about fucking each other. That’s all we are. That’s all we amount to – just a few cheap fucks. Got that?’

‘Jesus,’ I murmured in shock. ‘You are one vicious bastard.’

Ilya stood still, glowering at me. I struggled to stay calm under the fire of his stare but inside I was a riot of emotions: fear, anger, but more than anything a hurt so sore it made my eyes brim with tears. Surely I meant more to him than that? Surely he could not think that what we had together was so callously hollow and worthless?

Ilya swept a hand back over his shorn head then, in a poisonous little whisper, he said: ‘You stupid bitch.’

Hot resentment bristled up inside me, overtaking all my pain.

‘Oh, fuck you,’ I spat, and I made a move to leave.

Ilya took a step to block the door. I drew up short.

We stood several feet apart, motionless, like two angry cats trying to psych each other out.

Then with a quick jerk of his elbow, Ilya began unfastening his belt.

I made a noise of incredulity as the leather hissed through the loops. Was he going to try and thrash me?

But no. Ilya slung the belt to the floor.

‘Get your jeans down, Beth,’ he said steadily. He turned to unroll a blind over the half-windowed door, unbuttoning his flies at the same time.

‘No fucking way,’ I replied.

‘Do it, Beth,’ he barked, turning back to me.

His jeans were open and his fingers were curled round his semi-erect cock. He moved towards me, pulling gently on his length to make himself harder. Of course he wasn’t going to thrash me: not his style. He wanted to fuck. That was ten times as disturbing, especially since he was having to get the blood flow going to do it.

‘C’mon,’ he urged.

‘No way,’ I repeated, inching backward, my hands groping in search of the desk behind.

Ilya scared me. I didn’t like his sour cruelty or his simmering rage; I didn’t like the scornful spark in his eyes. I wanted out.

‘What’s the problem?’ he taunted, his fist still sliding on his now-swollen cock. ‘It’s not like you to turn your nose up when a guy’s got his dick out. Look at me, Beth. I’m rock hard. Isn’t your cunt dripping at the sight? Aren’t your knickers getting hot and wet?’

‘No,’ I said, my voice all quivery. I fumbled for the desk-edge, needing support. Ilya came closer, a malicious little sneer turning up one corner of his mouth.

‘Get your jeans down and lean over that desk,’ he ordered.

I drew a tremulous breath. ‘Or else?’ I said quietly.

‘Or else I’ll fucking well force you,’ he said, flashing a triumphant smile.

I shook my head, my heart beating crazily. ‘I’m serious, Ilya,’ I said. ‘I want to leave now. I’m not faking. I’m not playing –’

‘But we’re always playing,’ he smirked. ‘That’s all we’ll ever do, right until the end, the final curtain. Play, play, play.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not now. This isn’t playing. You’re for real because you’re sick. You’re a cold, twisted bastard and you’re scaring me. And I’m for real because I’m scared. I want to leave.’

He carried on pumping his cock. ‘Are you saying no?’ he asked. ‘Are you saying, no, you don’t want me to fuck you?’

‘Yes,’ I breathed. ‘I am.’

‘And are you saying no, you don’t want me to force you?’

I nodded.

‘And how do you spell this no of yours?’ he gibed.
‘Does it begin with the letter C? Followed by U and a couple of Ts and so on?’

I gazed at him in silent horror. All I was saying was no because emotions were running high and anyone could walk in on us. Surely he could appreciate that. But maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was too far gone with his strange, mad fury.

‘Well then,’ he said, when I didn’t reply. ‘This is all shaping up to be a pretty decent rape fantasy, isn’t it?’

My blood ran cold.

He was truly warped.

My hands, working of their own volition, crawled blindly over the desk, searching for a weapon. I wasn’t going to allow Ilya to pervert my refusal. He was damn well going to accept it. In the movies there would have been a great big ashtray on the desk, or a knife for slitting envelopes that could also slit throats. My right hand found the pot of pens.

‘Back off, will you?’ I said, aiming a bunch of biros and pencils at him.

‘What are you going to do?’ jeered Ilya. ‘Draw on me?’

‘No. I’m going to poke your fucking eyes out,’ I bit back.

Ilya laughed – a cruel, mocking laugh. I suddenly didn’t know if he was playing nasty or feeling nasty. But either way it didn’t matter because I had no taste for it.

Ilya didn’t come closer. It felt as if he were waiting for me to make a move, then he could pounce and overpower me. I wished I had the muscles that he had.

I struggled for a way out of the situation, wondering if the best thing would be to just drop my jeans and let him get on with it.

Plenty of people had done that before – obliging their lover when they’re not in the mood. I wouldn’t struggle; I wouldn’t show my genuine resistance because that would make it seem like some rape-fantasy scenario. I’d feign indifference, maybe pleasure, and invalidate it.

But no. I had a point to make. And the point was: it takes two to play out fantasies and right now I’m not playing, so that makes this one too damn real.

But then reality didn’t count for much in our cuttlefish game. The word no didn’t count. I couldn’t make my point – except maybe by quitting. And isn’t that what they call cutting off your nose to spite your face?

And supposing he threatened me with cuttlefish if I refused to drop my jeans, to struggle or whatever?

Oh God. My brain was scrambled. Maybe I should just knee him in the balls and run for it?

Ilya started to move in on me. I tensed, rigid with indecision and a fair amount of fear.

Then he grinned, suddenly throwing me into confusion by bobbing left and right, feinting like a boxer, until he pounced and hurled his full weight at me.

My pens clacked and tumbled and I screamed, staggering backward under the force of his launch. Ilya clamped a hand to my mouth.

‘Shut up,’ he hissed. ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up.’

The wall slammed up behind me and my head hit with a bump. I wriggled and flailed, protesting into his hot, damp hand, air huffing in and out of my nostrils, my nose stud hurting.

Ilya just crushed me hard against the wall, leaning into me with the whole of his body. I could feel his bared erect prick pressing a ridge near my belly. His fingers were yanking open my button-flies.

The most terrifying thing was the hand over my mouth, half covering my nostrils. I felt panicky because I couldn’t breathe properly. I wanted to suck in lungfuls of air. I wanted to breathe like a sprinter would breathe at the end of a race. I wanted to breathe like a drowning men splashing at the surface. I couldn’t get enough air.

I just wanted to breathe. And the more I battled against him, the more desperate I was for that air.

The overwhelming need threatened to turn me stupid.
I couldn’t think straight, but there was some part of my brain screaming for me to pay attention to it. ‘This isn’t fair,’ it kept saying. ‘Listen to me, Beth. This isn’t fair.’

Ilya was pulling wildly at my jeans, battling to get them down with one hand. He was struggling to do it because I was writhing against his body, clawing at his arm, frantic to prise that hand from my mouth.

‘Come on, Beth,’ he growled, panting slightly. ‘Dirty bitch. You know you want it.’

I felt his scrabbling fingers above my knickers, trying to push their way down.

My neck ached. My head couldn’t move except to swivel a bit against the wall behind. My muffled cries made the hand covering my mouth hotter and wetter.

Then it hit me: that smothering hand prevented me from speaking. Supposing I’d wanted to him to stop – so badly that I was prepared to say cuttlefish? Impossible. He was robbing me of my only means of escape. I was powerless – not because he was stronger, but because he wouldn’t let me speak.

The cheating bastard had taken me out of the game.

So I did what was only fair: I bit him. I managed to latch my teeth on to a finger and I clamped down, so hard and so strong that I felt his skin puncture and I tasted blood.

I heard him roar in pain; I felt him trying to wrench the flesh and boniness of his finger from my vicelike jaw. But I held on and, only when he stepped back, stopped crushing me with his weight, did I release him and spit out the blood.

He looked at me in amazement. ‘You fucking bitch,’ he rasped, clutching his injured hand in his good one. ‘You fucking . . . ah, shit . . .’ He waggled his hand. ‘You vicious little tiger.’

He made a move to retaliate but I was quick to dodge him. Gasping and heaving, I rushed for the door, but before I could reach it, someone burst into the room.

‘What the fuck is . . .’

A guy stood in the doorway. It was Pete – crude, boorish, lecherous Pete.

‘Well, well, well,’ He grinned. ‘If it isn’t the star of
Anal Virgin
. We meet again, eh, Beth?’

I fumbled to button up my flies, but my hands were shaking and all I could do was hold the flaps of denim together and stretch my T-shirt down.

‘Get out of my way,’ I said, heading for the door.

Pete moved to block my exit. ‘You don’t fancy staying?’ he mocked, nodding at my groin. ‘If Illie’s out of juice, I wouldn’t mind giving you another –’

I was about to lunge at him, fists flying, but Ilya’s voice – as cold and clear as ice water – slapped my rage into numbness.

‘Let her go, Pete,’ he said. ‘This is between me and Beth. She wants to leave, so let her.’

With a smile and a shrug, Pete stepped aside, and I bowled past him, rearranging my dishevelled clothes as I strode towards the big sunlit exit.

Jenny was leaning against the blue building at the end of the street and smoking in a pissed-off kind of way.

In the afternoon brightness, I felt slightly woozy and very hot. But it was a strange hot – not a sunshine hot; more a hot that felt as if my insides were melting and trying to ooze through my skin in their new liquid form.

‘Sorry, Jen,’ I said, trying to smile. ‘I got a bit side-tracked.’

Jenny huffed a sigh of acceptance, her scowl fading, then she looked at me quizzically.

‘You OK?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I lied.

‘You sure?’ she said, tapping her cigarette. ‘You look a bit hectic, that’s all. And you’re the wrong colour. Kind of greeny white. Doesn’t suit you.’

I felt the wrong colour. I felt as if vampires were at my
feet and my blood was being sucked downward. Something was catching up with me – fear, outrage, shock? – I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was all those things.

I leant against the wall.

‘You’re not OK, are you?’ said Jenny, gazing at me with a face full of concern and compassion and many years of friendship.

It made me want to cry.

I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m not OK. Do you fancy a drink or something? I really need to sit down.’

I’d peeled and shredded my way through two beermats and I was toying with a third.

The Heart in Hand was green, woody and tranquil. On the jukebox Aretha Franklin was saying a little prayer for me.

‘Then give him an ultimatum,’ said Jenny, lining up a cigarette paper with tobacco. ‘If you’re so against dumping him then get the biggest apology you’ve ever had in your life and tell him he’s got to come clean. Or you’ll say cuttlefish. Can you do that? Can you say cuttlefish to each other? I mean, when you want to talk about it in conversation and stuff? Or do you have to go, “the C-word”?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘We can say cuttlefish.’

‘So do that then,’ said Jenny, licking the edge of her Rizla.

‘But there’s no point.’ I shrugged, running a finger round the rim of my pint glass. ‘He might just tell me another pack of lies. Or he might tell me the truth and I might not know it’s the truth. Or he might say tough shit, none of your business, cuttlefish and goodbye.’

Jenny shook her head and took a long, irritated drag on her roll-up.

‘Besides, I’m not that bothered any more,’ I continued, lowering my voice even though there was no one sitting
near us. ‘So what if he’s got some dodgy scam going connected with knock-off antiques. I don’t care. Good luck to him. The point is he scares me sometimes. Like back then. I thought we understood we were playing out fantasies. But . . . I’m just not sure if he knows when to draw the line. The rape fantasy thing. I mean, if we’re going to do it, I’ve got to be up for it. And I wasn’t then. It wasn’t right. It was horrible. Like he wanted to, to punish me by fucking me and . . .’

I broke off, blinking back angry tears, and tapped the beermat hard on the table.

‘And he wouldn’t let me speak,’ I said in a choked voice. ‘The bastard wouldn’t let me speak.’

‘Hey,’ said Jenny in a soft, consoling tone. ‘Don’t get upset.’ She rubbed at my hand, giving my fingers a gentle squeeze. ‘He’s not worth the salt in that tear. He’s a heartless shit with a nasty temper. And he’s got some pretty unhealthy ideas about relationships and how to treat people. You need to take a step back and reassess. Get your head straight, Beth. Or, like I said, finish it now.’

I dashed my hand across my cheek and turned aside, staring at a stained-glass window and trying not to cry.