Eighty Days Red (9 page)

In dreams came confusion.

Not helped by the sharp onset of a strong migraine which suddenly flared up with little warning, the tale LaValle had unfolded and the automatic reflux of memories of Summer, Dominik’s night turned into a complicated jumble of emotions and irrational images.

He saw Summer as Angelique. In old-fashioned clothes he had never seen her wear before, images conjured up by old movies in the style of
Gone with the Wind
and Merchant Ivory. She wore a white crinoline dress, tight at the waist, and what looked like a bustier beneath compressing her breasts, squeezing them upwards to give the impression she was more ample than she actually was. She was sashaying across the newly mown grass of the Heath in her finery, and through the walls of sleep, Dominik could even smell the distinctive odour of cut grass. His vision cut to the clearing and the empty bandstand under a sky of pure blue, with the white stain of Summer in Angelique’s dress ascending the stone steps. He stood a hundred yards away, an invisible spectator, rooted to the spot and unable to move.

A black violin case lay across a velvet-covered piano stool at the centre of the stand. In his dream, Summer as Angelique ran towards the violin, but out of a curtain of darkness, two men appeared to halt her progress, shielding her, blocking her way. They were dressed all in black. One had a moustache, the other a scar. Melodramatic operetta villains ticking all the clichés in the book.

Summer screamed, but Dominik, locked in a shell of silence, trying desperately to run towards the bandstand, to Summer, could not protect her.
One of the men slapped her, the other violently tore the top of her dress away from her body, releasing Summer’s breasts, proud and fragile, her dark nipples emerging from the corset in which they were sheathed. It must have been a cold morning as even from where he stood, Dominik could see the goosebumps spreading across her bared skin.
The other man picked up the violin case and handed the Bailly to Summer. Her body shook with tears as she slowly brought the instrument to her chin, straightened, and adjusted its position. As she began to play, the first man, the one with the Mexican moustache, conjured a sharp knife seemingly out of nowhere and quickly slashed the dress at the waist, leaving Summer naked but for period white stockings attached to a similarly white garter belt that encircled her thin waist.
Under the gaze of her captors, she began to play.
Even though the dream was silent, Dominik imagined the music rising from her fingers and the dark orange wood of the instrument, flowing downwards like rivulets of rain, dancing, coming alive, floating upwards in minuscule cloud formations until it formed a halo above the bandstand, a rainbow of sounds that spread like a blanket over Hampstead, and then all of London.
In his sleep, the vision of Summer, now naked apart from the white garter belt and stockings, the forest fire of her pubic hair raging in the pale landscape of her body, and playing her Bailly with her eyes closed, lost to the silence of the music, made Dominik hard. He moved his hand down to his cock to verify his arousal. As if in response, the men on either side of Summer on the bandstand unzipped their own trousers and moved towards her, malicious intent dancing in their eyes.
Dominik wanted to rush towards her, to help, but in an instant the whole scene disappeared before his eyes and he was back in his bed, eyes wide open, awake. The collar of the T-shirt he had been sleeping in was damp with sweat.
It was a dream. Or a nightmare. Dominik took a sip from the glass of water by the bed. It was three in the morning and in the darkness of his room, visions of Summer, pursued by men, lost, alone and violated, her precious violin smashed to pieces on the ground, filled his mind.

Dominik and Lauralynn were sipping coffee at the kitchen table.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked him.
‘Yes, why shouldn’t I be?’
‘I thought you had company last night. You were rather noisy.’
‘Was I?’
‘I swear I once heard you scream,’ Lauralynn said. ‘It certainly woke me up. I had to restrain

myself from coming upstairs to check your bedroom.’
‘No, I was alone, probably just some nightmare.’
‘You were damn loud …’
‘Sorry.’
‘I must say you also look a bit rough this morning.’
‘Just slept badly. Still suffering from a bad migraine.’
‘Poor you,’ Lauralynn deadpanned.
‘Thanks for the sympathy.’
‘My pleasure.’

Lauralynn emptied her cup, went for a refill, then walked with it upstairs to the room she had made her own, leaving Dominik on his own, a prey to reminiscences and a terrible feeling of foreboding.

He had mentioned to LaValle that he was not superstitious, but what remained in the dark corners of his mind of the bad dreams, and the images that had followed in their wake, now left him anxious. About Summer and the violin. Curses were something that happened in books, not in real life, surely.

But what if something were to happen to her? He knew he would feel responsible and wouldn’t be able to live with it.
Should he warn her?
Contact her again after all this time? Disrupt her life?
He heard Lauralynn’s phone ring in the distance. Her ringtone was a thumping piece of disco music so much at odds with her restrained cello playing. He tried to remember whether she was working today or would be hanging around the house. He felt like company.
He moved to his top floor study to check out the notes he had jotted down yesterday following his meeting with the instrument dealer. He wouldn’t be able to use the story of Angelique, the Bailly violin, wholesale in his novel. He would have to embroider it, gather in a lot of historical details and weave an interesting set of characters around its story. But he knew it could certainly form the basis, the skeleton of a book. He enjoyed research and was aware that a lot would be required if he tackled a variety of periods, but that was also a challenge he would relish.
The one thing he would have to be careful about was to avoid any characters too similar to Elena, who had been Summer’s recognisable counterpart in his Paris novel.
As much as he would have wanted to do so.
Writing about her was not only a form of exorcism but a way to keep her alive in his mind. Her flame, her features, her skin, her smell, memories he couldn’t just let go. Even if it was all tinged with pain.
He sighed, shuffled the sheets of paper and pulled the laptop closer. He created a new document, his fingers hovering over the keyboard as he tried to come up with an appropriate title for the folder.
He was typing away half an hour later, now oblivious to the rest of the world, when he heard the tap-tap at his study door. It was open, but Lauralynn was being considerate.
‘Dominik?’
‘Yes, what is it?’ He looked up sharply.
‘I didn’t want to disturb you. It’s just that something has come up.’
He pushed his chair back. ‘What?’
‘I just had a call,’ Lauralynn said. ‘It’s my brother …’
‘The soldier?’
His stomach tightened. After yesterday’s violin stories, nothing would have come as a surprise today. But then he knew Lauralynn and her family had nothing to do with the Angelique. Coincidences only go that far.
‘Yes, he’s been wounded. It’s not too bad. He might lose a finger, but they’ve saved his hand. A roadside bomb in Afghanistan.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Dominik stood and moved over to her.
‘One of my aunts rang. She’s with him at the veterans’ hospital, where he was repatriated to. It’s in Virginia. I even managed to speak to him briefly, as she was by his bed. He’s in good spirits.’
‘That must be a relief.’
‘It is.’ Lauralynn moved further into the room and leaned against the desk. ‘Anyway, I think it would be best if I went back to the States for a short while. He’s the only close family I have, after all.’
‘I understand, completely. Is there anything I can do?’
‘No, not really. I’ve managed to book a flight for tomorrow. I’m leaving the return date open. Might stay a few weeks.’
‘You’ll always be welcome back. I won’t install anybody else in the spare bedroom. I promise.’ He attempted a smile.
‘It’s an early flight from Heathrow. Can you give me a lift?’ Lauralynn asked.
‘Of course. It’s the least I can do.’
‘Thanks. You’re a good friend. I’ll find a way to repay you … Other than with money, of course.’ Her eyes sparkled, ever so full of undisguised guile.
‘I’m sure you will.’
She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
‘I have to rush into town now and cancel some of my sessions and see if the guys in the quartet can manage without me for a while. We don’t have any gigs in the near future so it should be OK.’
‘We’ll all be waiting for you when you get back,’ Dominik said, already thinking about how it would feel being alone in the house again.
It wasn’t a prospect he was looking forward to.

5
A Bitter Knife

I felt as though everyone in the room knew my secret. Viggo, Fran, Chris. And perhaps they would, if Luba chose to mention it, but she broke away from my gaze and continued with her dance, slowly moving back into stillness until the spotlight disappeared and the fountain was plunged into darkness and Luba with it.

‘Wow,’ Fran said. ‘Maybe I’m not as straight as I thought I was. That was pretty hot.’

I waited for Viggo to say something, expecting that he would invite me to follow her with a recital of some sort, but he had his back to us and was already mixing elaborate cocktails at an extensive bar that ran almost the entire length of the room.

‘Chris,’ I asked, ‘have you seen my violin? Did the runners bring it?’
‘Yeah, I think I saw one of the roadies fit it in the back of the van. And they’re more careful with instruments than they would be with infants. It will be with all of our other gear at the studio. Don’t worry.’
‘I just feel so strange without it by my side. Naked. Like wearing shoes with no socks on.’
‘Just when I was about to accuse you of being melodramatic, you ruin it with an image like that,’ Chris teased.
‘And I didn’t even need to bring it.’
I was beginning to feel a little lonesome without the company of the Bailly. Playing the electric one I had been handed had felt a bit rough, hadn’t been the same. The sound almost mechanical, lacking warmth. Maybe I would give Susan a call and see if she could organise some gigs in London. I couldn’t lie low for ever.
‘We were going to bring it out for you to play, that’s why I asked you to bring it along. But it was a stupid idea. The sound would have been totally lost in the mix, so we dug out the electric instead. You were great though, you know. You should play with us more often.’
‘Well, I guess it would give me something to do.’
I glanced over at Fran, who was lying back on a black chaise longue with claws for feet and an arm roll in the shape of a panther’s head, deep in conversation with The Holy Criminals’ drummer, Dagur, who sat opposite her. He wasn’t as popular with the female fans as Viggo, but he had a certain worldliness about him and an intense stare that seemed to have captivated my sister.
Chris sighed. I’d noticed his interest in Fran and their instant spark from the moment I introduced them, but I wasn’t sure yet how I felt about it. My best friend and my sister.
‘Chin up,’ I said to him. ‘There’s always Luba.’
‘Luba?’ he asked, confused.
‘The dancer,’ I replied casually, realising my mistake instantly.
‘How did you know her name?’
I tried to feign nonchalance, kicking myself for letting it slip.
As if by magic, Luba appeared in the doorway behind us.
‘We met very briefly in New York,’ she said to Chris, in a tone as soft and soothing as a lullaby, her accent a purr. ‘I attended one of her concerts. I’m flattered that you remembered me,’ she said, giving me a warm smile. ‘Especially in such a different costume.’
She had changed into a flowing black gown which was made of such thin material, she may as well have remained nude. Somehow, though, she looked sexier half clothed, with the fabric drawing attention to the subtle curve of her breasts and hips. She was uncommonly graceful, more like a swan than a human being. She sat down on the couch next to me, and crossed her legs at the ankle. Her hair was so blond it was closer to white, and she had light-blue eyes that were almost grey. Her eyebrows were so pale and delicate they were practically invisible, giving her face a slightly alien appearance, though she was by no means unattractive.
‘I’m Luba,’ she said to Chris, leaning over me to shake his hand.
‘Chris,’ he replied.
‘Oh sorry,’ I said. ‘I forgot to introduce you.’
Her skin brushed against mine as she brought her arm back to her side.
Women like Luba didn’t usually arouse me in the same way that men did. My predilections, as a general rule, lay firmly in favour of testosterone. I liked height, body hair and muscles, and if I had been inclined to experiment, I had thought that a butch, dyke-styled girl would be more my type. Lauralynn, the tall blonde who had played the cello in Dominik’s string quartet the night we first had sex, after I performed naked for him in the crypt he had hired for the occasion, had been the exception. She and I had nearly had a bit of a fling, or so I imagined. She was a domme, and dominant folk of either gender were always likely to push my buttons.
Luba did not appear to be a dominatrix, per se, but she had a quality about her which made my skin tingle and my blood pump faster. I felt hot and light-headed.
Chris did not seem to be suffering from the same effect. He was beginning to look bored, and headed over to the bar where Viggo was still flamboyantly mixing drinks.
Luba leaned in close, lifting my hair up so that she could whisper in my ear.
Goosebumps rose on my arms in response to her nearness.
‘Your secret is safe with me,’ she said.
‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’
‘I do ask for one thing in exchange though,’ she continued.
‘Yes?’
‘I want to hear the story, about how you ended up in a place like that. And the man you were with.’
She was referring to the villa in New Orleans, where I had danced naked for Dominik in the early hours of New Year’s Day, after Luba had performed at the same venue professionally.
‘Dominik?’
‘I suppose so, if that’s his name.’
She smiled at me, baring a set of white teeth. Two of her incisors were slightly pointed, like a pair of very gentle fangs. I wanted to feel them scratching against my skin.
‘Did he ask you to dance for him?’ she continued.
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘though “instructed” would be closer to the truth.’ I shifted in my seat, searching for a way to redirect the conversation. It wasn’t something I felt comfortable talking about, but neither did I want to move away from Luba.
Viggo appeared between us, holding a mojito in each hand.
‘I see you’ve met my pet,’ he said to me, handing me a drink. He’d gone all out, decorating the rim with brown sugar and a wedge of lime. It was so full of crushed ice that there was no room for it to chink, and the glass was so cold it was almost painful to hold. I immediately thought of Dominik, and how much he hated ice in his Coke.
Luba made a strange growling noise in the back of her throat, and nuzzled her head against Viggo’s leg.
She did have a certain animal energy about her, from the way that she moved down to the way that she spoke, in a soft purr. Her movements were sometimes birdlike, and other times feline.
‘Have you seen my Bailly?’ I asked him, suddenly. Thinking of Dominik immediately brought the violin to my mind.
‘Your violin?’
I nodded.
‘I think the roadies were looking after it earlier.’ He was scratching Luba’s chin as if he was petting a cat. She had her eyes closed and was smiling with pleasure. ‘It’ll be in my studio, don’t fret. With all the other gear. I can lend you one if you want to play something; I have all sorts of spare instruments in the basement.’
‘No, it’s OK, I just miss having it in my hands. I usually carry it around myself. Even to my own gigs. For some reason I don’t like it to be out of my sight.’
‘That’s very sweet,’ he replied.
‘Luba?’ he said, his intonation a question.
She growled in response.
‘Would you find Eric and check that Summer’s violin went in with the other stuff?’
She nodded, uncurled herself from his leg and disappeared to find the road manager who had been in charge of moving all the equipment.
‘Thank you,’ I said to him, feeling foolish and unduly paranoid.
‘Don’t thank me,’ he replied, leaning in towards me. ‘I just wanted to get rid of her.’
He brushed his fingers gently up the base of my neck and into my hair, wrapping them tightly in my curls, and pulled me against him. His lips tasted of sugared lime, from sampling the mojitos. He ran one hand slowly up my skirt, searching for the waistband of my tights. My body responded immediately, coursed with a searing pleasure that soaked me with desire as his hand moved higher.
I pulled away. ‘Not in front of my sister,’ I hissed, though she looked happy as a pig in mud, wedged between Chris and Dagur who were both vying for her attention. Fran could certainly look after herself, and I knew that Chris would watch her like a hawk if I was to disappear. Ella and Ted seemed to have just about passed out already – they were both sprawled on a faux animal skin rug staring up at the ceiling, which was decorated with luminous stars and planets like a miniature solar system.
‘Oh, what a shame,’ he whispered into my ear, ‘just as I was hoping you were kinky.’
He stood up quickly and took my hand, pulling me up with him and out the door, up another set of stairs to an entire floor which seemed to be just his bedroom. The bed was the size of four beds pressed together, and the whole room was decorated in white, from floor to ceiling and everything in between, including the paintings on the wall which appeared to be just blank canvases. It was like walking into a dream.
Viggo’s black jeans and hair clashed awkwardly with the pale colour scheme. His body stood out starkly against the furnishings.
He turned to face me and held my chin in both of his hands, then tugged my hair back until I moaned.
‘You like that, don’t you?’ he asked, pulling until my scalp began to tingle pleasantly. ‘Yes,’ I whispered.
‘Good,’ he said, pushing me up against the wall, his hand under my skirt again. ‘Stockings are much easier for this,’ he said.
‘It’s too cold,’ I protested.
‘Not when I’m with you, it won’t be. Stay there.’
He stepped back a couple of paces and rolled open the bedside drawer, picking up a small object in the palm of his hand. A condom, I figured.
Then he returned to me and bent his face close to mine so his lips brushed against my ear. He exhaled deeply, his hot breath soft as a feather against my skin. ‘Don’t be afraid, OK?’ he said. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
A knot of worry twisted inside my chest, then relaxed again.
He opened his palm to display a small ivory pocket knife. The blade appeared with a flick of his wrist. It glinted prettily in the light of the nearby table lamp.
Fear bubbled up inside me, and I prepared to scream, or run for the door.
‘Shhh,’ he said, running his finger over my lips.
My heart thudded inside my chest, but I felt locked to the wall, imprisoned by my own desire to find out what he was going to do next. Perhaps I was a fool to trust him, but nonetheless I did. He was eccentric, a bit of a bad boy, but not dangerous.
He crouched down and ran the tip of the knife blade up my legs, from my ankle to the gusset of my tights. Then he pressed the tip against the fabric a little harder, just enough to create a small tear, without damaging the skin underneath. A small voice in the back of my head wondered how it would feel if he pressed harder, if he left a mark, a scratch, or even drew blood. I had a vision of my inner thighs, the skin pale, soft, pure, but for two long shallow cuts, one running down the centre of each leg, a red stripe that would throb for days but send endorphins rushing to my brain along with pain.
Another part of my mind recoiled in horror at the images rolling out in my mind but despite that, my underwear was damp.
Viggo pushed a finger into the hole to increase the size of the tear, and then took hold of the fabric of my tights with both hands and pulled viciously, ripping a hole that exposed my underwear and the tops of my thighs. I flinched. He pulled my panties to the side and ran the flat of the blade very delicately over my wet lips.
The touch of the knife was like a metallic kiss, cold and solid. My pulse was beating so fast I felt almost faint, in a heady mixture of terror and lust. It was like being on a theme park ride, that combination of fright, thrill and adrenalin making me feel as though my heart was pumping in my fingertips.
I heard a faint swish, as he flicked the blade back into place, and then the cold sensation again as he inserted the body of the knife inside me. I shivered and let out a low moan, but the handle was too small to do anything other than tease me. I needed more.
I buried my hands into his hair and shifted his head, pushing him closer between my legs.
‘Lick me,’ I said.
He complied, dropping the knife so it clattered to the floor and then moving his tongue against my clit in long, slow strokes. It was the first time I could recall that I’d actually told a man what I wanted of my own accord, without being made to beg, and the thrill of discovery gave me an even greater rush than the sensation that Viggo was producing with his mouth.
Though the pace he had chosen was steady, the rhythmic feeling of his tongue against me, slowly, calmly bringing me towards orgasm, was almost more than I could bear. Noticing my desire increase he pulled away playfully, making me wait, drawing it out.
I pulled him to his feet again and kissed him, deep and slow. He had extraordinarily soft lips which contrasted pleasantly with the scratch of his stubble. His tongue tangled with mine very gently. Viggo knew not to overdo a kiss. I took his bottom lip between my teeth and nipped.
‘Oh,’ he said, pulling his head away. ‘I like you a lot. Come to bed.’
He took my hand and led me over to the mattress then sat down on the edge and turned to face me, running his hands over my arms and shoulders and settling around my waist, closing his legs over mine like a vice.
‘Take your clothes off for me.’
‘You’re not going to cut them off too?’ I asked teasingly.
‘Denim is a lot harder to get through than nylon,’ he stated, his eyes narrowing in a way that suggested that he wouldn’t mind giving it a try just the same. However, I had no wish to have my clothes cut to bits, if for no other reason than I needed them to get home in.
I began to remove my clothes, hurriedly, asked teasingly.
‘No,’ he said, ‘do it slowly. I want to watch you.’
His eyes lit up and he stared at me with the same fixated gaze that I had noticed when I’d been playing the Bailly.
My heart began to pound, in response to his commands, and my fingers shook so that I could barely grasp the button on my miniskirt and unhook it through the thick denim buttonhole.
I was pleased I’d put on a set of matching underwear; a pair of pale-blue French knickers and a matching bra set, nice enough to look good but not so risqué that it would be immediately obvious that I had left the house with sex in mind.
I unbuttoned my blouse slowly, feeling a little silly and self-conscious at the idea of doing a striptease, but my confidence increased as I noticed the expression on his face becoming more and more intense with each button that I undid.
He visibly inhaled and held his breath as I unhooked my bra, and then with my breasts bared, hooked a thumb slowly into my tights and began to push them down over my hips.
‘Leave the tights on,’ he said. ‘And the boots. That’s kind of hot.’ I was wearing my cherryred patent Dr Martens. Viggo didn’t have any mirrors at all in his bedroom, though I guessed that he probably had a luxurious mirrored bathroom or perhaps a walk-in wardrobe nearby. I couldn’t see myself, but I guessed that I must look like one of the Suicide Girls, naked except for a pair of ripped tights and red DM’s.
I knelt down on the floor so I could unbutton his jeans and pull them off. He was commando, I discovered, when I managed to pull the tight denim down as far as his thighs.