The Dark End of the Street: New Stories of Sex and Crime by Today's Top Authors (15 page)

For just a fleeting moment a shadow passed across the lace curtain and Golly could have sworn she had just apprehended the outline of her neighbor—Blossom Foster, attired in her leopard print and stole.

She then approached the television—it was time for
Peyton Place
—but all of the sudden heard, or thought she did, the parish priest calling:

—Don't you dare watch that filth, Golly Murray!

And then wept as she retreated, with cries of passion being released by murky figures at the back of her mind. As the woman in the lounge suit swung wild-eyed on her heel, before crying:

—The hell with my husband, he's never understood me! It's you I love, Norman—you! You, and always have! Do what you want to me, anything—just do it!

Once, in the shop, she had seen a countryman with red hands as big as shovels. She wondered was that what Norman's were like, as the woman whimpered and he tore wildly at her flesh—scooping up great big handfuls in the afternoon ecstasy of that shadow-shuttered room.

—Give it to me! she heard her plead, Give me your body, Norman, give it to me until, until I'm ready to die!

As Golly's hands covered her face, her engagement ring briefly scratching her cheek, now fleeing shamefully from the room.

The next day, making their way home from Mass, Golly Murray left her husband at the corner—he was going down to the pub for a drink. Then, all of a sudden, she heard:
Coo-ee!

Blossom Foster was already making her way across the road.

—I've had this idea, she said, arriving up breathlessly. A fashion show—with Miami as the theme.

—A fashion show about Miami?

—Yes, that will be the subject, if you will. I really do think it's the most marvelous idea, don't you, Geraldine? We'll have it in the hotel over Easter. And maybe we could give the proceeds to the handicapped.

—The handicapped, replied Golly, puzzled—her dry throat rasping a little.

—Yes, to those who are less fortunate. I really think it's the least we could do. Your little fellow—I mean, it's not fair. They need all the help they can get, poor mites. Little fellows like—whatyoucallhim?

—My son? choked Golly.

—Yes! Little Boniface—what age is he now, eleven? Or is it twelve?

—Twelve, choked Golly, he's twelve.

—But of course maybe it's not for me to say. Maybe you mightn't have the time to become involved. I mean he must be difficult …

—He's not difficult! snapped Golly, he isn't difficult!

—We could even invite Coco Chanel—we'll be the talk of the place. Well—tottybye, must be off to make the arrangements. Hello, Florida, the Sunshine State! Here we come!

The BBC shipping forecast was just finishing as Golly Murray climbed into bed. Her husband was already busy with his pools coupons. She put on her glasses and began turning the pages of her magazine. If you had the money, it read, there was no problem at all in getting yourself an air-conditioned room, one that was steam-heated to keep you comfortable. On top of that there was a foam rubber bed in every room, with a seventeen-inch television and a Frigidaire ice cube machine. That's if you stayed at the Siesta Motel. With someone like Pedro Gonzales, perhaps. When she went to the motel with him, it turned out that he was the most gentle and lovely man—whose hands, far from being like shovels, were small, in fact, and more like girls'. But which, maybe for that reason, could relax and make her feel things of which no countryman's hands ever have been capable. At first when he had kissed her there—on her “ickle brown nub,” as they'd used to call it when they were kids—she had been prompted to laugh. Mischievously, even, like Lounge Suit Woman, to cry out:

—Oo Norman!

But when he had finished—if he was ever going to finish—laughter was just about the last thing on her mind. Because what Golly Murray wanted—she wanted him to do it all over again—circle that ickle nub with the tip of his tongue. And then suddenly—aha!—leaping on it as he had done—giving it most delicious and unexpected bite.

—Ees so sweet, he told her, I could eat it!

—Do it, Norman! Golly had heard herself plead, do it, will you—until I die!

—I not Norman, Pedro had laughed, but believe me, Miss—yes, you will die! I, Pedro, know how to make you do thees.

Then he had proudly presented her with the handle of his stomach, as some of Patsy's pals often called it.

—You like? he had said.

As he set to nibbling her nipple once again. Even when the police's suspicions were made public, she refused to believe it. The
Miami Herald
ran a story claiming he was “the vampire.”

The Palm Beach killer the authorities had been searching for for months. And who was reputed to have dispatched fifteen or more victims, most of them women. As the facts filtered out they were accompanied by the most appalling rumors—that the suspect had derived pleasure from actually consuming the nipples of his victims. The detective in charge said that in all his years of experience it was the worst case he'd ever come across.

—We found human hair—and, I regret to say, a female nipple, in the Frigidaire, he was reported as having said.

As she pressed her nails into the magazine's margins, Golly had to remind herself that what she was reading was no more than a story. So incensed did she find herself becoming at the sheer crassness of the detective's lies. But Pedro, of course, had warned her that would be coming.

—For years they try to pin sometheeng on me, he had told her—before breaking down in her arms as they danced.

After which they stood together, gazing out through the French windows.

—Those buildings are so beautiful but I know you'll laugh when you hear what I'm going to say.

—I will never laugh, you know that, Golly. Never will I laugh unless it is something that you, as a woman, intend.

—They remind me so much of Toytown Assorted. With the moon's soft light on the greens and pinks and blues.

—I no understand, please, said Pedro.

But he didn't laugh.

—Toytown Assorted, she smiled as she clasped his hand. Boniface loves them. I guess over here you probably call them cakes.

—Toytown Assorted, he smiled, pulling her to him, pressing his tongue inside her mouth as he chuckled.

—Thees the on'y cake that Pedro like right now, Golly cake—yes?

—Yes, replied Golly, tugging at his glossy jet-black curls as she scissored her legs
Peyton Place
–style and cried aloud:

—Tear off my lounge suit, Pedro! Tear it into ribbons, do you hear me!

When she looked up and saw Pedro, baffled, with both arms extended:

—But Golly, you not wearing lounge suit!

As she took it inside her—the handle of his stomach. Trying not to laugh as she thought of the parish priest. Or of Pedro's face as she squealed anew:

—Norman! Do it, will you—until I die! You can even bite it off, if you want to—my ickle brown nub—I don't care!

Golly was in the best of humor when she happened to meet Blossom by chance two days later—this time in the bakery.

—That's a nice dress, Blossom had said with a smile, picking at a full stop of fluff with her finger. It had been located, almost invisibly, underneath the collar of Golly Murray's coat.

—I'm searching for a nice surprise for Bodley's tea, she said, maybe a cream cone or, who knows, even a nice fairy cake.

—A fairy cake, yes, that would be nice, replied Golly.

—With icing, beamed Blossom, with some nice pink icing.

—Like Toytown Assorted, said Golly, without thinking.

As Blossom made a face.

—O no, she said, they're just for children. Much too sugary and sweet for my husband. He likes proper cakes.

—Yes, of course. Bodley would want proper icing.

—Certainly not Toytown Assorted, at any rate. Although of course all the children love them. Does Boniface like them?

—Yes, Boniface loves them, he has always loved his Toytown, I have to say.

In spite of herself, no matter how she had promised herself she would react, once more Golly felt tingly and quite uncomfortable. She could not bring herself to look at Blossom's dress—for she knew how expensive it must have been. But it was more the older woman's imperturbable composure and self-assuredness which, as always, succeeded most in getting under her skin.

—Excuse me, love—if you could just step out of the way. I think I see the perfect little bun.

The older woman's hand was now firmly resting on Golly's shoulder—ever so firmly easing her out of the way. Suddenly Blossom released a small cry:

—Hurrah! she shrieked, leaping up down in an almost childlike fashion, what an absolutely lovely cake—almond!

She had found her holy grail, she triumphantly declared.

—My husband will simply adore this gorgeous almond slice!

To her dismay, Golly found herself becoming hopelessly tongue-tied—with her shoe making shapeless patterns in the tiles that were so vivid she actually had to look away. As Blossom smiled and took her by the hand.

—My garden! You really must come around and see it, yourself and Patsy. You could perhaps take some cuttings—for your own garden, I mean. Is that something that might appeal to you, Golly? You'd be more than welcome, as I'm sure you well know.

It was only after she had fingered the silver half crown onto the marble-topped counter that Blossom Foster was seen to hesitate. Before pressing her gloved hand in mock awe against her lips—as though quite affronted by her own insensitivity:

—But then, of course: You don't have a garden!

She turned away and began to converse with the female assistant. Not that it mattered, for Golly now heard nothing. Making a few halfhearted attempts to rally, galvanize herself into making a reply.

Regrettably, however, she did not succeed.

Instead she found herself bidding goodbye to Blossom Foster.

Who said that now she had to be off, as she had one or two more things to get for Bodley's tea.

The assistant was folding her arms and smiling.

—What a lovely lady, she was saying, before taking out her compact and remarking to Golly from the small oval mirror:

—So what can I get you?

—Some Toytown Assorted, if you please, she heard herself reply—thinking that she had dropped her gloves and then remembering she hadn't even been holding them in her hand. And that, in fact, they had been in her handbag all along. O, and also that they didn't actually sell Toytown Assorted in the home bakery.

—The shop across the road is the place you want for them, the assistant told her in a chillingly disinterested, quite dead monotone.

Or so it had seemed to Golly Murray at the time.

—I have a feeling I'm going to scoop the dividend this time, said Patsy, chewing his pencil, if United can manage a draw against Liverpool. If that happens, then I think I'm in with a very strong chance.

—Perhaps then we can think about going to Florida, said Golly, flicking the pages of
Picturegoer,
smiling.

—Ha ha, laughed her husband as he chewed on his pencil, you really do come out with them, Geraldine. You really do make me laugh sometimes! Would you mind turning the wireless down there, dear—just a teeny little bit?

His wife obliged.

—Thank you, he said, closing one eye as he shuffled his pools coupon, marking in an X for a draw.

But Geraldine “Golly” Murray hadn't, in fact, been joking at all. And the more she thought about it, the more possible it did seem that, if they really wanted to, there would be nothing to stop them from going to Miami. She had read a lot about it now and felt, in her own way, quite at home there. She had even borrowed some books from the library. But her favorite remained the account in her magazine. The Miami Vampire was one of her most-loved stories. Because if it taught her one thing it had shown her that people, worldwide, are essentially the same. For example, the town in which she lived—there weren't any swimming pools or stretches of sand or great tall buildings. But when it came to sex, all men were disappointingly predictable.

—The handle of my stomach, she remembered Patsy's friend saying that day in the shop.

Of course, shutting up immediately as soon as he saw her. What she could not for the life of her understand was how it meant so much to them. Obviously in so many ways her own husband and Pedro Gonzales would have been almost impossibly different. But in this area nothing divided them. Or lantern-jawed Norman from
Peyton Place
either, she presumed. And as she thought of herself laying back in the great expanse of that foam-rubber bed it was difficult for her to suppress a chuckle when she heard Pedro say: