She stared at him, horror growing in her
eyes: she was breaking the thrall. His eyes narrowed in annoyance.
Open panic filled her features, she turned to flee.
His hand snaked out instinctively, grabbing
her by the hair, yanking her back to the bed, back to his embrace.
She whirled round and slapped him across the face. The tide of his
own anger lit out from him, fast and bright. Releasing her hair he
pulled back his arm, the blow sending her away, to land heavily
against the wall. She crumpled and lay still. To defy him, at the
moment of their shared ecstasy? To raise a hand to him? She would
die in pain for reward.
Catching her up, he fastened again on her
throat, intent on sucking her dry. His hands held her fast, fingers
dug deeply into flesh too spent to bruise. The torn throat gave him
easy purchase and he set to devour all she had, all she had ever
been. Even then, almost dead, wrung like a cloth, she groaned,
moving against him. He felt the bitterness of her rebellion on his
tongue. He pulled back, spoiled for her. He reached for her neck, a
quick snap and she would be gone forever. His hands enclosed her,
seeking to find the right spot, where vertebrae would be easiest
pushed apart from vertebrae. Still she protested, fought his
actions. Her hand had risen to weakly push him off, fight him away.
He grasped it and pulled it away, back under her own body. What
strength was left in her was used to arch her back, giving off her
message: fight, no matter how trapped you are; fight. He smiled and
leaned down to kiss her. Somewhere, in the haze of her dying, she
noticed him, and whispered up to him.
“Fuck you.”
The words barely made it out of her mouth
such was her weakness. My, he thought, such language from an
innocent! He let her loose, grinning at her stubbornness. Some
things were eternal, after all. Spirit such as this was rarely
found, never mind uncovered so surprisingly. A part of him was
pleased to have found a little savage in a cheap white dress.
Without much thought for it he picked her up and tossed her back on
the bed, the action more to do with an innate sense of tidiness
than anything else. In the roots of his mouth an ache was building.
He had been roused by her, his instincts kindled. Nothing would
substitute for a full life, not now. The thirst was upon him, and
he would quench it. He changed quickly, abandoning her gore for
cleaner clothing. She would probably bleed to death before he
returned.
The catching was easy, there were many who
walked the streets in search of love, or death. When he raised his
head he realised that her anger was still upon him. There was no
throat left to the boy who had courted him, thinking only to find
food for the night. Well food was what had been found, if not to
his precise liking. He dropped the empty flesh onto the rails of
Earl’s Court tube station. Another suicide, or fumbling mishap.
London was used to that.
He returned home on foot, enjoying the night
air and sense of freedom. The scents from the park beguiled him as
he slipped past the shadow of the Albert Hall, disappearing out of
the streets as effortlessly as he had emerged. After washing he
retired, falling into a deep and dreamless sleep. When he rose in
the middle afternoon he felt surprisingly rested. Light and alert.
Active. As the coffee percolated, he went to check on his guest. To
his surprise, she was still alive. The bruising on her jaw was
minimal as there had been little blood within her to damage. She
and the bed were splattered with dark brown splodges of dead blood;
a shocking waste. What to do with her? Strangely, he had no
instinct on the matter. Dreyfuss was mostly instinct. To survive as
he survived, he had to be. He mused upon his own lack of immediate
direction: a Dreyfuss without purpose was a strange and curious
thing. He returned to his own bedroom and studied the matter.
As he showered, it occurred to him that the
decision may be taken out of his hands. Returning to her room,
which was a curious way for his mind to put it given how many had
occupied it before her, he checked her pulse and blood pressure. A
choice had to be made. To let her die, and end the matter, or allow
her life? That was a nonsense, for she was meat as he looked at
her. Dead was dead. The issue was when, not if. But something about
that stubbornness had surprised him. Surprise in a life such as his
was precious: unexpected bounty. Perhaps he’d kill her tomorrow?
Regardless, she would die when he said so, not before.
He made a quick phone call. An hour later a
courier delivered ten units of basic saline, plasma and sterile
equipment. He set a drip, inserting the valve into the back of her
hand quickly and cleanly. He refrained from polluting her with any
drugs: if she’d been going to go under it would have happened
before now. Wary of leaving her unconscious with a needle in her
arm, he phoned his apologies through to the golf club; someone else
would have to deliver the after dinner speech. Thinking that
through, he contacted his second in command: things would have to
run without him for a few days. He’d attend to any urgent mail that
came into his study but apart from that, he was not to be
disturbed. Well used to this, Gerald signed off in eager
anticipation of a week in which he could call the shots.
Filling a bowl with tepid water and
antiseptic, Dreyfuss attended to her neck. With all the gunge off,
the tear was less than he had thought. Pressing the ragged edges
together long enough to stop the fresh weeping, he carefully
applied four paper stitches, sealing the mess with his own blood.
Then he cut her dress and knickers off, sponging her down with cool
water, remaking the bed around her. Rechecking her pulse and
respiration he adjusted the flow of the drip and switched the light
off as he went. He made a light snack of steak and eggs, settling
down to watch a movie in peace.
Her dry coughing woke him from the rather
pleasant slumber that he had slipped into. He had been dreaming of
Eléan; which was unusual, for he had not dreamt of her in years. In
the dream, she was calling to him, with that wicked half grin on
her sly face. The call in the dream became the cough of his guest:
he roused himself. She was half conscious, drifting in the way of
those lost in the fight to waken. He gave her a few sips of water,
checking her vital signs. She was fine, more or less, and he took
out the drip. He needed to sleep, and she would be in the way, so
he filled her veins with sedative. He went to bed and dreamed
another dream of Eléan.
Looking in on her the next morning he was
satisfied to see she had responded well to the enforced slumber.
Her fatigued body was slowly recovering from the added stress of
their encounter. Her mind wasn’t happy with the arrangement, her
twisting and turning had pulled the sheet out from under her, but
her skin tone was improved greatly. He shot her through once more
with enough sedative to keep her under for a few more hours. His
body ached from lack of activity and he felt in need of more work
out than could be achieved on his home equipment. It wouldn’t do to
have her up and around, screaming and pathetic when he returned
from the gym. Without thought of it, his hands drifted over her
body in more than a clinical assessment of injury. He hesitated
over her breasts, slowly dragging his fingers over her left nipple.
It sprung to life, reacting to his touch. He smiled, that sense of
complete possession as sweet as ever. For whimsy, he brought the
other to attention by the merest of touch of his breath. Sensing
his invasion, she pulled away, a frightened moan escaping her lips.
His smile deepened as he reached once more for the sedative. He
pushed her so far under he heard her heart slow, her breathing
hesitate, before settling into shallow swoops. He pinched her hard,
on the fold under her arm: nothing. Lifting a lid he touched her
eye: nothing. The smile that slipped from his lips as his hands
travelled down to her groin was nothing short of a gloat: it was
always so easy. The pleasure in digging his fingers deep inside her
was not the pleasure of invasion, for that was a pleasure that
palled all too quickly. It was the complete absence of awareness in
her slack face, the total surrender of her limbs that enthralled
him. She had no clue as to what was happening to her. He dug
around, pushing the dry warm flesh this way and that, until it
filled with moistness and expanded. He stabbed his rigid fingers
into her cervix: nothing. All that was in her world, now, was his
will. Even when she was unconscious, all she was, was his.
Satisfied, he cleaned his fingers on the bedding and left.
He enjoyed the walk through the back streets
to the gym he favoured for swimming. Most of the weights and
running equipment was too light-weight, but the pool was almost
perfect. He mulled the situation over as he pushed himself
endlessly through the water, length after length ripped in two and
left behind him. Which was the more sustained pleasure, the subtle
yet silent power of the invisible, or the more immediate
involvement of fear and struggle? It was an eternal question, one
that he never truly managed to answer. For as he indulged in one,
the other would entice his mind, beguiling him with the promise of
more: a longer lasting satisfaction, a sharper and sweeter joy. It
was a dilemma that shaped much of his life, that pushed and pulled
at many layers of his living. Even now, as he changed back to the
butterfly, it teased at him, took his mind off the rhythm of his
stroke. For strength, he preferred to work out at home, where
prying eyes could not react to the dead weights he could so easily
conquer. He could pile the pressure onto his body, fighting his own
limitations, testing out his mind’s strength in complete secrecy:
no awareness of watchful humans to slow his responses and advise
caution. Stamina however was always a public sport. No pleasure
there unless observed, no triumph unless the bested stood in front
of him, wheezing and shaking in their defeat. Five of the gym’s
finest had slowly watched as he turned again and again, each length
timed exactly to match the previous. In stamina he was only
slightly more than they, each turn meting out as much punishment on
him as it did them: yet he never lost. Three had taken his silent
challenge today, and two were spent and useless, fighting for
breath at the pool’s edge. He gloried in their weakness, their
lack. The one still struggling on and on with him, ploughing a now
straggly furrow in his wake, was going to drop out soon: the switch
to butterfly had seen to that.
He smiled as he tucked under once more,
kicking softly against the edge, unwilling to allow his strength to
gain him advantage. The victory would be his fairly; there was the
joy. The only pain was that it would soon be time to move on, find
new territory. Few accepted the silent challenge anymore, too much
defeat etched in their faces. A new club with a well sheltered pool
would have to be found. New meat to be taunted with his pale and
slender body. New muscle bound fools to pitch against him, to be
fired up by his feet kicking dust in their eyes as he passed. He
mused on the pleasures in his life as he dried, aware that today’s
prize had been bought for him by his sleeping playmate. The joys
had once more begun to drain out of his life, slowly, almost
unnoticed. The taste of her defeat had awakened him, brought life
back to a jaded palate. A few days off work to play, to sport: that
was just what he needed. What a gift he would give her, letting her
final days serve his greater needs.
CHAPTER THREE
The first thing she was truly aware of was a
cramp, low in her back. She wasn’t sure exactly when she became
aware of it, how long she’d been listening to her body groan, but
slowly, carefully, the awareness that this was real, her back was
hurting, she was asleep, or had been, settled in her mind. It was
dark, too dark; that wasn’t helping. Where was it, that it was this
dark? Not her own bedroom for sure. Not her lumpy bed and rickety
windowsill, traffic noises seeping through with the streetlights.
The bed beneath her was straight, even with her weight on it. The
dark around her, absolute. She closed her eyes and tried to
concentrate on waking up. Her mouth was dry and filthy, caked with
gunge. As she struggled to push her body awake, to sit up, make
sense of the confusion, she flitted her tongue round and round,
desperately seeking moisture. The pain from her back was sharp and
fresh as she pulled forward, making her wince. What on earth had
happened that her back hurt so? The question sat in her mind,
trying to make some sense to her. She fumbled around, feeling the
soft bed that surrounded her. How big could a bed be? She leaned to
the side, reaching for an unseen edge, trying to find an end to
this smothering softness. Her head spun, dizziness almost
overwhelming her. A nausea rose within her, she gagged. She wasn’t
going to throw up, she wasn’t going to throw up. She certainly
wasn’t going to throw up until she had worked out where she was.
She dropped back on the bed, closing her eyes. She’d moved too
fast, the dizziness got worse not better. She groaned, which turned
out to be a worse move than flopping back on the bed. Her throat
felt awful, like she’d swallowed crushed glass. Hot and dry and raw
all at the same time. As she lay there, trying to control her
panic, her breathing, her dry mouth, her head began a wicked
beating. Thrum, thrum, thrum. If this was a hangover, she didn’t
want to think about what she’d been drinking. Her back had eased
slightly on lying back, but when she tried to move upwards, it
screamed protest once more. Fear started to edge out panic: what
had she been doing that had hurt her back? Whatever the answer was,
she wasn’t sure she wanted to know about it, not yet.
Gritting her teeth she forced herself to sit
up, sitting straight up on the bed. The wave of nausea hit again,
as did the dizziness. She rode it out, clutching a sheet to her
face, concentrating on not throwing up, not passing out and not
going back down into the bed. The thrumming threatened to split her
head open, but she kept on in there. The feeling of sickness
passed, as did the dizziness. Her back stayed raw and sharp, but
got no worse. As the thrumming finally started to ease off, she
became aware of a harsh rasping breath in the room beside her:
laboured, dangerous. She almost screamed, clamping her hand over
her own mouth, the noise stopped. Fear froze down her spine,
blocking out all thoughts of her back, her pain, her headache. She
clutched herself tightly, knees automatically raised to tuck under
her chin. The rasping breath started again. She scrunched her eyes
tight shut, tears squeezing out of the edges, and once more clamped
her hand over her mouth, anything to make herself disappear. The
noise stopped again. She held her breath, better to hear the
darkness: nothing. The moment stretched and broke. She let the
trapped air in her lungs out, the movement forcing more pain from
her throat, her back, her head. The rasping started again. A
whimper fled from her throat and was out into the darkness before
she could help it. She again held her breath, this time her hands
flying up to cover her head, her chin tucking down, seeking
protection from her knees. The rasping stopped. As she lay there,
tight and curled, awaiting whatever monster was in the room with
her, she thought this through. An idea occurred to her. Lifting her
head, she gasped in some air, once more releasing the bottled up
feeling in her lungs. The rasping started once more. She held her
breath. The rasping stopped. She breathed out. The rasping started
up again. Relief flooded through her, limbs turning liquid; she
crumpled once more back onto the bed. It was her! The noise she’d
heard, that awful rasping breath, it was her own. The darkness, the
silence in the room, it had fooled her.