Part 37 (1/2)
Finally she got out. She dried herself, let the towel drop, and went into the kitchen. Abruptly she was famished. She tore open cupboards and drawers until she found a half-full jar of lavender honey from Provence. She opened it, the top spinning off into the sink, and frantically spooned honey into her mouth with her fingers. When she was finished she grabbed a jar of lemon curd and ate most of that, until she felt as though she might be sick. She stuck her head into the sink, letting water run from the faucet into her mouth, and at last walked, surfeited, into the bedroom.
She dressed, feeling warm and drowsy, almost dreamlike; pulling on red-and-yellow-striped stockings, her nylon skirt, a tight red T-s.h.i.+rt. No bra, no panties. She put in her contacts, then examined herself in the mirror. Her hair had begun to grow back, a scant velvety stubble, bluish in the dim light. She drew a sweeping black line across each eyelid, on a whim took the liner and extended the curve of each antenna until they touched her temples. She painted her lips black as well and went to find her black vinyl raincoat.
It was early when she went out, far too early for any of the clubs to be open. The rain had stopped, but a thick greasy fog hung over everything, coating winds.h.i.+elds and shop windows, making Janie's face feel as though it were encased in a clammy sh.e.l.l. For hours she wandered Camden Town, huge violet eyes turning to stare back at the men who watched her, dismissing each of them. Once she thought she saw David Bierce, coming out of Ruby in the Dust; but when she stopped to watch him cross the street saw it was not David at all but someone else.
Much younger, his long dark hair in a thick braid, his feet clad in knee-high boots. He crossed High Street, heading toward the tube station. Janie hesitated, then darted after him.
He went to the Electric Ballroom. Fifteen or so people stood out front, talking quietly. The man she'd followed joined the line, standing by himself. Janie waited across the street, until the door opened and the little crowd began to shuffle inside. After the long-haired young man had entered she counted to one hundred, crossed the street, paid her cover, and went inside.
The club had three levels; she finally tracked him down on the uppermost one. Even on a rainy Wednesday night it was crowded, the sound system blaring Idris Mohammed and Jimmy Cliff. He was standing alone near the bar, drinking bottled water.
”Hi!” she shouted, swaying up to him with her best First Day of School Smile. ”Want to dance?”
He was older than she'd thought-thirtyish, still not as old as Bierce. He stared at her, puzzled, and then shrugged. ”Sure.”They danced, pa.s.sing the water bottle between them. ”What's your name?” he shouted.
”Cleopatra Brimstone.”
”You're kidding!” he yelled back. The song ended in a bleat of feedback, and they walked, panting, back to the bar.
”What, you know another Cleopatra?” Janie asked teasingly.
”No. It's just a crazy name, that's all.” He smiled. He was handsomer than David Bierce, his features softer, more rounded, his eyes dark brown, his manner a bit reticent. ”I'm Thomas Raybourne. Tom.”
He bought another bottle of Pellegrino and one for Janie. She drank it quickly, trying to get his measure. When she finished she set the empty bottle on the floor and fanned herself with her hand.
”It's hot in here.” Her throat hurt from shouting over the music. ”I think I'm going to take a walk. Feel like coming?”
He hesitated, glancing around the club. ”I was supposed to meet a friend here. ...” he began, frowning. ”But-”
”Oh.” Disappointment filled her, spiking into desperation. ”Well, that's okay. I guess.”
”Oh, what the h.e.l.l.” He smiled: he had nice eyes, a more stolid, rea.s.suring gaze than Bierce.
”I can always come back.”
Outside she turned right, in the direction of the ca.n.a.l. ”I live pretty close by. Feel like coming in for a drink?”
He shrugged again. ”I don't drink, actually.”
”Something to eat then? It's not far-just along the ca.n.a.l path a few blocks past Camden Lock-”
”Yeah, sure.”
They made desultory conversation. ”You should be careful,” he said as they crossed the bridge. ”Did you read about those people who've gone missing in Camden Town?”
Janie nodded but said nothing. She felt anxious and clumsy-as though she'd drunk too much, although she'd had nothing alcoholic since the two gla.s.ses of wine with David Bierce. Her companion also seemed ill at ease; he kept glancing back, as though looking for someone on the ca.n.a.l path behind them.
”I should have tried to call,” he explained ruefully. ”But I forgot to recharge my mobile.”
”You could call from my place.”
”No, that's all right.”
She could tell from his tone that he was figuring how he could leave, gracefully, as soon as possible.
Inside the flat he settled on the couch, picked up a copy of Time Out and flipped through it, pretending to read. Janie went immediately into the kitchen and poured herself a gla.s.s of brandy. She downed it, poured a second one, and joined him on the couch.
”So.” She kicked off her Doc Martens, drew her stockinged foot slowly up his leg, from calf to thigh. ”Where you from?”
He was pa.s.sive, so pa.s.sive she wondered if he would get aroused at all. But after a while they were lying on the couch, both their s.h.i.+rts on the floor, his pants unzipped and his c.o.c.k stiff, pressing against her bare belly.
”Let's go in there,” Janie whispered hoa.r.s.ely. She took his hand and led him into thebedroom.
She only bothered lighting a single candle before lying beside him on the bed. His eyes were half-closed, his breathing shallow. When she ran a fingernail around one nipple he made a small surprised sound, then quickly turned and pinned her to the bed.
”Wait! Slow down,” Janie said, and wriggled from beneath him. For the last week she'd left the bonds attached to the bedposts, hiding them beneath the covers when not in use. Now she grabbed one of the wrist-cuffs and pulled it free. Before he could see what she was doing it was around his wrist.
”Hey!”
She dived for the foot of the bed, his leg narrowly missing her as it thrashed against the covers. It was more difficult to get this in place, but she made a great show of giggling and stroking his thigh, which seemed to calm him. The other leg was next, and finally she leapt from the bed and darted to the headboard, slipping from his grasp when he tried to grab her shoulder.
”This is not consensual,” he said. She couldn't tell if he was serious or not.
”What about this, then?” she murmured, sliding down between his legs and cupping his erect p.e.n.i.s between her hands. ”This seems to be enjoying itself.”
He groaned softly, shutting his eyes. ”Try to get away,” she said. ”Try to get away.”
He tried to lunge upward, his body arcing so violently that she drew back in alarm. The bonds held; he arched again, and again, but now she remained beside him, her hands on his c.o.c.k, his breath coming faster and faster and her own breath keeping pace with it, her heart pounding and the tingling above her eyes almost unbearable.
”Try to get away,” she gasped. ”Try to get away-”
When he came he cried out, his voice harsh, as though in pain, and Janie cried out as well, squeezing her eyes shut as spasms shook her from head to groin. Quickly her head dipped to kiss his chest; then she shuddered and drew back, watching.
His voice rose again, ended suddenly in a shrill wail, as his limbs knotted and shriveled like burning rope. She had a final glimpse of him, a homunculus sprouting too many legs. Then on the bed before her a perfectly formed Papilio krishna swallowtail crawled across the rumpled duvet, its wings twitching to display glittering green scales amidst spectral washes of violet and crimson and gold.
”Oh, you're beautiful, beautiful,” she whispered.
From across the room echoed a sound: soft, the rustle of her kimono falling from its hook as the door swung open. She s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand from the b.u.t.terfly and stared, through the door to the living room.
In her haste to get Thomas Raybourne inside she had forgotten to latch the front door. She scrambled to her feet, naked, staring wildly at the shadow looming in front of her, its features taking shape as it approached the candle, brown and black, light glinting across his face.
It was David Bierce. The scent of oak and bracken swelled, suffocating, fragrant, cut by the bitter odor of ethyl alcohol. He forced her gently onto the bed, heat piercing her breast and thighs, her antennae bursting out like quills from her brow and wings exploding everywhere around her as she struggled fruitlessly.
”Now. Try to get away,” he said. I believe this is Peter Schneider's second professional fiction ap-pearance. (He's done nonfiction work and has written with frightening authority on collectible first editions-especially those of Stephen King.) I wish to h.e.l.l he would write more fiction, or at least funny essays; he has a twisted comic flair that he shouldn't be keeping from the rest of us. At this point I'd call him imaginative fiction's Ian Frazier, whose short, hilarious pieces (such as ”Bob's Bob House”) have graced the pages of The New Yorker.