Forward Slash. Mark Edwards
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was so much blood. I must have hit an artery or something. It was everywhere. Even my hair was soaked with it. I suppose I was in something of a frenzy.
She screamed like crazy. It was incredibly annoying. When I stuck the knife in her mouth she made this horrible gagging sound and spat blood all over my face. She didn’t last long after that. I slashed her throat. She was already dead when I made love to her. It took her a little while to go so cold that I couldn’t bear to touch her any more. It’s called the algor mortis phase – did you know that? The death chill.
I reminisced about all of this as I watched Charlotte; I was churning with frustration and thinking that I was going to have to go to some sleazy pick-up joint, or find some cheap prostitute, a woman no one would miss. But then a stroke of luck, or kismet. I had noticed, absentmindedly, that Lucy kept looking at her watch. Now she stood up and slipped on her jacket. Charlotte flapped a slender hand at her drink. Lucy left – leaving Charlotte alone.
An hour later, after employing the methods I had learned from studying the techniques of the world’s most successful pick-up artists, Charlotte was sitting beside me in my car, heading back to mine. She was sozzled, to an almost irritating degree, but her eyes blazed with lust and she squirmed against my hand as it rested on her thigh between gear changes. She was 23, younger than I usually like them, but she had the look, the attitude, the vivacity. Exactly the right bust size and the perfect colour and length of hair. Her eyes were the most beautiful thing about her. They sparkled like a tropical sea. She had the fresh, open demeanour and easy smile of a girl who had never been through bad shit, whose greatest tragedy had been the death of a decrepit grandparent, who had never suffered or felt pain.
Those are the girls who excite me the most.
As soon as we got inside, she tried to kiss me. A bit forward, but she was young and excited so I could let that go, though others have paid the price for being so sluttish. I sat her down and started asking her about herself, mentally noting her answers, all of which pleased me, enjoying the way she smiled through it. There was that thrumming in my blood. Could she be The One? There was one final test.
I led her through into my special room. Of course, looking back now, I realize it was too soon. She wasn’t ready. She hadn’t been prepared. Her mouth dropped open and she stared at me, then around her, then back at me. And she giggled.
‘What the fuck?’ she said.
‘Do you like it?’
‘Are you all right? You look … strange.’
‘I’m great, Charlotte. Are you?’
‘I think I want to go home.’
I shook my head emphatically, before ducking through the doorway and bringing out the item I wanted her to wear.
‘Put this on,’ I said.
She goggled at it. ‘You’re joking. Right? Oh, my days.’
And I realized with a cold shudder that she was not the woman I was looking for. I gritted my teeth, felt my jaw muscles expand and contract. Again. I had wasted my time again. Why can’t any of these stupid sluts be the woman I want them to be? What is wrong with them all?
As I pictured myself ripping her throat out with my teeth, she continued to look around the room. She had gone very pale. Then her eye fell upon an object that made her stagger, as if she were about to faint.
‘What … is that?’ she said, her voice trembling.
‘Oh, that? I must have forgotten to put it away. I was playing with it earlier.’
The look of utter horror in her eyes was delicious – I would get something from tonight after all, especially when she realized that, while she was staring at my plaything, I had taken a knife from the sideboard. When Charlotte saw it she started screaming, ran to the door, tried to yank it open before realizing it was locked. I walked over to her, holding up the knife. She scrambled in her pocket for her phone. Her hand was shaking so much she could barely get it out of her pocket. I smelled something unpleasant and looked down. Liquid ran down the inside of her leg. She had pissed herself. Finally, she produced the phone.
‘There’s no signal in here,’ I said and stepped towards her.
She swung the phone at my head. It was one of those huge beasts, a Samsung, and because I wasn’t expecting this, I failed to block the attack. The phone connected with my head, just above my eyebrow, sending me staggering. It really hurt.
‘You little bitch,’ I spat. I could feel blood trickling down towards my left eye. I was so stunned that I didn’t anticipate the kick, which missed my erection by an inch, sending me staggering backwards. Charlotte lunged for the knife, but as she did I recovered my wits. A flaming ball of anger whooshed through me and, as her hand reached for the knife, I sliced it, the skin of her palm gaping open and blood gushing, making a terrible mess that I was going to have to clear up later. That made me even more furious. As she clutched her bleeding hand I punched her in the face, twice, knocking her to the floor.
I fell on top of her, straddling her and holding her throat with one hand, pointing the knife between her eyes with the other.
‘Please,’ she begged, her voice rasping, barely able to escape from her squeezed throat. ‘Please … my mum …’
I banged her head against the floor until she passed out.
I carried her through to the bedroom and stripped her, bagging her clothes for disposal later. Her body really was something special. It was such a shame. I handcuffed her to the bed and gagged her, then waited for her to wake up. I needed to get some information out of her before she died.
I was furious with myself. The whole night had been a disaster. I had acted impetuously and dangerously. Looking at it rationally, I could see it was a result of my growing frustration. I needed to be more careful, plan things better. I had let things slip.
I took out my anger on Charlotte. Made her suffer more, stay alive longer, than I would normally. So in the end, I suppose the day wasn’t a total waste. It provided me with a sharp reminder that I needed to raise my game, and provided me with a couple of hours of pleasure at the end. I also got a pair of new souvenirs to add to my collection. Those beautiful eyes.
Before going to bed, I checked my emails and had a pleasant surprise. A little fish I had my eye on had nibbled at the bait.
The One may be closer than I thought.
Sunday, 21 July
Amy did not notice her sister’s email straight away. As the Mail program, loaded she was idly listening to the soft drip-drip of coffee through the filter in her mug, and trying to organize her thoughts into a prioritized list for the day ahead. No matter that it was a Sunday – being this busy meant that having the weekend off wasn’t an option.
It was going to be a scorching hot day again. Seven thirty a.m. was the best time to be out in the tiny garden, her laptop resting at an angle on the wobbly, rusting table, dew still clutching the tips of the grass stalks and a blessed silence from houses of the neighbours, sleeping off their Saturday night excesses. The new intake of email scrolled up in bold in the mailbox, one by one, four screens’ worth.
Amy scanned a couple of the subject headings:
Wool Enquiry – Pattern doesn’t state Gauge!
Painless Quilting; Idea for Article
She was going to have to employ someone soon. Upcycle.com – her baby, her passion – had boomed in popularity over recent months and the orders and enquiries kept her busy from dawn till midnight, seven