2
“But all was false and hollow; though his tongue dropped manna”
—Milton, Paradise Lost, Book ii
She was just what he’d been waiting for. The first time he’d seen her, booking in at reception, he’d known she was his.
He checked no one was watching and bent forward. Quickly, like a snake, he flicked out his tongue and ran it across the door handle where her hand had been. He was sure he could feel the molecules of her dancing on his tongue. Her DNA mingling with his saliva. He swallowed. Now he owned a little something of her and the thought made him feel stronger, more alive.
He’d watched her this time. He’d seen her lips gently parting to reveal her inner pinkness, all dark and secret. He’d imagined the plump softness of them and the slippery moistness of her mouth against his tongue.
He closed his eyes and still she shimmered, bright against the sooty blackness of his lids. God, she was glorious and the very thought of her was more than he could bear.
He slid from the doorway and into the corridor, shielding his tumescence from prying eyes. He must find out more, who she was and where she lived, and what she did and where she went. His mind ticked like a bomb, ticktock, her time running out.
He’d slipped out and followed her for a while, until she met up with those simpering bitches. Girls with coarse dark hair and shrill voices, with their pushed-up tits and mottled thighs. Not like her. She was golden and perfect, a firefly luring him and pretending not to know it.
She’d made him angry, laughing with them. It cheapened her. It made her lose some of her glow and he needed her in all her shimmering perfection.
He’d stood at the bus stop burning with rage and his civilized veneer had slipped, just for a moment. He’d turned as a woman joined the queue and for a second their eyes had met. He’d felt her instinctively recoil and move away from him, for she’d glimpsed behind his mask and had sensed what he was; she’d felt the thing living deep within him. Oh, if they only knew. His body was a carapace with the real him curled up inside it, looking out at the world from behind the wet bulges of its eyes. He rarely let the mask slip but when it did, when they saw him and he smelled their fear, it was sublime.
He wandered through to reception to look up her details but that old cow was back behind the desk. Maybe later. He fixed his most charming smile in place and strolled over, no harm in a bit of practice. He had learned early on that life was much easier if people liked you. If they trusted you and you were clever, you could make them do whatever you wanted. He’d studied his father with his clients, the way he put them at ease, made them feel comfortable and safe. He’d watched for the facial expressions, the tone of voice and the words that conveyed empathy.
He leaned across the desk. “Afternoon, Mrs. C. Heard you’d been off; you feeling better? You certainly look good today.”
Mrs. Kerr looked up from her screen and blushed. “Oh, hello, I didn’t realize you were there. I’m fine love, it was just a bit of a cold, that’s all. You’re sweet to ask though.”
She smiled up at him and he caught the faint scent of lavender talcum. He smiled back, gifting her with the full wattage, while inwardly shuddering to imagine what frowsty crevices she’d been dusting. If his mother survived, which was unlikely, she would eventually be like this. Old and ugly and useless and stupid, even more repellent than she was at the moment with her scraggy hairless scalp and her wigs.
“I was just making some tea Mrs. C, do you want one?”
It was his private joke, calling her Mrs. C. She’d once laughed and told him it was Kerr with a “K” and he’d almost said, “Whatever made you think the C was for Kerr you old. . .” but stopped himself just in time.
Thinking about it, perhaps he should call his mother the Big C. God he was funny.
Perhaps this could be his golden girl’s consolation; she would never have to get old or ill but could stay young forever.