Serves the fat bastard right, the dirty pervert.
He returned to his Cortina and settled back to wait. See if the pigs came back.
He was hungry for sex. If only he could control his urges; they seemed to be more frequent, and the tablets had little effect. Apart from playing with his head. One moment he could think straight, the next it was as though a light switch had been turned off. And sometimes the women would end up dead.
He heard a noise outside. He peered out into the gloom and saw her. The public car-park behind the Town Hall was a night-time rendezvous for illicit liaisons and early evening prostitutes. The police hadn’t bothered much before, why should they? There was never any disturbance here. Not like outside the “Vatican” at the far end of town. Late night drunks pouring out into the neighbouring streets, looking for kebabs and trouble. Loud-mouthed girls screaming obscenities and touting their fat thighs to leering youths looking for an easy leg-over in shop doorways and alleyways behind.
He wound down the window and coughed. This one he didn’t fancy much, but she satisfied his immediacy. Just a five quid quickie on the back seat. No condom, she was desperate for cash and to escape the cold for a while. Smelled of gin and fags. Must have been forty, the old hag. Said her name was Molly. Just in case he wanted a repeat sometime. He watched her totter off on her high heels into the bleakness to search for other punters.
He wasn’t satiated. Not yet. Only the young black ones could really cater for his needs. Somehow, they moved differently, always in harmony with his urgent thrusting. He decided to take a cruise around the partly-cobbled town streets. He knew where they would likely hang out: Station road, and near the bus terminal. He found an empty car-park slot in a back street full of unwelcoming terraced houses close to a flickering street lamp that made his shadow jerk. If he found one black beauty, this time he’d take her up to the common. Park off-road, nowhere near any lights. His apartment was out of the equation. Still had to buy fresh sheets, and wait for “Odour Eater” to do its magic.
He wandered past the illuminated “Lord John”, hesitated, but resisted a quick drink to warm his insides. That could come later. Past the shuttered Oxfam shop on the corner of Station road, with three bulky plastic sacks and cardboard boxes full of old paperback books left in the doorway, and down to the station entrance, with a couple of taxi-cabs sat outside. He glanced at his Sekonda watch. Last local train to Bristol due in a few minutes. He took up a position outside, peering at the timetable attached to the stone wall under a flickering fluorescent light, trying to make it look like he was waiting for someone. He heard the train whistle, sounding a warning as it glided past the level-crossing just out of town, and then under the overhead walkway into the station stop, with a wheezing and screeching of brakes.
Poor old fella.
Needed maintenance, he thought. Like him: the cold was seeping into his bones. He stamped his feet and waited for his prey to embark.
Come on: let her be a juicy Lucy.
But there was no Lucy among the motley crew of passengers. A few night workers in overalls, several couples dressed up and on the town, a few noisy yobbos who were swearing and cursing. One of them spit a lump of green gob at his feet as they swaggered their way past him. He turned away, not wishing to confront them and then he heard the sound of high heels clicking down the walkway steps and onto the platform. Too late: the train was slowly pulling out. He heard the woman swear, and then she appeared at the entrance.
He sympathised, offered her a lift, but she declined. Looked at him warily, and then sped off to the taxi cab rank. He breathed heavily, moist air filtering upwards into the coldness. Looked at his Sekonda once more. Maybe he would have better luck at the bus terminal. Hands in his overcoat pockets, he trudged back through town. Again no luck. The bus terminal was deserted. Not completely deserted, but no Lucy. He thought about going back to the Town Hall car park; maybe Molly was still about. Maybe she had a friend. By the time he returned to his Escort, he was tired and the desire had dimmed. The cold had zapped his energy and enthusiasm for the hunt.
Standing outside the house with a number seventeen plaque on the heavy wooden door, he searched his pocket for the key fob, and pressed it. The car doors clicked noisily open and lights flashed. He took one last look around, but the street was empty. He heard a clattering noise above his head, and a voice called out. ‘Looking for someone mister?’
He looked up. Saw a black girl, with pendulous breasts, leaning out of an upstairs window. Her outline was silhouetted by a lamp behind her and she smiled at him in a suggestive way. He opened his mouth to speak, but she was quick on the uptake. She fondled her breasts under her nightdress, made the nipples stand out against the fabric. ‘Want some of this then?’
He nodded at her; mouthing okay, clicked the car doors closed, and waited. He heard several locks being undone before she opened the door. ‘Come inside, it’s friggin’ freezing out there,’ she said.
He called her Lucy. She didn’t appear to mind. Was on the game, and he was a paying punter. Straight up to the small bedroom, the double bed taking up most of the space.
‘Usually I have home visits from customers,’ she explained. ‘Word of mouth.’ She grinned and licked her lips. ‘I thought you were one, and I’m horny, sugah.’ Said it matter of fact, as though discussing the weather. Perhaps she thought it was seductive.
He wasn’t put off. He couldn’t believe his luck. He licked his lips. ‘How much?’
He could see her appraising him. Seemed to sense he was a just another punter. No problem. She shrugged. ‘Tonight, it’s a special offer. Anyway you want it. Twenty-five quid an hour or fifty all night.’
He smiled. ‘Throw in a drink Lucy and I’ll take the all-nighter.’ Perfect.
She smiled back. Opened up the bedside cabinet and took out a bottle of vodka and two glasses. ‘Don’t you worry sugah; I’ll warm you up in no time.’
He undressed, laid down on the bed under the poster of the Madonna with child, while she took a shower in the bathroom outside. Said something about smelling good for him. He slugged back his vodka and poured another. Looked around the room. Purple curtains now drawn, a red night light glowing, and clothes hanging from an open rack. She lived alone, she said, but he thought he heard the sound of a baby crying somewhere. He shrugged. So what? As long as she came up with the goods.
The door opened, and she came in wearing a white Basque that contrasted beautifully against her silky ebony skin.
God, she was so voluptuous.
And then it started to go wrong. She opened her bedside cabinet, and lobbed a condom pack at him. ‘Put this on, sugah.’
He was in no mood for games. ‘Fuck that … it’s not natural.’
She frowned. ‘You want sex or not, sugah?’
He felt his skull tighten with tension. ‘Look Lucy, I’ve paid, okay? I ain’t wearing one.’
She pouted, and threw his clothes at him.
She shouldn’t have done that.
He felt the darkness descend, like a light switch being turned off inside his head. His eyes glared and his body tensed. He swore; spittle foaming from his lips as he lunged at her. Lucy’s eyes bulged; she held up a flailing arm, but he gripped it and twisted. She lost her balance and fell across him and onto the bed. The metal springs shrieked with abuse, and it knocked the wind out of him. For a moment they lay tangled together. Arms and legs writhing like a two-headed octopus.
‘Get off me, bitch,’ he shouted. He struggled to free himself. Just then, the baby started to cry. Must have been woken up by the commotion. He calmed down and the light switched back on. ‘Who’s that?’ he said.
She seemed to relax. ‘My daughter, Jasmine.’
He hummed. ‘Jasmine, huh? Nice name. Maybe I should go and take a look.’
Her voice quavered. ‘No, please stay here ... I can manage. Help yourself to more vodka.’
He considered this. ‘Well go and sort her out ... and don’t be long.’ A sly grin slipped across his face. A fox appraising a chicken. ‘We’ve got unfinished business.’
She trembled. He could tell she knew the outcome. A roller-coaster bare-back ride ... or Jasmine. Her choice. She untangled herself and got up. He reached out and grabbed her phone from the bedside cabinet.
‘Leave the door open,’ he said.
Later, he told her he would never harm her child. Not him. Abused by his mother, now dead. Hated what she did to him – humiliation, most of all. Swore on the old cow’s ashes, he’d never do the same to an innocent child.
He felt chatty while he dressed. ‘Lucy, I had a vasectomy sometime back awhile. Made me hornier, so the doctor prescribed tablets. But I lose some feeling, and they just do my head in.’
She frowned. ‘You could still get infected. Some girls ain’t too clean.’
He stopped, looked at her. ‘Some girls? What’s that supposed to mean? You hiding something from me?’
She seemed anxious. ‘No, no ... nothing. I mean, you should take precautions, sugah.’
‘If you’ve got something, I swear to God ...’
‘No! I’m clean.’
He pointed a finger at her, leered. ‘Better keep it that way for Jasmine’s sake, you hear me, Lucy?’
She clenched fingers over her mouth, and nodded. ‘I hear you, sugah.’
‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Now I need to go ... work calls.’
He pointed to the Madonna with child poster. ‘Self-employed printer. Posters mainly, some ink work. I make a living.’ He stood up, took out his wallet and gave her three twenties. ‘Buy something for Jasmine.’
She seemed to appreciate his generosity.