Dark Angel (22 page)

The decision at once arouses him; his penis, well attuned to the devices of his imagination, stirs, and hardens. Casting a cold look at the opulence of the bathroom fittings, Shawcross turns to the basin and washes his hands.

This hand-washing is important to him; he does it like a surgeon preparing to operate. Three times the hands are lathered with French soap that smells of carnations; three times they are rinsed. The nails are scrubbed. Shawcross will, on occasion, make love to a woman with hands that have not just been washed (in the woods, for instance, what is the alternative?) but he prefers it this way. All sex, to Shawcross, is dirty; its allure lies in his sense of degradation. In his fastidious mind he associates women with dirt; even when he touches them, even when he pushes his own flesh into their orifices, they disgust him. He loathes them, these soft, giving receptacles, with their seaweed odors, their wet and sticky effusions. Do they know, Shawcross wonders sometimes, how obscene they look, these women, with their fat milky breasts, their pale fleshy buttocks, their ugly wet purses of flesh?

They seem not to know. For this stupidity, not just because they are dirty, not just because they disgust him, Shawcross likes to punish them. And the ways of punishment are infinite: He can punish them by making them wait, until they are sweating for it, begging for it; he can punish them with his words. (When he makes love Shawcross is rarely silent, and no words of endearment ever pass his lips.) Above all, he can punish them with all the convenient weapons his body affords, with hands that can squeeze, pinch, slap, scratch; with teeth that can bite; with his weight; and with his sex, which Shawcross likes to watch as it plunges back and forth—like a sword, Shawcross thinks (with no great originality).

The more outwardly respectable the woman, the more exalted her social position, the more Shawcross relishes this punishing. Bought women hold no interest for him; they have been humiliated too often by other men. But a married woman, a renowned woman, a virgin, or a wife who has never taken a lover—such women are a prize. To teach such virtuous women exactly what they are, to force them to acknowledge their need for him, that, for Shawcross, provides an excitement that transcends mere sex. Seduction, he might say if questioned by a man, is a kind of moral crusade.

Gwen of course thinks that she loves him. She probably even believes that he loves her, and so, in the name of love, all excesses can be justified. Well, Shawcross will disillusion her on that point in due course. To demonstrate his absolute contempt, to end an affair by expressing fully the distaste he has always felt and the disloyalty he has always practiced—that, for Shawcross, provides the final, most excruciating thrill.

With Gwen, that moment has not yet been reached. It lies (Shawcross considers as he dries his hands) perhaps five or six months further off. He does not find it quite as easy as he once did to replace his mistresses, and as a result of past indulgences a number of great houses (good hunting grounds) are now closed to him. Meanwhile, Gwen suffices; he enjoys her subjugation still, and besides, through Gwen he humiliates her husband.

Gwen, with her lazy, foolish mind
and
her lout of a husband: a double prize. Fingering the silk ribbons, Shawcross turns toward the bedroom, checks himself, remembers. There is another door to this suite of rooms: the door from the dressing room, which leads to the service stairs. It will be as well to lock it.

Shawcross pads through to the dressing room. He opens the service door, closes it again. There is no key in the lock, no bolt he can fasten. He pauses, considers: It is unlikely that anyone will disturb them at this hour; if the manservant assigned him for the evening were to come, he would certainly knock. Shawcross turns away, crosses to the bedroom, pauses in the doorway alcove, and (just to make doubly sure) draws the heavy velvet curtains across.

Gwen is waiting. She is sitting on a fat ottoman at the foot of the King’s bed, leaning back against the pair of gilded cherubim. By now she has wit enough (Shawcross has taught her) not to undress fully. She sits there in her tight-waisted corset, quiet and patient, her hands clasped in her lap like a well-bred schoolgirl; her dress is neatly folded on a chair.

As Shawcross enters, her face lifts and her eyes light. Then, seeing he is still fully dressed, an expression of bewilderment crosses her features.

Shawcross moves to stand directly in front of her; he puts his hands in his pockets, rocks back and forth on his heels.

“You want it?” he begins.

“Eddie, I—”

“You want it, then say that you want it.”

“I want you, Eddie. I love you.”

“If you want it, then get it out.”

Gwen colors. Her fingers (clumsy, clumsy Gwen) fumble against his crotch, but Shawcross will not help her. He waits, looking down at her, looking at the unnaturally tiny waist, the swell of her breasts above her stays. Below the waist she is naked (as instructed, many times). Shawcross can see the blue veins in her thighs, can glimpse the dark triangle of pubic hair. Her stomach, hidden from view by wisps and frills of organdy silk, is stretch-marked from childbirth, as are her upper thighs. Shawcross sometimes pinches these marks and comments on them, because he knows they make Gwen ashamed.

“In your mouth,” Shawcross says as she parts his trousers and draws him out. “Tilt your head back,” he adds, and Gwen, well-trained Gwen, who hates this, who was introduced to the practice by Shawcross, obliges.

She is not proficient at it, even now after months of tuition. Shawcross, hands in pockets, hands playing with the black silk ribbons, grows impatient and bored.

He dwindles in her mouth, pulls back. Gwen looks up, eyes wide with anxiety. Shawcross would like to hit her; nothing would give him greater satisfaction than to wipe that stupid fearful expression from her face with one blow. However, he restrains himself; the perfect use for the black ribbons has just occurred to him. Until now he had allowed himself only to imagine their possibilities in the most general terms. Now a specific scenario forms in his mind. He at once hardens again. Gwen gives a small triumphant moan of pleasure; she reaches for him.

Shawcross knocks her hand aside, lifts her, pushes her.

“Turn around,” he says. “Kneel down.”

Obedient Gwen turns her back; she straddles the ottoman. Shawcross loops the ribbons around her wrists, tightens them, fastens them to the wooden pillars at either side of the bed. Gwen’s face is now hidden from him, pressed against the wings of the cherubim. This, Shawcross thinks, is an advantage; when he touches her he prefers not to see the expression in her eyes.

Standing between her thighs, Shawcross surveys the scene; since Gwen cannot see him, he fondles himself; his clean, carnation-scented white hands move gently at first, then more rapidly; his mind fires. He leans forward, rubs himself against the cleft between Gwen’s buttocks, notes (pleasurably) that she is now quite helpless and he may do as he wishes. This sense of power and ascendancy excites him further; he considers the idea (a new one this, as far as Gwen is concerned) of rubbing against her and spilling his semen onto her back; then he decides differently. The desire for outrage is intensifying, and also the desire to inflict pain; he slips his hand between Gwen’s thighs, feels the wetness there, and (face taut with distaste) rubs.

Women are slimy creatures, he thinks in passing (like snails, like slugs, both of which he loathes). He inserts one thumb into Gwen’s soft orifice and rotates it. Predictably, Gwen shivers against him; predictably, Gwen moans.

Time to begin the litany: Shawcross speaks in a mechanical voice, hardly conscious of the familiar words; the more he touches Gwen, the less he sees her. She has become, for him, a nothing; as his desire sharpens and becomes compelling, it is images of her husband, Denton, that fill his mind.

“How big am I, Gwen?”

“Big. Very big.”

“Bigger than your husband?”

“Much bigger, yes.”

“What would he do if he could see us now, Gwen?”

“He’d be angry. He’d be hurt. He’d want to kill you.”

“Did he ever do this? Or this?”

“Never. Never.”

“Did he get hard?”

“Not as hard as you. You’re so big. So hard. It frightens me. You—you fill me up. I want you to fill me up….” Gwen hesitates, but Shawcross is too far gone by this point to notice. His body trembles; he reaches forward and clutches at Gwen’s breasts, squeezes her nipples between finger and thumb. At that point, when Gwen foolishly departs from the script and murmurs again how much she loves him, Shawcross decides.

He releases his grip on her breasts, draws back, stands, holding himself in readiness and looking down at her; anger flares in his mind. He sees the black ribbons, Gwen’s spread white flesh; he smells her terrible wet pungent female smell. He looks at the folds and purses of flesh, two orifices; the desire to violate, to punish, grows stronger. Stupid, stupid Gwen.

Finally, aided by a little saliva, quietly applied, he plunges. Half in. He has never done this before; Gwen never knew such a thing was possible, and the pain is intense. Half in. Gwen screams. All the way in. Gwen screams a second time. Shawcross, gratified, clamps his hand across her mouth. Gwen writhes. It is over.

When he withdraws, finally (disgusted with Gwen, disgusted with himself), Shawcross knows he has made a mistake. It is twenty minutes past four; he has just ten minutes in which to calm Gwen down, help her dress—and he senses it is not going to be enough.

Face set, he unties the ribbons. There is nothing for it—he will have to act the lover. He does this, but it has little effect. Gwen is shaking; her face is blotched with tears; she will not look at him.

She seems not to hear the comforting lies; she seems not to understand when he speaks of the need for urgency.

“My dear, let me help you. Quickly. We must be quick. Your hair—and your face. You must wash your face. Gwen, think. It’s late. Your guests will be waiting.”

Slowly, Gwen lifts her head.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she says in a dead voice. “You shouldn’t have done that, Eddie. You hurt me.”

“Dearest, I know. I didn’t mean … it happened … on the spur of the moment. I wanted you so much—Gwen, it’s something people do—men and women—they can do that. You remember, I explained. There are many things, other things, that you hadn’t done before. This is just the same. It’s no different. I know it hurt you—but you have to understand, Gwen,
nothing
is forbidden. Not even pain sometimes. Men’s needs are different from women’s—you know that. Now listen, just stand up. Walk around a little, Gwen, try—”

“It was
wrong,
Eddie. Wicked.”

Gwen turns her face again and covers it with her hands. To the despair and irritation of Shawcross, she again begins to weep. In such a situation, given more time, Shawcross would usually risk coldness; he knows from experience that nothing brings Gwen to heel as quickly as the threat of offending him. His ultimate weapon is always her fear of losing him, but now Shawcross hesitates to deploy it. Now all that matters is getting Gwen back on her feet, into her clothes, and out of his room.

Shawcross sighs; he takes her hand. It will have to be said, there is no other way out. He looks at Gwen, a burning glance. In an injured voice, a passionate voice, he says, “Gwen, I love you. And because I love you, nothing we do can be wrong.”

This, to his relief, reaches her. The sobs cease; Gwen is very still. She lowers her hands and looks at him. Shawcross has never said this before (thank God, he thinks, that he kept something in reserve for emergencies). He waits for Gwen to melt, to fling herself into his arms; after that, it will all be easy. But Gwen does not melt; she does not fling herself into his arms. She looks at him, looks for a long time, and then, in a flat voice, a voice Shawcross does not like at all, she says:

“Do you, Eddie? I wonder.”

Then, to his immense surprise, she rises. Turning away from him she dresses, quietly and—for Gwen—efficiently. A sequence of seed-pearl buttons, thirty of them, each slipped into place, until bodice and jabot are fastened.

“I shall go back to my room now, Eddie. I will see you downstairs.”

Shawcross does not like this voice at all. It alarms him. Gwen sounds like a sleepwalker, looks like a sleepwalker, as she moves to the door.

Shawcross stands; it is he who hastens to her and reaches for her hand. Now, he is fearful; this new Gwen, this transformed Gwen, looks as if she might be capable of anything. She might be deciding the affair is over; she might be contemplating a confession. Shawcross, a physical coward, intends above all else to avert
that
possibility. Images of Denton Cavendish, horsewhip in hand, lurch through his mind. He embraces Gwen with passion.

“My dearest. Say you are not angry with me. Say you haven’t changed towards me. Gwen, please, you must let me explain—”

“I have to go downstairs.”

“Now you have, yes—but later. Gwen, this evening. We can talk then. We can meet then. Promise me, my darling. Swear you will. After dinner, after the comet—we can be alone then. You know we can—you said so. I’ll come to your room—”

“No, Eddie.”

“Then here. No, not here—” Seeing her expression, Eddie changes tack quickly. “In the woods then. Our place. Our special place. We can slip away separately and meet there. We could meet at midnight, under the stars—think, Gwen, just think of it. My dearest, say you will. I want to hold you in my arms. I want to look at you. I want to worship you. Gwen, please. Say you will.”

There is a silence; Gwen opens the door, looks out, checks that the corridor is empty, then turns back.

“Very well. I promise,” she says, and slips out through the door.

Left alone, Shawcross gives a sigh of relief, checks his pocket watch once more. He must go downstairs soon (it would hardly do to arrive at the same moment as Gwen, even from different directions). First, however, he must wash.

He moves quickly in the direction of the dressing room. As he approaches the curtained alcove he stops for a moment, thinking he heard something—some movement. He pulls the curtains aside; the room beyond is empty; the bathroom is empty. Yet something is wrong: The service door is unlatched. He closed it—surely he closed it? Now it is open a crack; even as he looks at it, it moves a fraction on its hinges and then subsides, as if some distant draft had caught it.