TheRapist (16 page)

As the sun began to clamber solidly down the sky,
Jezzy
felt as though she might self destruct at any moment. Why couldn’t she emulate the sun? Strong and bright and reliable. She felt as though she was wilting, like a flower without rain. Tearing at the brown bread, she threw it to the ducks, watching as the seagulls swooped down to claim their fill, leaving the poor, puzzled ducks with barely a morsel, the ones with a ginger tuft on top of their heads and the black and white ones with strange feet remained hungry, while the greedy, verminous pigeons spread out on the ground in a huge grey, hysterical mess to pick up the pieces. Was she doing something similar to herself? Having it all laid in front of her, voluntarily taking it away only to leave herself with dregs? Was she just a pigeon? She sat down on a bench overlooking the lake and watched the water, the grey-blue shadows cast by trees that
held the promise of
wallowing in abundant blossom. Why couldn’t she just be easy on herself? She thought of Frankie and how easily and simply she had welcomed Manny into her life, despite her previous insecurities with affection. An ordinary procedure without the need for drama. They had met on the net, exchanged e mails, moved onto the telephone and arranged to meet. There, simple! Although Manny’s impromptu arrival had caused a little natural disturbance, it was one that Frankie had welcomed. So now Frankie was getting ready to go out on a great night out, without too many expectations and
Jezzy
was left alone to torment herself with vivid, unkempt thoughts about Adrian.

Throwing the last of the bread into the lake, she shook the bag out on the ground to release the last few crumbs. All at once, a desperately dark sea of pigeons were crammed around her feet, smothering the bench, their thick wings shuddering above her head, enveloping
Jezzy
in a sea of flapping, filthy birds. She looked up at the wallowing, grey sky, her feet and legs encased in the pigeon storm, tears welling in her eyes as she silently called to the skies for help.

*

Frankie and Manny

St. Martin’s Lane. The door was a mass of exquisitely dressed glamorous people as Frankie and Manny glided through the crowd, past the doormen and inside the hotel. They moved across the white lobby, golden lights shining on Frankie’s hair with every other step. Manny was gently touching her back, guiding her way. They walked towards the bar and he gave his name to the
short
, wiry guy at the door who smiled and showed them to a small table against the wall. The lighting was perfect, glistening and low and the music was soft. Frankie felt heavenly. This must be one of the moments people dream about but can’t quite believe when it comes true. One minute she was at the school gates with a bunch of clamo
u
ring, complaining mums or carers, the next she had been whisked away for a perfect night with a handsome man who had flown six thousand miles to be with her. It was strange, she already knew so much about him through their emails and although this was the first time they had been close enough to share the same oxygen, she felt like leaning across the table, taking his face in her hands and kissing his mouth. A clichéd shiver wove its way down her spine. Then he spoke.

‘Frankie, I have waited for this moment for so long.’

Was she dreaming? Did men really speak like this in real life? She kicked her ankle under the table, just to make sure she was awake, just a little too hard as the pink patent Kurt Geiger heel against her bare skin made her yelp.

‘Excuse me?’ said Manny.

‘No, nothing, it’s nothing, I just accidentally, never mind…’ Fra
nkie gabbled on. Perfect! Drivel
tumbling
out of her mouth to completely ruin the moment.

‘It’s funny Manny, I’ve been so excited about seeing you, but I’m still a little shocked I think, that you’re here. I’m ever so pleased that you are though.’ She hated herself for sounding like she was auditioning one of Enid Blyton’s offerings.

Manny
smiled
slowly
and her heart began to pound. Was Barbara Cartland lurking around the corner, hauntingly scripting this entire scenario
,
because
she
was almost
certain she had seen an array of pink feathers floating around the corner
?

‘I love the way you say ever so. You charm me Frankie.’ They gazed into each other’s eyes, and Frankie fervently wished that the lump in her throat would melt away.

‘What would you like to drink?’ asked Manny, as the waitress crouched by the table. ‘Champagne?’

‘Please,’ nodded Frankie, unable to tear herself away from his gaze.

He broke contact, momentarily, to request vintage Krug, then locked his eyes onto hers again. ‘I don’t know how long I can wait until I taste your lips.’

Frankie involuntarily choked. W
as this guy for real? Her heart
grew inside of her and her knickers began to moisten. He stood up, moved around the table, knelt beside her and cupped her face in his hands. Beautiful hands, tanned with a little hair. Looking into her eyes, he leaned forward very slowly and kissed her lips. The scent of him! Oh, he smelt so good, his skin, his breath, he tasted just right. And just like that, Frankie was lost. Or had she been found?

*

Devon

Devon stood outside the school, the wind howling around her collar and her black hair. Her eyes held a thunderous glare, grey clouds penetrating the topaz, glinting irises. An array of subdued colours, the sky darkened, deep smoldering purples edging into the horizon, nudging the daylight aside. She watched the lights being switched off in the windows, as the school was being prepared for sleep. A light still glowed in the hallway, illuminating that dreaded stained glass depiction. Devon had hurriedly left, leaving Mr. Birdman in a state of perplexity as to why she had fled so suddenly, this fainting stranger, knocking over the blue and white cup as she pulled herself from the bench, panicking as she fled for the door and freedom. Now she stood outside, half hidden by a beech tree,
the
thick, duplicitous trunk enabling her to remain unseen. She had not fully prepared herself for what she should do next. In her mind she had known what she wanted to do, thousands of times, but that had all been in her head. In reality, every time she fucked a
disgusting man, belittling him or
hurting him, whether mental or physical, whilst tearing away at her own self esteem, Mr. Birdman
had been one of those she had imagined
. In a small memory box inside her brain, she kept all of these thoughts, never letting them go, just
holding on to them as they putre
fied deep within her psyche. It had not been her idea to put them there. It was the therapists who had suggested it. Insisted upon it. Instilled it in her, so that any reluctance she had once had to regressing back to the past had been pushed aside to make way for her dark memory box, the one filled only with sad and frightening scenes. Now she had a chance to put it all right. To break down the sides and tear into the top and let those thoughts gush from her mind. Only then could she feel herself again. Maybe not completely
as
that was now a virtual impossibility, but at least then she could have pure thoughts and try to live a decent life. She could be Devon, at last. Only Devon. Maybe let herself fall in love and become a mother
. She could adopt a baby. Love somebody
. Love.

*

Frankie & Manny

Frankie woke up in Manny’s arms and as phantasmogorically a fairy tale this was, reality set in and her mouth still tasted of morning parch and her back ached. She felt as if she were a used up, dried out teabag, one that had been left at the edge of the sink overnight and
had become
twisted and hard. She wanted to raise her knees to her chest and rock her spine a little in bed, rotate her ankles until they clicked, do bicycles, stretch out her knuckles and brush the bacteria away from her teeth, do all her usual morning manoeuvres, but she couldn’t because she was pinned beneath a golden, hairy forearm with one male foot thrown across her calf. Her viewpoint was under his arm, which was hairy, slightly damp and smelt sickly sweet. Why couldn’t life exist in gorgeous lighting and fresh breath? It was OK if you knew someone well, slightly more tolerable anyway, but here was a guy she had been longing to see for ages and she knew that she shouldn’t have stayed the night with him in his hotel. Sex, yes. Sleep, no way. Sleep was much too intimate. Now he would see her in the morning and there was no going back from that. They would never have that sweet longing of anticipation for the first whole night. She had not started as she meant to go on.

A shaft of sunlight pierced its way through a crack in the curtain, briefly illuminating his face. It woke him up. Damn. She wished she were already in the bathroom, she wasn’t prepared to meet him face to face like this, not yet. Manny crinkled his eyes open and smiled down at her, or rather at the top of her head, which was nestled, no forced, beneath his arm.

‘Good morning Frankie,’ he whispered softly and coaxed her chin up to look at him. The sunshine hit her upturned face, her little pointed chin almost defiant in the morning light. Her eyes held a slight blaze, a cover, just in case this was to be the end before it had barely begun. To her surprise, his eyes softened as he looked at her. They were deep blue and slightly puffy beneath. Jet-lag or just the way he always looked in the morning? She smiled slightly. Trying to keep her lips together for fear of morning breath coming between them. Literally. She couldn’t though, because he had already parted her lips with his own, his tongue finding hers. Her first reaction was one of repulsion at this early intrusion. She wanted fresh mouths for both of them, a glass of wine
, soft music, muted
lighting, but it was too late, or rather too early. Manny was on her, in her, surrounding her and all the while whispering her name, leaving Frankie to forget the way she thought she should feel, to abandon herself in the harsh, vivid morning light
, having no option but to surrender
.

*

Devon

Devon lay in the single bed covered with the y
ellow candlewick eiderdown, pulling
it right up above her chin so that she could feel the soft, velvety channels against her cheeks. It was fleetingly comforting, reminding her of when she was a child. The same eiderdown, only hers had been green, the shade of oak leaves caught in the shadows of a summer afternoon.

Now, she lay in a bed in a room on the first floor of an Essex pub hotel. She had decided not to go back to London after the book signing at Lakeside, but to stay here in this place she had found with rooms for £35 pounds a night, cooked breakfast included. Nobody had recognized her here, for she had worn her blonde wig. In the morning she hoped she would have a proper fry-up. Nobody dare order anything so obscene in Los Angeles! Fried eggs, sausage and soft bacon with fat around the edges, not the crispy burnt kind that you got in every American diner. Warm, runny tomatoes, rubbery mushrooms and lots of fried bread, cooked to perfection in the fat of the pan. Her stomach rumbled at the thought of it, all served with piping hot, stewed, sugary tea, brusquely fit for a workman. Swiftly and quite shockingly, Devon felt safe. Another fleeting, momentary feeling that left an aftertaste of normality in its wake. Here, in this little room with oak beams, above a 15
th
century pub in deepest Essex, Devon felt a warm, secure place within her. A place that had been lost long ago. She released her mind to welcome it, imagining that she was curled into a ball inside this place of peace. Her eyes were closed, her lids calm and she drifted to sleep, lulled by the sweet melody of an owl.

That night she dreamt about Mary. About the love they had discovered all those years ago, when Los Angeles was new and fresh to both of them.

The dream
was
surrounded by a purple cloak, whispering in the warm night breeze. Mary and Devon were lying on a bed of fallen leaves, soft and fragrant be
neath them. Mary wore a translu
cent gown, made of palest blue gossamer. It trailed along her limbs, softly against her silken skin, draping
lanquidly along her body, covering her
glistening pink toenails
. Devon lay beside her, in a short tunic made from the fallen leaves of the oak tree. It skimmed her bottom and as
she leaned forward, her small breasts jutted defiantly from the confines of the leaves. She sat astride Mary’s feet and slowly began to move the gossamer up over her legs. Mary trembled slightly as the gossamer began to glisten between her legs. Devon placed her palm on top of the wet place, feeling the soft, moist mound beneath, then lowered her head, catching the gossamer in her teeth, lifting it away, all the way to the place she craved, to lose herself inside the sweet softness between the top of Mary’s legs, her hair falling in a silken black cloud across the soft lips as Mary’s breath fought in
her throat as she whispered Devon’s name. Devon did not stop at the sacred place, she wanted to wait a little longer. First she needed to feel Mary’s swollen, white breasts inside her mouth. She pulled the gossamer higher, until she saw them rising. Gasping at Mary’s sheer beauty, Devon gazed upon a waist as slender as bamboo and two majestic soft tits, with
nipples the palest shade of a milky coffee. She took one gently between her teeth, her lips wet with longing as she felt Mary’s nipple blossom and harden inside her mouth. She had never felt anything like this, it was an explosion of her mind, a fiery longing in her heart, a throbbing of her loins…