“Whoa,” he said, pulling back. “At least let me get warmed up first.”
Five minutes later they were upstairs, fucking like banshees.
Afterwards they lay side by side in bed, finishing off the wine. Abby rested her head on his chest and he stroked her dry, brittle hair. He ran his fingers along her long, smooth throat, and cupped one of her breasts.
She stirred, moaned, pulled up her head and kissed his chest. Then she turned her attention to the tattoo on his left bicep. She leaned on one elbow and traced the outline with her other hand.
“What is it?”
“A flower.”
“I can see that, you idiot. What kind of flower?”
“It’s a daisy, I think.”
“You think?” She kissed it, the tip of her tongue flicking lightly at his flesh.
“Yes… it’s a daisy.”
“Does it mean anything? Anything particular, like?”
He shook his head. “No, not really. It just means I was pissed when I got it. See the weird black lines around the petals? I liked the look of it. I had it done when I was eighteen, after an all-day drinking session with a few mates. Not one of my finest moments, I’ll admit. In retrospect, I wish I’d got something more profound.”
“Like a British bulldog?”
“A Union Jack or a football badge… perhaps a scroll with the word ‘mother’ on it.”
She laughed softly. Pulling away from him, she lay on her back with her breasts exposed. The nipples were standing up like bullets. Her skin was corpse-white, apart from the few faint mucky smears he’d noticed earlier.
Marc shifted his position and lay on his side, so that he could watch her reaction to his question: “That bloke, the one who came to see you the morning I was here…”
“Erik? What about him?” Her face was impassive as she stared up at the ceiling.
“He was Tessa’s dad, wasn’t he?”
She nodded, but didn’t speak.
“He threatened me. Warned me off, told me he’d hurt me if I came around here again.”
“But here you are.”
It was his turn to nod. He stroked her arm and once again cupped her breast, unable to keep his hands off her.
She smiled. “Don’t worry.” She closed her eyes. “He does that all the time. He can’t stand to see me with someone else. It’s partly my fault, I suppose. I used to go with men right under his nose, rub it in his face. Just to hurt him, like.”
“Why would you want to do that — hurt him?”
She sighed and opened her eyes. Her breasts rose and fell, filling and then emptying the motionless palm of his hand. “Because he’s a reminder of the way things used to be, when Tessa was still here. I can’t stand to even look at him because whenever I do, I think of her. I see her, standing there, holding his hand and smiling. She loved her Dad… and he loved her, in his own way. He loved us both too much, and not enough.”
“I see.” But he didn’t; he didn’t see at all. She was making little sense, but he was too tired to go into it any deeper. Let her have her rants, her furies. Just as long as they could fuck: as long as she allowed him inside her, where it was cold and harsh and compelling.
Before long he heard the sound of her snoring. It caught hold of him, that sound, and he felt himself slipping away, entering a light sleep. He was still clasping her breast in one hand. The nipple was hard, but it started to soften as she slumbered. He tried to open his eyes but it was impossible. When finally he did open them, she was gone from the bed. Time had passed but he wasn’t sure how long. The bedroom door was open. There was a light on somewhere along the hall, coming from an open door.
Tessa’s room.
He got out of bed and put on his clothes, feeling drowsy and disorientated. He left the room, walked along the hall, and stood outside the room, looking in. Abby was there, naked, kneeling before the pile of clothes and toys and paper. Her left hand was thrust between her legs, working furiously. There was sweat on her brow. Her shoulders were hunched, her back arched. When she came, she did so silently. Then she stood, walked past him without noticing, and returned to bed. By the time he’d followed her back into the bedroom, she was once again sleeping. He stood there, listening to her snore, wondering exactly how fucked up she might be. Wondering if she was more fucked up than he was.
HE WALKED BACK to Harry Rose’s place. It wasn’t far, and by now he knew the way. The night air was warm, the moon and the stars were bright, and most of the streetlights were still working. Voices carried on the air; he heard the distant sound of a revving engine; an alarm started to blare, but it was too far away to bother him. Occasionally, he glanced back over his shoulder, certain that he was being followed, but there was never anyone there. One time he thought he glimpsed a shadow — not much, just a swiftly moving dark patch. It looked like it might be a dog, but its head was much too large, lolling on a thin, stalk-like neck. He only caught sight of it for a second, and then began to doubt that he’d seen anything at all.
Back at Harry’s place he locked the door and checked the ground floor windows were secure. Everything was good; he was sealed safely inside, where no one could get to him. He tried to shrug off these paranoid thoughts, but they wouldn’t let go. They clung to him like strands of silk, sticking wherever they touched.
The sex and the wine had exhausted him, but not enough that he’d wanted to stay at Abby’s place until morning. He’d left a note on the bedside cabinet, a hastily scribbled message telling her that he’d call her in a few days. He figured that it was enough. If she didn’t want commitment, it should be plenty.
He sat down on the sofa and grabbed the remote control, switching on the television. Harry had only used the normal terrestrial channels: no cable, no satellite. There wasn’t much on at this late hour, just a re-run of some old black and white American sitcom, a documentary about insects, and news programmes. He left on the documentary, staring at images of mandibles and segmented exoskeletons. Before he knew it, he was dozing again, the world growing dark and empty.
He woke to the sound of movement. At least that’s what he thought. He couldn’t be sure, because he had been dreaming of movement, too: massive insects, crawling across the estate, scuttling through the darkness.
He sat up and felt the muscles in his neck tighten. He rubbed at the area, trying to ease the pain. “Fuck…”
The sound came again: this time he heard it properly, something shifting upstairs, like furniture being moved. The television was off but he couldn’t remember if he’d done it or not. Hadn’t he gone to sleep with it still on? The room was dark, with only a chink of streetlight leaking through gap in the blinds.
Marc was no longer alone. He could feel it, just as he could feel the sofa beneath him, the cushion pressing against his back. It was not some abstract emotional sensation, but a physical realisation that he was not the only one occupying the space between these walls. There was somebody else inside the house.
He thought about leaving but he would feel cowardly if he left without checking that his suspicion was true. His mobile was somewhere near by — perhaps even in his pocket — but he didn’t want to call the police. He wasn’t sure how he knew this, but a burglary was not taking place. Whoever was in the house, they meant him no harm. He was afraid, but he felt in no danger. If they’d wanted to hurt him, they could have done so while he slept.
He remembered the man who’d threatened him, Erik Best. Abby’s ex. What if he’d been watching the house, and then had followed Marc back from her place?