Was this why Moker had taken over the woman’s body, to indulge in sex with strangers, to debase her, soil her? But why? What was the point? To live vicariously through her for a short while? I was sure my first thoughts were right as I recalled the television and newspaper pictures of the previous victims, all of whom were smart and successful career people.
Moker wanted to be them, if only for a short while. And he wanted to enjoy what was probably impossible for him, because of his awful facial disfigurement, through them. He had possessed the fresh corpses for a while—did the bodies finally lose all strength and motion, was their after-death condition a very temporary situation?—only to degrade them, shame them, perhaps even to enjoy them. Only when he was satisfied—physically as well as mentally?—did he leave their bodies in some lonely place where he could return to mutilate them without interruption.
The four people I was following, three Arabs and one dead woman, suddenly changed direction and, using a busy zebra crossing close to a big corner store, crossed the road. I trailed behind.
The men were dressed smartly, two of them in light summer suits despite the obvious autumn chill; the third one, the serious one, had on an expensive-looking leather jacket. All wore good-quality shirts and ties and their shoes were highly polished. They might have been brothers, so similar were their features, although one of the suited men was a little overweight, his paunch overhanging his belt. His hair was sparser too, a light-brown shiny pate beneath carefully groomed hairs, which caught reflections from the lights spilling from the shops and the big store. On the other side of the road, they diverted into a sidestreet, and I noticed they had stopped talking now. Nobody was laughing anymore, either.
The woman’s legs suddenly gave way and she almost fell to her knees, but the men gripped her tightly, hauling her up again and supporting her, their faces now grim, angry even. The one in the leather jacket snapped at her and I heard her burble something incoherent. She plodded along between two of them, her motion still unsteady, but not as bad as a moment ago.
Few pedestrians walked this sidestreet, although traffic still made its way towards Queensway where it was as busy as ever. This area of Bayswater was always vibrant, whatever the hour (except for the very early hours of the morning), but the further we moved away from the main thoroughfare, the fewer people we saw. The three men had quickened their step now, almost dragging the woman along. They crossed a narrow sidestreet and one of the men gesticulated, pointing towards the darkness at the end of it, but the one in the leather jacket shook his head and growled something in their language.
I was quite close to them, guessing their intent, but unable to do a thing about it. They soon reached another narrow sidestreet and this time Leather Jacket nodded and indicated with his head. He probably knew the area well.
How could this be happening? I repeatedly asked myself. The woman was dead, her heart had been stopped by a long sharp knitting needle. How was it possible for her to walk and talk, how could Moker manipulate her so? I could only reason that once the soul, the spirit, the vital spark of life itself, whatever, left the human body, it still took some time for it to run down completely. It was as if a dead battery had been replaced by a working one. Absolutely crazy, yet here was I, witness to that craziness.
There were no moving vehicles in this little street, only parked ones, and the further we went, the blacker it got. Several of the overhead lamps were out of order, and this was why there were so many inky shadows.
The group reached a junction and one end of it was a cul-de-sac, unlit shops on one side, darkened commercial buildings on the other. The woman was dragged in this direction and she did not resist, the slowness and awkwardness of her pace the only reason for leading her. When they reached a recess that was the entrance to one of the commercial buildings, they pushed her into its pitch-black shadow.
She tripped over the wide stone step and once again they hauled her to her feet, this time roughly. I moved in closer, knowing what was going to happen, wanting to help the woman—her, not Moker, the man inside her; he knew what he wanted—desperately thinking of what I might do. If I’d been flesh and blood I’d have waded right in, three of them or not. But I was just… nothing! I couldn’t scream at them, I couldn’t touch them. Dear God, I couldn’t even frighten them.
The leader of the pack wasted no time. His hand went straight up the woman’s tight skirt, the triangular split at the side helping his wrist hitch up the material. I was used to the bad light by now—either my eyes had grown accustomed to it, or in my out-of-body state I could see more clearly than before—and I saw the other two men—the other two animals—pulling at her jacket. One paused for a moment to unzip his flies and release his aroused penis, a squat fat thing that should have been an embarrassment, and then Leather Jacket followed suit, the fingers of his right hand still busy beneath the skirt. The woman was laughing, an eerie hollow sound in the darkness, her head back against the metal door behind her. She twisted her face from side to side, her eyes half-closed, pupils hidden by the drooping upper lids.
Leather Jacket, his member standing proud from his trousers, yanked at her panties and tights, and they came down to her knees. His right hand disappeared again and her upper body fell forward, then shot back against the door, the back of her skull smacking against the metal. Still she laughed, an insane roar that seemed hardly human, and the two other men ripped open her jacket to crush her breasts under feverish hands.
By now their leader had hitched up the skirt to her waist and was attempting to thrust himself inside her, his knees bent, one hand on her hip, the other guiding his swollen penis. His two companions were becoming frantic, pulling at her blouse to expose her breasts. The bloody wad of material that had helped stem the flow of blood from her dead heart fell to the ground.
I heard Leather Jacket, who had found his way into her, exclaim something in Arabic, probably a curse, as he wondered why he was suddenly becoming wet. He pulled away from her without withdrawing completely and touched the dark running stain that was soiling his white shirt. I’m not sure if he could see the blood in the poor light, or if he smelt it, but he seemed to know immediately what it was. The blood had not yet had time to cool or begin to congeal in her veins and now it flowed copiously, overwhelming the needle’s round blunted end, running down her front, between her spread legs, soaking her panties and torn tights, spattering onto the stone step beneath her.
Leather Jacket pulled away completely, his penis catching the blood flow. He made a sharp disgusted sound and instantly struck out, slapping the woman’s face hard. A moaning kind of laugh came from her and the two Arabs on either side quit their rough, fumbling fondling and stared at her. Then they looked towards their leader and angry words were exchanged between them all.
I could just make out their expressions in the darkness and they were ugly, maybe as ugly as their souls. One studied his hands and saw that they were darkly stained with what could only be blood. He struck out at her, and now his bloodied fist was clenched, the blow a hard punch. She tottered against the Arab on the other side and he angrily pushed her away, back into his companion, who punched her again, catching her upper arm. Whether she—Moker—felt any pain, I’ve no idea, but her low laughter became sharper, which seemed to annoy the Arabs even more. They started to flail her body with their fists, the leader, his penis still in evidence and still hard, stepping back to kick her. The first kick hit her knee, which buckled, the other two assailants whacking her as she went down. When they discovered that their nice light summer suits had become bloodied, they really lost it. They began pounding her, kicking her as she sank into a corner of the recess.