BiteMarks (7 page)

Her name is Meg, never the formal Meghan, and she is effortlessly beautiful. Even her small imperfections, a small bump at the bridge of her nose and a thin white scar in her hairline, are perfect to me.

I study her and she in turn studies me in the half-light cast by black candles, her left eyebrow raised and bee-sting lips pursed in her standard unconsciously suggestive manner. She is the image of paradox, even to my naive scrutiny. Her facial expressions and maturing figure a caricature of that dangerous blossoming adolescent sexuality, the body language incongruous, all rounded shoulders and awkward toe-scuffing shuffle.

She lines her jade green eyes with kohl black, pointed and elongated in the corners, with deep purple eye shadow finishing off the bruised feline look. The same shade of purple coats her lips and nails, and she has a small silver stud in her nose. She has no need for hair dye or pale foundation, having been blessed with near translucent white skin and naturally raven colored hair; hair that she hides half of her face behind for much of the time, either chewing at a loose strand or twirling it with her finger.

Most of the time Meg conceals herself with grungy Goth clothing, a riot of wrinkled black velvet with purple silk linings, accompanied with leaden black boots with metal studs and foot high soles. Now she is naked though, her skin smooth and pale, with fine downy blonde hairs at the base of her spine and a silver ring piercing her navel. She is breath-taking. Her eyes catch the flicker of flames, appearing for an instant to be ablaze like pools of burning chartreuse.

“
Don't be afraid, I want this. I was born wanting this.” Her voice is soft and urgent, our eyes meeting and locking for that instant – an eternity.

I place a hand on her cooling shoulder, feel her trembling, and score a shallow gash, pausing for long moments to watch the dark blood beginning to run down her back. As my lips touch the bloodied flesh and my tongue starts to lap tenderly at the wound, she moans softly and turns around to bring her mouth to mine.

Our eyes lock with an intensity that excludes everything else; the surroundings already fading from view. There is only this moment now; the movement of her soft lips over my own, mouths opening to share the delicate perfumed taste of her blood. Her hands move languidly over my torso and downwards, her legs encircle my waist, I lay her back on the soft velvet fabric and produce the blade for a second time. 

Our kiss deepens, my tongue sliding over and then entwining with hers. I thrill at the fleeting tension that enters and leaves her as the knife whispers delicately through her skin again, scoring a shallow groove just above the pale bud of a nipple. I pull gently away from the kiss in order to watch the beading trickles run over her breast and down the side of her body into the lush folds of the blankets. I bring my tongue down in contact with her again, desperate to taste the magical vibrancy of her life once more, a thousand times more if she'll allow me.

* * *

I wake with the familiar tang of copper in my mouth, as if the line between past and present had finally ruptured. Jade green dots dance in my vision tormenting me with the specter of memory, and the wind sighs amongst the trees with the noise of a sated lover, the cool contrast of the breeze striking my feverish skin, whispering fragmented syllables of comfort into my ears. I sit up disorientated, trying to clear her out of my head, and Ghost looks at me solemnly, short on sympathy as ever.

“
I can't undo what's been done, can't bring either of them back with sorrow alone, so don't start.”

Picking up his lead I stand, still unsteady but rapidly returning to my senses, and start to head back towards the car. The dog follows reluctantly in my wake, making loud huffing noises to signal his displeasure. He affects an obnoxious attitude that I probably deserve since I'm so often distant and lost amongst the tattered threads of thoughts, ignoring my progress in any given direction and striking out alone on his own routes. 

After my initial frustration at the dog's behavior subsides I find myself laughing quietly, Ghost returns to an approximation of obedience shortly afterward, presumably happy that his point has now been well made. 

“
I'd ask what I did to deserve a smart arse for a pet, but I guess it's entirely appropriate.” I ruffle the fur between his ears firmly.

* * *

The afternoon shift is mundane drudgery of the worst variety, an assortment of crap jobs successfully avoided by the day shift for me to sort out, and little in the way of excitement coming in on the radio. Marcus is on a day off for time in lieu and I end up on foot patrol around Broxtowe estate, popular with the public and politicians but not particularly useful when most of the 'crims' are in cars or on scooters around here.

I try to ignore the little prick who keeps circling in his rust bucket Metro, shouting out of the window in an attempt to get a rise out of me. Briefly entertain the thought of CS'ing him in the eyes on the next lap round and dragging him out by his throat, but decide against it, I can't be bothered with the paperwork after.

A small group of young children are crouching down around something on the floor up a side alley. They've probably got an average age of four or five, but doubtless they'll still be running around unsupervised when I clock off in the early hours.

“
Hi there, guys, what are you up to?”

“
Fuck off you nonce.”  The reply from a dirty faced scrap of a boy wearing ripped jeans and a yellowing vest, who screws up his face into what I presume is supposed to be an attempt at intimidation.

I clock what is on the floor before I can reply. It is a cat. A dead one judging by the pen-knife in the center of its head and the expansive pool of blood that it is lying in.

I crouch down and remove the knife folding the blade away, then drop it into the pouch on my utility belt.

“
Go home, now.”  I resist the urge to shout, but allow the anger to register visibly in my eyes and features before switching it back off again. The children scatter, even these mini-adults, devoid of the usual innocence that pass for kids here, know danger when they see it, and I leave the dead cat where it is, beyond my help now.

A dense black cloud of smoke is rising over the rooftops, coming from the unintentionally humorously titled 'green' at the center of the estate; older kids playing 'snooker' as usual no doubt, but I'd better go and take a look. The heavy chemical choke of pungent burning rubber confirms my suspicions before the blaze comes into view.

For kicks in these parts the local youths head out in teams, aiming to steal cars from red through to black in the same sequence as they are found on a snooker table. The first team to collect the black car then smash it into their pile of other vehicles and ignite the whole lot wins. Silver cars are a popular choice among the law abiding contingent who are unable to sell up and live elsewhere, nobody around here owns a pink or purple one.

Judging by the sheer amount of burning cars that greet me, there was a closely fought contest involving a number of teams today. Intense flames stretch out their fingers high into the sky, and there are at least a hundred youths gathered around the periphery, smoking fags and joints, swigging from cans of cheap alcohol and laughing too loudly when a tire explodes or heated glass shatters.

They see me coming from a long way off, but don't bother to disperse since I'm on my own and therefore not in a position to do a great deal.

I take my time approaching, and remove my gloves as I get close enough to feel the heat on my face, then hold out my hands in front of me making a pretense at warming them on the fire. The crowd gives a low rumble of incredulous appreciative laughter.

“
Well now, since there are one or two suspects for me to nick here, I guess you'd better start forming an orderly queue.”

Another low rumble of amusement from the group.

“
You think you're down with us now Mr Po-Lees?”

The aggressive challenge from a large muscular lad with neck tattoos, Scott Abbott, recently released after a ridiculously short stretch for GBH.

“
I don't really care either way, Scott.”

“
I can make you fucking care.”

I maintain my calm, anticipating, savoring “With the help of this lot you could, I agree, but not on your own.”

Scott turns scarlet from the gold neck-chain up, unable to rein in his quick temper as I deliver the end of the sentence.

“
Besides, I thought that it was only girls and wimps that you were brave enough to swing your fists at?”

The punch starts somewhere in the next county, a comedy wind-up devoid of all technique that I can see coming a mile away. I step inside the arc of the blow, driving my elbow hard into his jaw, snapping the head back and knocking him clean out. For my encore I catch him around the chest as he sags, ensuring that he doesn't smash his head on the floor and lower him down into the recovery position, ensuring that his airway is clear, once again I don't fancy the paperwork if I hurt him too badly. “If he doesn't wake up after a couple of minutes he'll probably need an ambulance, Just keep an eye on him and make sure he's breathing in the meantime. I think what you guys need here is marshmallows on sticks.”

I gesture at the raging fire, the comments directed at a group of girls watching open-mouthed, then walk away before the crowd remember that there are more of them than me, resisting the urge to take a bow. Just.

* * *

Her tone is low with arousal as she guides my hand between her legs, rocking gently against my fingertips and watching my reaction intently.  “I'm not looking for anything serious, but I believe in asking for what I want.

You know how it is, the job takes precedence over everything else and before you know it, it's been entirely too long.”

She gives a short self-conscious laugh. “Sorry did that sound desperate?”

“
No, not at all. My place or yours?”

“
Yours this time, Shane.”

The answer direct and non-negotiable, a good recovery all things considered, although I am entertaining the suspicion that I'll enjoy the subtle psychological power games more than the actual sex. One thing's for sure, I'm going to know an awful lot more about D.I Karen Cobb before the evening's finished. She catches my appreciative appraisal of her great body, but not the distracted trail of my thoughts, smiling at me as I gently stroke the soft fabric at the crotch of her trousers.

“
Not bad for a forty-two year old?”

“
Not bad for a lady of any age. Let's get out of here before they throw us out for public indecency though.”

She slips her arm around my waist, leaning into me as we leave the trendy bar that she chose, after having told me that she needed to have a quick chat with me after shift. The evening is mild, alive with a symphony of urban aromas around the Cornerhouse, Nottingham's hub of bars, restaurants and casinos. I can identify the alluring smells of grilling meat, infused with lemon grass and ginger, carried out of open glass doors on waves of heat and steam.

The short taxi ride home is a blur of wet mouths and searching tongues, punctuated by breathy promises and invitations.

“
I'm feeling very adventurous this evening, just tell me what you like and I'll do it.”

I doubt it. 

Somehow we end up inside my flat, crossing the space from the door to the bedroom in a constantly evolving embrace; shedding clothing, ignoring the rip of fabric and the sound of buttons dancing across the floor. She knows the choreography well, the pouts and caresses almost a blueprint of seduction, the lines carrying the suggestion of rehearsal. I wonder how many times she has done this before, and how many times that she'll do it again before she accepts, as I have, that it won't change how she feels for more than a few moments at a time.

I slip out of the uncomfortable unwelcome feelings, and leave them lying on the floor amongst the wreckage of our clothing, dragging my attention back to the woman in front of my eyes. Her features are earnest, the mask of alpha female confidence missing, making her appear unexpectedly vulnerable and weary. Can she see me for what I am too? I remember now why, as a rule, I don't do this very often any more. She takes me deep into her warm slick mouth and closes her eyes. Perhaps I'm being too hasty.

In the darkness I can feel the rise and fall of her flushed chest, warm underneath my still hand. I had assumed that she would dress and leave immediately afterward, but she had cuddled in like a needy child, falling quickly into a quiet slumber in my arms as if frightened that I might send her away. I can smell the perfume of her skin on my own, the gently erotic intermingling of vanilla with the soft musk of her most intimate folds. Strands of her stray hair twitch with my rhythmic exhalations, tickling my bicep playfully.

Karen had done everything that a normal man might ask, inviting me to touch, taste and enter her as I pleased and responding with frenzied enthusiasm. I had gently bitten her shoulder and buttocks, enjoying her response, but longing to draw blood and taste the essence of her whilst knowing that I could not.