Silk Over Razor Blades (5 page)

Her fingers trembled. ‘But
won’t they want to talk to me? Like an interview? I’m not up to
that— I’m a mess. My hair is a wreck. I need a shower. I
stink—’

‘They don’t care how you look,
babe. They’ll want to know what happened. Let me check the front
door.’ He walked out.

Lenina leaned back on the bed,
gnawing the end of her thumbnail.

Alone, she had time to take
stock of her body. The mirror above the dresser helped her do
so.

Blood formed crusty patches on
her face and neck. The right side of her throat bulged with thick
layers of crimson, still wet in places. Knowing her manicure was
ruined, she scraped at her cheek, picking until she found the skin
beneath. Red raw and ugly, the slender scratch started near her ear
and ended in the crease of her nostril.

She whimpered and closed her
eyes.

The ginger stranger flashed
beneath her closed lids, face pinched with pleasure. She heard the
grunt from deep in his throat and the stench of stale cigarettes
clinging to his filthy clothes.

Her eyes flashed open.
‘Nick!’

‘What? What’s wrong?’ He dashed
back into the room still holding his mobile.

Lenina sagged against the
dresser. Her knees trembled. A great weight filled her chest as she
remembered. As the true horror of that night penetrated her shock.
‘He attacked me,’ she whispered. ‘I could have died.’

‘It’s okay, babe.’ Nick dropped
the phone and pulled her against him.

‘What if he’d hurt you? It
would be my fault. I can’t even remember what he did. Everything’s
foggy and distant. What if he
did
do something to me? What
if he—?’

‘You had all your clothes on. I
arrived in time, remember?’

Lenina couldn’t shake the
nagging sensation that Nick was wrong. She stared into his eyes,
seeking comfort in the familiar blue.

‘The police told me since we’re
home and no one was hurt, it isn’t an urgent case. Someone will be
over to take a statement soon.’ The tight emphasis on ‘soon’ made
clear how he felt.

She picked at her clothes. Ran
her fingers through her bloodied braids. ‘I’m gross. Blood . . .
grass . . . I need a shower. Come with me?’

He arched an eyebrow.

‘It’s faster together. And I
don’t want to be alone. Please, Nick.’

‘Sure.’ He took her hand and
towed her into the bathroom.

***

Standing in the shower, water
drumming her back, Lenina shuddered beneath Nick’s hands as he
stroked her shoulders with slippery hands.

Lenina wriggled away. ‘You’re
slimy.’

‘It’s gel.’

‘Wash it off.’

‘You don’t like it?’

Staring at the tiles on the
opposite wall, Lenina brooded on how much the slick glide of gel on
his fingers resembled the sensation of fresh blood against her
skin.

She remembered the stranger as
he’d gripped her shoulders, and the way his mouth dragged down the
side of her face to reach her throat. The warm lap of his tongue.
For a moment she returned to the park, pinned beneath a cruel,
foreign weight.

Even with the blood swirled
away down the plug hole the smell lingered, clogging her nostrils
like wads of cotton wool. Her face stung and, despite her best
efforts, water slowly soaked the bandage against the side of her
throat.

She jerked free and stood
directly under the shower head, letting the water pound her skull
and paste her braids against her face and back.

Hot water sluiced over her neck
and she caged a groan behind her teeth. ‘Damn it.’

‘Don’t get any more water on
it, babe. If you really don’t want to go to the hospital we have to
make sure it doesn’t get infected.’

‘It hurts.’

‘I’ve got painkillers
downstairs.’

‘No good down there, are they?’
Lenina snapped. A sigh followed. ‘Sorry. This isn’t your
fault.’

Nick touched her shoulder.
‘Please let me take you to hospital.’

‘No.’

‘Can I hug you at least?’ He
stepped forward to wrap his arms around her, but the slick of
shower gel on his hands took Lenina back to the park.

She shoved him away. He slipped
on the bottom of the bath. Fell. Swore, a rough burst of
Afrikaans.

‘Sorry! But I can still feel
his mouth and his breath in my ear . . . that horrible smell . . .
when you touch me with that stuff on your hands I feel it all
again.’

The water plastered his blond
hair flat to his head. ‘Nina . . .’

‘I’m so sorry.’ She clutched
her face.

Nick’s lips compressed into a
tight, thin line. ‘Tell me what to do. I don’t know how to help
you, but if you tell me . . . I could make some tea?’

That brought a faint smile to
her lips. ‘That’s probably the most English thing you’ve ever said
to me.’

‘I have my moments, né?
Do
you want one?’

The mere thought of drinking
made Lenina’s stomach cramp but the helpless look on Nick’s face
was far worse. ‘I guess.’

His shoulders relaxed. ‘Kwaai.
I’ll do that now. Shout if you need me.’

She nodded, hugging herself
beneath the shower jets until he climbed out and vanished from
sight. Only when the bathroom door closed did she release the
breath she held.

Minutes later she exited the
shower, skin tingling from the harsh scrubbing. Wrapping her hair
in one towel and her body in another, she stepped over the pile of
bloody clothes and returned to the bedroom.

The first thing she saw was the
bed, dotted with leaves and flakes of dried blood.

A scream bubbled in her throat,
but she held it back and channelled the nervous energy into her
breathing.

Slowly in. Slowly out.

Again and again she repeated
the exercise and then stripped the bed.

She did so faster than ever
before, handling only the edges of the sheets where blood couldn’t
touch her fingers. Wadding the whole thing into a ball, she dragged
it to the bathroom and left it with her clothes.

With the sheets gone and a
clean body, Lenina immediately felt better.

Even the room smelled
better.

She closed her eyes to enjoy
the silence.

Darkness consumed her mind’s
eye, filled with jagged shadows thrown by the branches of bare
skeletal trees. Terrible laughter rang in her ears. In the dark she
saw steel-grey eyes, ginger hair and yellow teeth. Fruity shower
gel gave way to the scent of old cigarettes and mouldy meat. Almost
strong enough to taste.

She opened her eyes with a
gasp. Her heart’s thudding seemed louder in her ears than ever
before. She could feel it in the side of her neck. Her fingertips.
The back of her throat. She swallowed and took a deep breath
through her mouth, to cleanse the scent of old smoke.

‘Smoke and blood,’ she
murmured. ‘Alexandria burns.’

Lenina slapped her hands over
her mouth.

The memory came crashing back
like slap to the face: sand, swords, bodies strewn across the
ground like so much waste. Blood everywhere. She saw it all through
the eyes of a man with strong square fingers, a deep, rumbling
voice and a lingering ache in his chest. She felt the grit of sand
through his sandals as he walked back towards a city slowly burning
to the ground.

‘Nick . . . ?’ Her voice barely
carried.

Charred flesh; its reek filled
her nostrils.

Lenina lurched forward,
stumbling against the dresser. Pots of moisturiser and make-up hit
the floor. She clutched her stomach as the vision returned, playing
bright and clear, using the back of her eyelids like a projection
screen.

Smoke hung low over a city
composed of golds and browns. No cars. No street lamps. No greens
but for the occasional flower display, trampled by dozens of
marching feet.

‘Nick, help me!’

A girl, no more than six,
crouched behind the body of a woman, clearly dead from a savage
slash to the throat. She cried and held out her hands as Lenina
came closer. Cried out for
Captain Saar
.

Lenina came to herself with her
head cupped in her hands, her body bent double against the
floor.

Through the carpet, she heard
the doorbell ring and knew the police had finally arrived.

Lenina tugged a dressing gown
over her chosen pyjamas before trudging downstairs. She kept the
towel wrapped around her damp hair. On reaching the living room,
she saw two strangers standing over Nick. He sat on the sofa,
cradling his head in his hands.

She crept into the room and
hugged herself, flinching when three pairs of eyes turned towards
her.

‘Nina . . . this is Inspector
Brad Thorne.’ Nick pointed to an older balding man whose stomach
hung out over his belt and strained his shirt buttons. His tie
dangled at half-mast.

‘
Detective
Inspector.’
The man spoke with the faint wheeze of a long-term smoker. His
narrow eyes, the colour of grave dirt, scanned the room from top to
bottom, taking in everything from the cobwebs in the far corner, to
the mismatched shoes beneath the radiator.

‘Sorry.
Detective
Inspector Thorne. This is Detective Sergeant Tristen Blake.’ Nick
gestured to a younger man, nearer her age, with lively green eyes
and a tailored suit.

He smiled. ‘Nice to meet you.
Sorry it’s in such unpleasant circumstances.’ He held out his
hand.

She took it and watched his
fingers envelop her own. A plain silver ring circled his smallest
finger. An expensive watch nestled beneath his sleeve, exposed as
the fabric slipped back over his wrist. When he pulled back, his
fingertips trailed over the back of her hand.

‘And you.’ She spoke
automatically, wiping her damp palm against her thigh.

Sergeant Blake nodded and
pulled a new notebook from his pocket. He removed the wrapper as he
spoke. ‘I understand you were the unfortunate victim of an attack
in Grick Park. Tell us what happened.’ His gaze travelled over her
face, sweeping down then up before returning to her eyes. His smile
broadened. He took a step closer.

Lenina perched on the end of
the sofa. Nick reached for her, but quickly retreated when she
flinched away. She gave him an apologetic glance then relayed her
story, from leaving the bridal boutique to reaching the park.

As she remembered the chill in
the air and the whispers on the wind she saw Sergeant Blake lean
closer. Only then did she realise her voice had fallen to a
whisper.

When she reached the
reappearance of
Not-Homeless-Bob
, Inspector Thorne stopped
reading titles on the book shelves and yanked a notebook from his
own pocket. The dog-eared corners and grubby cover matched his look
perfectly. So did the tiny nub of pencil he tugged from the
spirals. ‘What did he look like?’

‘Not-Bob?’

He sighed and tapped his foot.
‘The attacker, yes.’

‘It was dark,’ she murmured,
casting another glance at Nick. ‘But . . . he was shorter than me.
Tubby. Gross clothes. Smelly. He looked like a tramp.’

Thorne peered over the top of
his notebook. ‘Can you be more specific?’

‘More than tramp?’

‘My colleague means can you
describe his clothes? Did he have any distinguishing marks?
Anything to narrow down his identity.’ Sergeant Blake glared at his
partner.

Lenina frowned, captured by the
sudden impression of two wolves about to fight for the position of
alpha.

She raised her voice. ‘He was
ginger, I think. Maybe grey clothes? And there were scratches on
his face.’

‘New?’ Sergeant Blake flipped
to a fresh page.

‘I’m not sure. One second they
looked small, the next they were huge.’ She gnawed her bottom
lip.

His face was right there,
swimming before her eyes like a mirage. Why then were the details
so hazy, as though obscured by mist? She tightened her jaw.

Blake tucked a wisp of hair
behind his ear. ‘What did this man do?’

Lenina hesitated. She looked
down at Nick and saw the worry in his face. She clasped his
hand.

His gaze snapped up, locking on
hers. He squeezed her fingers. ‘It’s been a traumatic night,
Sergeant. She doesn’t remember much.’

‘Fine. What do
you
remember, Mr Harrison?’

Nick straightened his
shoulders. ‘When I arrived they were on the floor. He was touching
her.’

‘Miss Miller?’

She gathered herself. ‘He
tackled me. I fell over. I tried to get him off, but he was so
heavy. Then Nick came and he left me alone. I guess Nick was the
bigger threat.’

‘I see.’ Blake didn’t look up
from the notebook. ‘What then?’

Nick swallowed audibly. ‘I
fought him. But he was strong for an old guy.’

‘How old?’

‘Early fifties, late
forties.’

Thorne sniffed. ‘That’s not so
old.’

Blake shot him a withering
look. ‘Then?’

‘He dazed me. When I could see
straight he was lying on Lenina again. I didn’t know what he was
trying to do, at the time it looked like he was kissing her.’

The younger detective glanced
at her. She met his gaze, surprised to see genuine pity there. The
expression warmed her. Gave hope and peace where, moments ago she
felt nothing.

‘Miss Miller?’

‘He lay on me and pinned me in
the grass.’ As she spoke, more memories hurtled back, strong and
swift, like a punch to the gut.

His lips on her throat and the
wet flick of his tongue. Unspeakable pain as his teeth broke flesh.
She heard it; a dull crunch like snapping celery.

Lenina looked at the floor. ‘He
bit me. On the neck.’

Thorne frowned. ‘Like a
dog?’

‘Sort of.’ She touched her
shoulder, near the edge of the bandages beneath her dressing gown.
‘And there was blood everywhere.’

‘What happened to it?’

Nick took over. ‘You guys took
so long, we couldn’t sit around covered in blood. We’ve had a
shower since then.’