Suzie and the Monsters (22 page)

Once inside the room, I have to restrain Cleo briefly until she can control the urge to jump ahead to the climax of the evening, to go, as the song says, Straight To... Number One. ‘Soon, honey,’ I whisper. ‘Very soon.’

I push Jenny onto the bed and kneel between her legs to return the favour that she has given both of us now. Cleo sits in the chair for a few minutes, looking grumpy and irritated, before stripping off and joining us on the bed to resume her erotic torture. In the relative privacy of the hotel room, Jenny is at last able to yield fully to her orgasms. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has woken up our neighbours with her cries of pleasure.

As soon as I sense that she’s reached the precipice of sleep, I kneel over her and wake her just enough that my eyes can place her in a trance. ‘I’m going to give you a little love bite now, just a little one, no one will see it,’ I tell her. ‘It won’t hurt. It will give you pleasure. Whenever you touch the mark you will remember the pleasure of my lips on your sex.’

To Cleo I say quietly, ‘Get a towel and a roll of toilet paper.’ When she returns with these, I lay the towel under Jenny’s thigh, and cover the towel near the leg with several layers of paper. Cleo paces round the bed impatiently, eyes glittering hungrily.

I bite carefully into the vein, until I can taste the rich, sacred fluid, and allow myself the luxury of a mouthful of that dark wine, before ceding my place to Cleo who dives down to slake her terrible thirst. I am unable to resist playing with Cleo’s breasts which hang so seductively as she kneels beside me, throat muscles working as she devours Jenny’s blood.

I ease Cleo away when I judge she’s had enough. She complains a little, but then lies back on the bed, staring at the ceiling and laughing quietly, while I take my turn, lapping at the trickle of blood until the twin wounds seal themselves. After cleaning her skin, I tidy away the towel and paper and kneel beside her. ‘Thank you, Jenny. You’re a good girl.’ Caressing the bite mark with my finger tips, I say, ‘Don’t tell anyone about this love bite. Don’t let anyone see it. Let it be a secret reminder of the pleasure I have given you.’

Feeling suddenly mischievous, I add, ‘Don’t wear knickers, Jenny, not unless you’re menstruating. They’re itchy and suffocating. And no tights either. They’re not hygienic. Wear stockings or hold-ups. They’re much sexier, and you will feel like a real woman, confident and powerful, when you wear them.’

Finally, after leaving a trigger so that I can return her to the trance later if necessary, I let her sleep and cover her. Climbing over to be with Cleo, we kiss, and lick the bloodstains from each other’s lips, and make love tenderly before falling asleep with me sandwiched in the middle.

Ghosts (Sunday)

At half past three in the morning I’m wide awake, having been playing with my new laptop for the past hour or so, transferring songs and stuff from my external hard drive. Stephen Hough is playing Rachmaninov at high volume in my ears, a fantastic performance of a fantastic piece, and my fingers are dancing across an imaginary keyboard. Perhaps it’s the enthusiastic hammering of my fingers during the finale that wakes Jenny from her troubled slumber. Frail, pale, she struggles out of bed, and staggers through to the bathroom, hands against the wall for support. She’s still wearing the Lorenzis, naked otherwise, which makes this an even more difficult journey, but she manages to reach the toilet without stumbling.

Reluctantly pausing the music, which is racing for the climax, I take off the headphones and phone Room Service to order tea, for three in case Cleo wakes up also. Jenny is very quiet in the bathroom, and after waiting patiently for a few minutes I check on her. She’s sitting on the loo, folded over, her long blonde hair falling in a tangled cascade about her bowed head. She looks like she’s fallen asleep, but after a moment, without looking up, she says, ‘I feel like shit.’

‘Come and sit with me. Have a cup of tea.’

She nods, still not looking at me, and reaches down to untie the black satin ribbons and free her feet from the sandals.

A knock at the door announces the arrival of tea, a sleepy maid with a tray stacked with pots and cups, which she places on the table next to the computer. She makes a point of not looking over at the bed where my sexy sweetheart’s secrets are all on display at the moment, but her attention is certainly arrested by the unexpected sight of Jenny in the bathroom. She blushes when she sees me watching her watch Jenny. ‘Men are overrated,’ I tell her, and she escapes the room quickly.

Jenny emerges gingerly from the bathroom, shivering a little despite the room’s warmth. Her nipples are hard, and bruised, the flesh around them flushed red. I don’t think Cleo has done any permanent damage, but Jenny’s going to be feeling that for a long time. I wrap the unused duvet around her before letting her sit, then pour the tea.

‘You don’t like Cleo, do you?’

‘Is that her name?’

‘Yes. It’s okay, Jenny. You can be open with me. I promise not to take offence.’

She studies me for a minute, then nods, but looks over at Cleo first to check she’s still asleep. ‘She scares me.’

‘And I don’t?’

‘Well, yes — but I’m more afraid of what I’ll let you make me do.’ Her voice is growing very faint. ‘I’m just a toy to her, something to use, and abuse.’ She sips her tea, meditating, eyes closed, and I’m content to watch her for a while.

When she’s finished her tea, I ask, ‘What about me?’

‘I’ve spent the last two weeks hating you,’ she says eventually. I can hear echoes of that hatred now in the sudden tension in her voice, and in the ferocity of her smouldering gaze. ‘I’ve hated you for raping me. I’ve hated you for making me into a whore. I’ve hated myself for enjoying it. What kind of sick pervert enjoys that. I lie in bed at night, unable to sleep, thinking about you. But you were wrong, you know. In my fantasies it’s you kneeling on the dirty floor forced to pleasure me.’ She falters, the passion giving way to fear.

I take her hands in mine, and wait calmly for her to relax again. ‘You have a lot of courage, Jenny, and I admire that. I’d love for you to write down these fantasies. Who knows, maybe you’ll get a chance to act them out.’

She smiles a little slyly at this. ‘It doesn’t mean anything if you consent to it. Anyway, that’s not what I want any more.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I don’t know,’ she whispers. ‘I went to the club on Friday to look for you. I wanted to confront you, to hurt you somehow, and yes, part of me wanted to do exactly what you did to me, or worse. You’re so bloody perfect. The idea of turning you into a cheap, filthy whore... well, you weren’t there, and I just felt stupid, and miserable, and at some point I realised I didn’t care about revenge, not really, I just wanted to see you again.’

‘Why?’

She shrugs. ‘I’m still struggling to understand it myself. I’ve never felt this way about a woman before. There’s just something about you, like you’re royalty, or something. You seem so certain of yourself, so in command. I want to hate you, but I also want to be you.’

‘I see.’ I think for a minute. ‘I want you to give me the shoes back.’ She frowns in confusion. ‘And don’t just hand them to me, I want you to throw them at me, hard, yell at me, call me names, as horrible as you like, tell me that you’d rather walk home in bare feet than be my whore.’

She stares at me for a while, not really believing what I’ve asked her to do, but then she starts trembling and suddenly her face contorts with fury. ‘Fine,’ she says. She looks around, and finding the Burberry heels in easy reach she grabs them and flings them at my face. ‘Take them, bitch.’ She goes in search of the Lorenzi heels, and throws them at me too. ‘Evil fucking bitch!’ she screams. Cleo wakes up in a panic, but I hold up my hand to keep her calm. Jenny is still raging. ‘Evil! Fucking! Bitch!’ For good measure she snatches up my Tributes and hurls them at me, and for once her aim is true.

I dodge the first, only for the heel of the other to catch my right eye, making me cry out with the shock of it. ‘Suzie!’ Cleo shouts, and scrambles out of bed to my side. I’m holding a hand to my eye in a vain attempt to lessen the pain. It stings like crazy. Soon, tears are streaming down my cheeks. Everything is blurred, and that’s looking out of my good eye. ‘Let me see it,’ Cleo orders, worrying for no good reason.

‘I’ll be fine in a minute, silly,’ I mutter. Fucking stings now, though.

Indeed, after a minute the pain fades and I am able to open both eyes, and blink away the tears. I can’t help laughing a bit. ‘You can’t say I didn’t ask for it.’ I give Cleo a long, gentle kiss. ‘It’s the middle of the night, honey. Go back to sleep. I’ll look after Jenny.’

Cleo looks round at Jenny, who’s sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at me anxiously.

‘I’m really sorry —’ she starts.

‘No!’ I interrupt her, glaring. ‘If you say sorry again, you really will have to walk home barefoot. Maybe naked as well.’ She shuts up.

‘Okay,’ says Cleo, grinning. She kisses me again then goes back to bed.

I bring Jenny back to the chair, wrapped in the duvet again, and pour fresh tea for her. She’s looking pretty exhausted. ‘Do you feel better now?’

‘I still hate you.’

‘No you don’t. You’re just confused about your sexuality.’

‘I’m not gay.’

‘That is obvious. Was always obvious.’

‘Then why did you choose me?’

‘I was feeling hungry, and you’ve got legs to die for.’

‘Have you done this before?’ She’s starting to sound angry.

I sigh. ‘I have done very many terrible things, and many terrible things have been done to me, but all that is nothing to the horror and suffering I have witnessed. What has passed between you and me, Jenny, is merely a difference in opinion of what is socially acceptable.’ I have to pause to cool the curdling anger invoked by the sudden flood of memories. ‘I refuse to be a victim,’ I say. ‘If you can face life with honesty and courage, you’ll see that all I did was open your eyes a little.’

My sudden passion and intensity has startled her, and she’s quiet for a long time. ‘I was wrong,’ she says. ‘You’re a lot scarier than Cleo.’

*

The phone rings at ten o’clock precisely. The hotel phone, that is, the one you use to get Room Service and which no one otherwise uses in this age of the ubiquitous mobile phone. I crawl out of bed and answer it. ‘Hello?’

‘Check your messages,’ says a man’s voice, then the connection dies.

Huh.

My mobile is in the pocket of my jeans which are draped over the back of one of the chairs. There’s one message, from an unfamiliar number. ‘Downstairs. 5 mins.’ I stare at this for a good minute. Someone wants to meet me. Someone who knows exactly where I am. Who knows my phone number, and, almost certainly, even my new name.

The phone’s the giveaway, the weak point. Someone has made the connection from Alia to me via Jamie’s mobile. It has to be someone at SOCA, but then why aren’t they breaking the door down and surrounding me with guns and tasers?

I reply, ‘Make it 15.’ I join Cleo in the shower, washing and scrubbing with such haste that Cleo picks up on my tension. ‘What’s up?’ she asks as I pour apricot-scented shampoo into my hair.

‘Not sure,’ I reply. ‘Something spooky.’

‘What, like ghosts and stuff?’

‘No,’ I laugh. ‘Spies, intelligence, James Bond stuff. Something.’ I rinse the lather from my hair and step out, reaching for the towel. Five minutes later I am dressed, Desigual and Tributes, my hair bundled up in a towel. I grab a brush and open the door. Cleo is standing naked, wet and delicious in the bathroom doorway, watching with a bemused expression. ‘Downstairs when you’re ready,’ I say on the way out.

I’m still brushing knots out of my damp hair as I emerge from the lift into the lobby, the white hotel towel draped over one elbow. Sitting by himself on one of the creamy leather sofas is the man who was with Ricky on Friday. His eyes when he catches sight of me now are filled with curiosity, mixed with self-satisfaction. I don’t get any sense of danger, that this is a trap. He stands as I approach and holds his hand out for me to shake. ‘Thank you for meeting me, Miss Kew.’

‘SIO Wallace, I presume?’

He smiles. ‘Call me Ian. Mind if I call you Suzie?’

‘Please do.’ It occurs to me that he may only know the name I’m using now, not that there’s a whole identity built around it. That he still thinks Suzie Kew is my real name.

‘Can I get you something to drink?’ he offers.

‘A pot of tea would be lovely.’

He nods. ‘Have a seat,’ he suggests, indicating the sofa. ‘I’ll be right back.’

While Ian orders drinks over at the bar, I sit where he sat, and open the folder he left on the table. There are a lot of photos. Me outside Alex’s, although unclear. Several of me at the Renaissance, some with Cleo or Alia. A series of me with Cleo outside Dave’s Place, some showing the Albanian psycho with the knife. The Albanian appears in several other photos that look like long-distance surveillance pictures, and in two of these he is standing next to John Smith, the man who shot me.

There are forensics and postmortem reports. A ballistics report for the bullets that killed the Albanian indicates that the same gun has been used for a string of other murders over the past year. No details are given of these other cases. There’s a document listing pornography found at Alex’s house and on his computer — not the laptop I stole, obviously. Some of this has been categorised as ‘rape/snuff’. To my dismay, there’s also a postmortem report for Dave (it’s definitely Waterfront Dave), signs of torture, multiple stab wounds, indicated time of death Tuesday 2 p.m.

Ian sits down next to me. ‘As I’m sure you will understand, the Met’s enthusiasm for catching Alex Graham’s killer has dampened rather drastically. If it wasn’t for the general assumption that his killer was a hired assassin, they’d be proposing a medal for her.’

‘It’s a shame he was so well guarded. I would have liked to get some answers from him.’

‘You think Jessica might still be alive?’

‘Probably not, but it would be good to give her a proper burial.’