The Spectral Book of Horror Stories (30 page)

He had to laugh, although he wasn’t amused. “No, no,
Cassius
isn’t gay—nor is he English—nor
real.
It is called
acting.
”

She began nodding her head rapidly, like a tic. “Of course. I hadn’t thought…”

“Clearly not.”

She gave him an anguished look. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything—I wasn’t trying to—I’m sorry if I offended you. I was just so surprised, because, well… Cassius! He’s so real to me, I forgot. It’s just hard for me to remember, talking to
you…
that… even though you
look
like him, you’re not… not the same.”

“I know,” he said, trying to be kind. But he didn’t know how
anyone—
except the very youngest, most ignorant, mentally-challenged and obsessive fan—could confuse the player with the part. And especially when it was a case of an educated, urbane Englishman who had played the part of a crafty, hillbilly monster years ago. And if she really thought he was
anything
like Cassius, what on earth was she thinking, to invite him to dinner?

“It’s very flattering, truly, to think I created a character that seems so real and matters so much to you, but…” Light flashed, searingly, off the blade of a butter knife; he blinked and rubbed his temples, feeling the faint, insidious throbbing of an incipient migraine. “But… I have often thought fans, rather than seeking out actors they
think
they admire, should take advice from the Wizard of Oz—what were his words? ‘Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!’”

“Oh, no! I don’t agree
at all.
It was such a thrill to meet you! Such a
privilege!
I hope I haven’t offended you. I could just
shoot
myself, honestly, what an idiot, so stupid. I don’t have anything against gays—I’m not
like
that—it was just such a shock, to think of
Cassius
as… as… I mean, you agree, don’t you, that Cassius is
not
homosexual?”

It seemed to Anson that the fictional serial killer was driven by a lust for killing, not for what a normal person would categorise as sex, and that defining them by the gender of their victims was hardly significant, but he had no desire to argue the case with Elissa.

“You can claim him for heterosexuality— it doesn’t make him normal.”

“Oh, Anson!” She gazed at him reproachfully. “I’m not saying gay sex is abnormal! But Cassius is attracted to women. He doesn’t have sex with men, only women.”

“Before he
kills
them.”

She smiled. “But he didn’t kill
every
woman he slept with.” A major plot point had Cassius falling in love with a woman called Melinda Valentine, and then, after one night of passion, having to renounce her, as he struggled against his conflicting urges, to kill her, or to keep her safe. In the end, that love proved to be his weakness, as he was finally captured—his death was seen by fans as self-willed, a deliberate sacrifice to save the only woman he had ever truly loved. It was all a load of tosh; pernicious tosh, Anson sometimes thought, for it made no sense at all, morally or psychologically, and it had allowed the villain, a degraded, psychopathic monster, to become a romantic anti-hero in the eyes of many.

“Of course. Melinda Valentine. Amazing what the
right woman
can do.” Anson spoke automatically, his thoughts preoccupied by the tension building in his head, and the spot like an after-image in his visual field (he called it ‘the solar flare’). He wondered if he could get home in time to ward off the worst of the migraine with a couple of tablets and two hours lying perfectly still in the dark. “I’m sorry about this, but I’m afraid I have to run.”

“That’s all right—as long as you’ve forgiven my stupidity, and you’re still coming on Friday? Great! Seven o’clock? Here, my address and phone number. Give me a call if you need directions.”

#

The rental car had sat-nav, so Anson easily found Elissa’s house, although it was much farther away than he’d expected, more than an hour’s drive. Since he’d met her in a local cafe, he’d thought she lived in the neighbourhood.

But even at a quarter to eight, he was the first to arrive. He felt a flare of suspicion, as Elissa, bare-legged in a dark blue slip-dress under a grey cashmere cardigan, led him into her candle-lit living room, Tom Waits’ gravelly voice from the speakers, the air redolent of a herby tomato sauce and melted cheese, but empty except for the two of them. He felt better when he saw the glass-topped table had been set with three places.

“I was about to apologise for being late, but I see your other friend isn’t here yet.”

She shrugged, smiling. “Never mind. He’ll be welcome whenever he turns up.”

She took away the bottle of wine he’d brought, and returned from the kitchen bearing two large glasses of red.

“Cheers.”

They clinked glasses. He took a sip. It was not as good as the bottle he’d brought, but it was nice. Thinking of the long drive back, he resolved to be abstemious. Just the one.

Elissa sat down on the couch and patted the cushion beside her. When he sat down she moved, shifting her legs so that her short skirt rode up, revealing her thighs, and his mouth dried at what he saw there. Inked in shades of grey was a portrait of Anson’s face as he’d looked portraying Cassius Crittenden.

That was the moment when he should have leapt up and run screaming from the room.

Without the benefit of hindsight, he took a big gulp of wine, repressed his natural horror, and said, “I hope that’s not permanent.”

“Why?”

“For
your
sake, dear. Hasn’t it occurred to you what a
turn-off
it would be for anyone… anyone you cared to take to bed?”

She wet her lips, staring into his eyes. “Anyone… except Cassius.”

“
Especially
Cassius. Unless you think he’s an absolute monster of narcissism.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “No, of course not. I thought it would be like… well, I didn’t think. It’s not a real tattoo.” She scrambled to her feet and hurried out of the room.

He heard another door open and shut, and then the sound of running water. And that was his second chance—as he thought later—to make his escape, while that crazy woman was busy scrubbing Cassius’ visage from her inner thigh. But he wasn’t afraid, and he was hungry, the smells from the kitchen making his mouth water, and the wine she had poured for him tasting more delicious with every sip.

When Elissa emerged from the bathroom she was flushed and slightly bedraggled looking, her left thigh red and moist from its scrubbing. She’d taken off the cardigan, and the slight, sleeveless dress, dampened with splashed water and her exertions, clung to her body. She didn’t seem to be wearing anything else, and it looked more than ever like an undergarment, not meant for public view.

Anson jumped up, remembering his last film, set in the thirties, when gentlemen rose when a lady entered the room. He didn’t want her to snuggle up close, or reveal any other hidden secrets. Now that her arms were bared he saw she had a tattoo, maybe a heart, red and black, just below her shoulder on her right arm.

“Perhaps you should give your friend a ring,” he said. “Find out what’s keeping him. I hate to think of your delicious lasagne drying to dust while we wait.”

She stared for a moment as if not understanding, and then said flatly, “You’re right, we may as well eat now.”

“But your friend?”

“He’ll come when he comes.”

She brought out the lasagne and a bowl of green salad, and refilled his glass before he could stop her.

“I wonder… could I possibly trouble you for a glass of water?”

She giggled.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh, but… you sound so
different.
”

He guessed he’d been exaggeratedly, hyper-English—some Americans brought it out in him, especially when he’d been drinking. He looked again at his glass, to see how much he’d had, but of course he couldn’t tell, since she’d refilled it. Unnervingly, despite his resolve not to touch it, it looked not as full as a moment ago.

She brought him a glass of sparkling water, and he gulped down half of it immediately.

“Is the lasagne too salty?”

“No, it’s delicious. Quite possibly, as you claimed, The. Best. Lasagne.
Ever.
”

Light flashed off the rim of a glass, like a solar flare. He shut his eyes.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. No. I get these headaches. I’ll be fine. It’s just the light.”

But he wasn’t all right; he could barely stand. He didn’t understand how it could have come on so suddenly; it was never like this. Was he about to pass out? Surely he hadn’t had that much to drink.

He didn’t want to go into her bedroom, but that’s where she led him, into the blessed darkness, and he collapsed onto the bed with a groan.

“Please, leave me.”

“Can’t I do something?”

“Just leave.”

#

When he woke up, or came to, sun was shining through a gap in the curtains and he could hear birds cheeping monotonously outside. He had a dull, throbbing headache, but it was not a migraine. He was naked and alone in an unmade bed that reeked of sweat and sex—unmistakable.

The last time he’d had sex with a woman—more than ten years ago—drugs had been involved, but
that
had been consensual, and he could remember it still today. Not like the events of last night.

She must have put something in his wine.

He groaned and shut his eyes, thinking of her reaction to
his
reaction to the painted face on her thigh, remembering how she had emerged from the bathroom, moist and pink, scrubbed clean… for him.

Why?
Was it a fan’s scalp-hunting… or something more sinister? Did she want his baby?
Christ!

Ignoring the pounding in his head, he rolled out of bed, stumbled to the bathroom, vomited, then showered, attacking himself energetically with a flannel and shower gel until every last snail-trail of her touch had been eradicated.

Afterwards he prowled quickly and edgily through the house. It was obvious that she’d cleared out, knowing how angry he would be, but she might have left him a note. The dishes from last night’s dinner were still on the table, the food congealing on two plates, the third place setting pristine. Of course, there never had been a second guest invited.

He felt a lust for revenge, considered doing something destructive while he had the chance: smashing the glassware, breaking the TV, cutting up her clothes, pissing on the carpet… but he could imagine too well how that could backfire. She might accuse
him
of rape; might even get him convicted of
her
crime. Nobody would believe what had
really
happened; he could hardly imagine it himself.

At last he left, stopping along the way in a neighbourhood he didn’t know for breakfast at a fast-food outlet. He would never return to Blu Jam; he would change his habits for the few remaining days he’d be in this city. Although he had to go back to the apartment for his things, he decided to move into a hotel. At the thought that she might have discovered his address, might be waiting for him there, he went hot and cold, fury and horror combining in a toxic brew.

But there was no one in the apartment, which appeared unchanged from when he had left it the previous evening. Nevertheless, he began to pack as soon as he had changed his clothes, and it was then, as he checked the pockets of his jacket before putting it away, that he found Elissa’s note.

My darling

You’re reading this, so things did not work out as I wished. I knew the risk and chose to take it.
I did it for you
. I like to think that if we’d had more time together you would have come to love me as I love you. But since that didn’t happen, take it as my gift. No regrets.
I set you free.
Now go and live your life as it was meant. Think of me kindly, if you can. The next woman

He began to shake and tears of sheer rage blurred his vision before he could read to the end. He crumpled the note in his fist and tried to control his breathing. The bitch, the crazy, reactionary, intolerant, ignorant, vicious, mad bitch—how
dare
she? Dope him and force him to have sex with her, stupidly convinced it would set him free. And yet, although he couldn’t remember it,
something
had gone wrong; it wasn’t the happy experience she’d imagined, and she could only try to salvage her fantasy by running away, leaving this silly, deluded note.

He tore it to shreds. He would have burned them, but for the lack of matches.

It was nearly three o’clock in L.A. which meant it was 23:00 hours—eleven o’clock at night—in London; time for his regularly scheduled Skype with Harry. He washed his face and composed himself. Much as he longed for the comfort of his lover’s understanding, it was too strange and complicated a story to share now, when the distance of half a world still separated them. Better to wait until they were together, when he’d come to terms with what had happened, and knew how to tell the story.

Harry, sitting at the breakfast bar with his laptop open, his mug with the London skyline close at hand, the unkillable spider plant visible over his left shoulder, the print of wild horses on the wall behind him—the cosy familiarity of it all, softened by lamplight, might have made him cry, if only Harry’s beloved face had not worn such a grim, unwelcoming expression.

“All right, let’s hear it; make it good.”

“What?”

“Your explanation. Your
apology,
Anson, for that fuckwitted, demented phone call this morning.”

“This morning?”

“You’re going to pretend you don’t remember? I
thought
you were drunk, but really, that takes the biscuit. Time for the twelve steps if you’re having
blackouts
now…”

Pain lanced through his temples; he put his hands on top of his head to keep it from splitting open. “Somebody drugged me. Put something in my drink. I can’t remember calling—when did I call you? What did I say?”