TheRapist (6 page)

*

Devon

Devon opened the Blackberry attachment from her agent with the itinerary of her forthcoming trip. Her book had been such a success stateside, six weeks on the New York Time bestseller list so far, three talk shows, a national book tour and now her publicist had told her that she was going to launch it on a book tour in London. London. It had been a long time but now she was going back. As a different person. Devon Cage was going back to London, the city she had left
more than
twenty years ago. What was there for her? She had run so fast to get away, as soon as had been possible. She had left as a stupid, frightened creature and was going back a successful, confident woman. Her cell
rang, pounding out t
he latest hit from
the charts
. Really not her thing at all, but part of being Devon. Devon Cage. Who was Devon Cage anyway?

It was Dorothy her publicist on the phone. Such an old-fashioned name, but Dorothy was convinced she had been a Munchkin in a former life. Dorothy repeated everything she had sent Devon by e mail.

‘Devon, honey you’re booked on Virgin Upper Class, LAX to Heathrow and you’ll be staying at The Berkeley for a week. You’ll love it, it’s the hottest shit hotel in London. You’ll be signing the book at Harrods, Selfridges and two malls. Westfield and Lakeside. They say Lakeside in pretty far, Essex or something, but worth it for the fans. What do you say Devon. You are such hot shit baby and you are off to Oz!’

‘Thanks Doro, just pulling up for gas, speak later.’

Devon didn’t pull in anywhere, she just wanted time to digest.

Perspiration had begun to form along her forehead and her heart began to pound heavily. Essex. Again.

*

Alternative Devon

The dark, dank hallway of the ‘apartmotel’ stank of old beer and piss. Furry red flock wallpaper peeled from the grimy
, faded
walls, revealing green flock paper beneath. Strains of Chopin were paradoxically playing from an ancient, griping hi-fi in room 204, the 4 tilting away from the other numbers, as if drunk.

Devon, encased in a sheer black chiffon sheath, her hair covered with a pert little blonde bob wig, strode along the hallway to room 210 and knocked. Three times.

‘Yeah, come on in,’ croaked a male voice, laden with cheap whisky and beer.

She pushed open the door, the stench of the airless room blasting at her senses. In a fraying armchair, the padding oozing out of the faded fabric, sat a man
, another man,
in a graying ‘wife beater’ with thick fresh yellow stains dripping down the front. His shiny, rheumatoid fingers were grasping something half hidden between his wallowing fat, hairless thighs. He smiled at Devon, revealing yellow stumpy shoots of decaying teeth.

‘You again,’ he croaked, more sweat forming on his greasy forehead as Devon swept over to him, dropping her dress as she dropped to her knees.

‘You bitch, you…’ he began to pant as Devon reached into his filthy underwear, pulling out a mound of fleshy globules. A used up prick and saggy balls. Crap.

She looked him in the eye, disgusted by what she saw and spat out, ‘Shut your fucking filthy mouth you piece of shit.’ She wrenched the mass from the open zipper, catching it along the jagged metal teeth.

‘Owee!’ screeched the man with the fatty dick.

Devon pulled harder, twisting it in her hand.

‘Shut your mouth shitface, don’t breathe a word or I’ll leave now.’ Her breath was hot and sweet.

He sucked in his lip, puffing out his cheeks as she bent down. Devon Cage then took his filthy dick between her perfectly glossed lips and $20,000 worth of veneers, sucked the life out of him, then spat his stinking come straight in his eye.

‘You disgusting, dirty, fucking sonofabitch,’ her voice seethed as she stood up, her eyes glaring down at the whimpering mass of a man.

She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, snatched a wad of cash from the chipped, stained table, kicked him sharply in the balls with the toe of her red Louboutin and left, the strains of Chopin fluttering behind in her wake.

*

Manny and Meringue

Manny sat in his office chair; taupe leather; high-buttoned back; walnut wooden arms. To match his walnut wooden desk. He swiveled round and round, gaping ahead, until he made himself feel physically sick. He had a huge deal coming up which would jolt some of the markets into submission, but couldn’t wrap his mind around the job in hand. He kept thinking about Devon and as much as he tried to push the thoughts from his mind, they just kept flooding back, like an unstoppable raging torrent. She had really gotten to him. The woman had almost totally consumed him and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. He had to see her. Picking up his cell, he punched the speed dial to her phone and breathlessly, she answered.

‘Yes?’ Even the sound of her voice was enough to send shivers down his spine. Manny felt foolish and fell silent. All his life he had been in control. Until now. He thought he was actually surrounded by her scent, the sweet, heady fragrance of her flesh.

Click. She had hung up. He kicked himself in the ankle and pressed redial, but it bounced to voice mail. He furiously threw the phone across the desk, then ran around to pick it up, cradling it to make sure it was intact.

He had always been able to take his emotions and put them on the back burner, be in love with women for merely minutes until they were no more than out of sight. Clichés came to mind. Some of them so true. ‘Outa sight, outa mind’ had always been an apt description of his feelings with women, but now with Devon, it was undoubtedly ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’. Manny sickened himself. He had become a cliché.

He stamped his feet on the floor like a child while he re-dialed again. Voice mail. Shit.

‘Devon, honey please I need to see you. I have something for you, call me as soon as you get this message. Bye hon.’

He put his cell down carefully, going over the message he had left, wishing that he had worded it another way, then transferred the phone to his pocket so that he could feel the vibration when it rang. Hopefully, when it rang. One of the secretaries knocked softly at the door, peeking her head around as she opened it a few inches. She was small and skinny and wore her jet black hair in a choppy, pixie cut with a white slashed highlight at the front. Faux pearls around her white throat, a starched white shirt with over-sized frilly cuffs and a knee-length black jersey skirt with a huge teal colored bow tied over her sharp, right hip.

‘Excuse me Mr. Kofsberg please, but there is a lady in reception who wants to see you. She has blonde hair and bright red eyes from crying I think. She sure seems pretty upset. Is she Russian? Her name is Miss Pavlova.’ Betty the secretary tapped her left foot around the back of her right ankle. Manny wondered if she was trying to trip herself up?

What on earth was Meringue doing here in the daytime? He felt sweat beads moistening his armpits. Shit, he would have to be wearing a silk shirt.

‘Ask her to come in Betty and you can take your lunch now.’

‘Ok, surely, thank you,’ smiled Betty, moving into the room and leaving a blue folder at the edge of Manny’s desk. As Betty left, Meringue was in her place in moments.

‘Close the door,’ hissed Manny, pulling at his tie. His neck began to flare up, leaving a ring of red blotches, tainting his skin. Meringue’s eyes were red raw
.
T
heir visual combination
looked like a before ad for psoriasis.

‘What are you doing here? We never meet in the day?!’

‘I’m homesick!’ wailed Meringue.

‘So why are you telling me?’ Manny faced the window, his back to Meringue. She looked closely at the grey flannel of his Zegna jacket. His black shoes shone and she knew that his Armani boxers would be spotless and white, as usual.

Meringue leaned against the desk, wiping her eyes and nose with a used tissue from her pocket.

‘Why aren’t you ever nice to me? You’re never kind.’ She asked softly. ‘For months I have done exactly as you want, all on your terms. I’ve asked nothing of you. I’ve always come when you called. Why, I’m not even sure if you like me?’ A small choke knotted in her throat. She swallowed, all at once looking so vulnerable.

Manny turned to her. She looked up at him, lit beautifully by the natural light from the window and for a moment she took his breath away and he couldn’t speak. Her eyes were red rimmed, but there was no denying the intensity of color. They were the deepest shade of violet. Her skin was milky white and her lips looked as if she had been stung by a bee, they were so plump and moist and pink. But it was the color of her eyes that captivated him. He had never seen her in daylight before. He realized sadly that he had never even looked into her eyes before. He had only looked at the top of her head while she sucked his selfish dick. Now she was looking into his eyes. A girl from the south who was far from home and lonely and lovely. He felt stirrings of emotion inside him. It was new but not entirely unwelcome. He held open his arms and then Meringue was inside them. He encircled her as fresh, warm tears rolled down her cheeks and onto the collar of his jacket. He held her tighter, breathing in the scent of her peroxide blonde hair. It smelt of roses from a far away, faded garden. He looked down at her dark roots and saw a few specks of dandruff. He felt her heart beating just below his own. An emotional shift prompted him to ask her a personal question about herself, the first one ever.

‘What the fuck is your real name?’ he whispered gently into her hair.

She gazed up at him, her violet eyes melting into his.

‘Mary,’ she said, slightly embarrassed. ‘Mary Pierce
.’
*

Jezzy and Adrian

Shirley MacL
aine was giving Jack Lemmon one of those looks, her face totally feline and her eyes twinkling like a minx. The look on Jack’s face was indescribably brilliant, one which had helped to make this movie a true classic. The light of the LCD screen lit up the living room as Jezzy and Adrian watched The Apartment for perhaps the twelfth time. It was close to 10pm. Jezzy wore bright red sweat pants, a white shoe string strap vest and no bra. She didn’t need one as her breasts were small and sat up nicely. Her hair fell in dark blonde clouds around her shoulders. She reached for the popcorn, thinking that it should come with a side of toothpicks because it always got stuck in your teeth and you always had to try to pick it out when the guy was looking the other way. Dating was so fucking stressful. You had to think about every little thing all the time. It made her tired. Physically
.
M
entally.

Adrian suddenly laughed at Jack. ‘I Love Jack, there’s never been anyone like him. He’s funny, sexy, charming, he’s just superb.’

Jezzy
thought that Adrian’s musings of Jack were a little too
over
eager.

Adrian wore a green, stretched out, baggy T-shirt and jeans. He had a tiny butt, a slender waist and a very spotty back. Fuck, thought Jezzy, feeling as if she were clinging to the greasy rim of a well, from the inside. She was in way too deep now. His hand reached for hers. Large hands with fingers that were muscular from decades of piano playing. He began to stroke her stomach. Her body was taut and pale, but she’d always had a little rounded tummy. She hated it. Men seemed to like it. Adrian’s finger traced around her belly button, disappearing slowly beneath her waistband. Sweatpants were invented for this, thought Jezzy. She was already wet and had been since the start of the movie, just from watching him, a slight smile paying across his lips, watching the TV. The light from the screen flickered across his face, dark shadows disappearing into the furrows of his cheeks. As he laughed, his teeth seemed to glow. The credits began to roll as his middle finger slid inside her. She used her muscles to squeeze him from inside, already feeling full as she had always been small and tight and had been doing pelvic floor exercises for as long as she could remember. His other hand cupped her face and his warm tongue moistened her lips. Breathing her name, his breath smelt of coffee and popcorn. He lightly kissed her nose, around her mouth, down to her throat, as his finger probed inside her. She pulled at his T-shirt, wanting to see his flesh, reaching in for his small, hard nipples, like tiny ball bearings. The TV light sent beautiful shadows across his body. He had a row of three small moles on his chest, just beneath his left shoulder. She knew she would have to look at them every time they fucked face to face and the thought made her feel sick with familiarity. His tongue eased down her neck towards her breasts. Real, soft tits and deep pink swelling nipples. He took one between his teeth, letting it grow inside his mouth. Shit. She’d done it again, allowing herself to be bewitched by him. Could she ever get away like she had once before?