Three Steps Behind You (10 page)

I don’t know why we were taught by unempathetic automatons. Characters clearly know what other characters are thinking. I always know what Adam is thinking, even when he tries to conceal it from me. I know that really he loves me. I knew that even in Feltham, when he spent all his time with some kid called Marco. Then, you see, he loved me so much that he was giving me the opportunity to escape him because he knew he was guilty for getting me implicated in the whole common-room saga. He loved me even more when I tried to take the flack for him. And I also knew that he knew that I had forgiven him, and that I didn’t think that we had to sacrifice our friendship, but that he thought he knew better. He thought we needed to make that ultimate sacrifice, for my sake. All the time he was teasing me, and not defending me, when the others in Marco’s ‘crew’ in our residential unit were pummelling me, verbally and physically, I knew he was thinking that. That was why he had to join in.

And if, and only if, I had moments of doubt, I would think: ‘Why do I feel this way about Adam? Because I know I feel this way. When Adam is not there, I feel sad. I feel sad now. I feel like if there was a precipice, I would jump into it, feeling very sad indeed. Yesterday I felt happy. Today, I don’t. Why is that?’ But even in those moments, I knew there was one constant that I felt: love.

And I know it’s not just me who feels. Because Dad said to me, ‘I feel wrong, son. Everything feels wrong.’ In fact, that was the last thing he said before he went over the edge of the precipice. Perhaps he could see Mum down there.

They failed to teach us the most valid thing about writing: that research is key. When my books find an audience, I will go back to Feltham, if they haven’t knocked it down, and I will teach them about research. I can use, as an example, tonight’s expedition. I may not say it was me who did it. I may say a writer friend, one of my vast circle of literary acquaintances, once went on a research mission to sleep with a woman. They might, I suppose, question why the friend had to research that specially. They might, again, call me names, like they did when I was in there. Graffiti them on walls. And on me. A label. But no matter; I must proselytise The Method. I must tell them there is nothing they cannot research. Then they will not give up and do business administration studies instead, like I did. Just because they told me to.

Apart from death, I suppose. Their own death. That is beyond them, however close they get to the edge of the precipice. They cannot be authentic about that. Although, they could research other people’s deaths. Maybe some of them already have. I could research other people’s deaths, if I needed to. There’s a lot of it around – Helen, my parents. Perhaps one day Nicole. Perhaps even … no. Don’t think it.

I refocus on my surroundings. The gardener’s hut in Soho Square. I am nearly there, at the research subject’s flat. Luke is nearly there. Put death to one side. Instead, think how:

Luke seduced his love. He tied her down so she knew she could be fixed in ecstasy. Luke entered his love. Luke entered His love. Like He had done before
.

And make it happen.

Chapter 22

Ally’s flat is full of candles. As she unlocks the door to the apartment, a glow awaits me. Yellows, blues, reds, oranges blur into a rainbow of welcome. The waxy scent is almost strong enough to drown her own floral perfume. I kiss her neck and inhale.

‘Roses?’ I ask.

‘Forget-me-nots,’ she says.

I walk further into the flat. It is a studio – the bedroom is the same as dining room and kitchen. But tonight it feels all bedroom. The divan is covered with pink satin. So, I notice, are the posters on the wall – old studio prints, from Minghella to Hitchcock to a Merchant Ivory rendering of
Maurice
, have pink satin swathes draped over them.

Ally is in midnight-blue. Silk. Her feet are bare and I see her toenails are painted sparkly blue to match the dress. She has made an effort.

‘I made martinis,’ she says, speaking quickly. ‘And there are some olives if you’d like them, or some nuts, and then I thought we could pop out and—’

‘I brought ice-cream,’ I say. ‘Butterscotch.’

‘My favourite!’ she says. ‘You remembered.’

‘I’m a researcher. I remember everything.’

‘Are you still researching me?’

‘Yes. And do you know what research I specialise in?’

‘Let me guess. Undercover?’

In reply, I kiss her slowly. While I do that, I trace one hand over her collarbone, like the Internet said I should. With the other hand I caress her hair. She places one hand against my chest.

‘Are you looking for those abs?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ she murmurs.

‘Let me show you,’ I say. I slowly unbutton my shirt. She moves her hands across my chest, fingers tracing the ridges between my muscles.

‘Now your turn,’ I say. I trace the sides of her dress for some kind of opening, but it’s impenetrable. ‘Show me,’ I say.

‘We should at least have a drink first,’ she whispers. ‘I’m not that easy.’

‘It’s you I want to drink,’ I murmur.

She steps back from me, but not to fetch martinis. She takes the bottom of the dress in her hands, and pulls it up her body. First red lace pants are revealed, then her own version of a six-pack, then a red lace bra containing what I suppose are a perfectly adequate pair of breasts.

‘More,’ I say. ‘I’d hate that nice underwear to get all butterscotchy.’

Ally pulls off her pants and removes her bra. I gesture to the bed. She lies down, on her back, moving her arms above her head, arching them. Like a lobster’s claws. They will need to be twined, in due course.

‘You’re wearing too many clothes still,’ she says.

‘I’ve got to handle ice-cream, haven’t I? Can’t be getting cold.’

‘But what about me? I’ll get cold.’

‘I promise to warm you up afterwards.’

I turn my back on her and get the ice-cream from the bag. It has melted slightly, which is helpful, as I can just drip it bit by bit down her body. At first, she squeals as I pour, but then she gets used to the cold, and doesn’t moan as much. I pour ice-cream across her body too, defining her abdominals into sections. I get close to her as I begin to lick it off and I see the little fine golden hairs running across her body. I run my tongue down to her genitals – which, unlike the pictures I have seen, do not have hairs – and do a quick recce. I consider taking out the pictures from my bag to help me, but she has clamped her legs around my shoulders, so that’s not really an option. I will just have to rely on my memory. The clitoris, I know, is important. But the Internet told me I’m not supposed to go there first. Instead, I get some ice-cream on my tongue, and lick around the labia majora, then work my way into the labia minora, stroking her inner thighs as I do so. I then spot the clitoral hood, exactly where the picture said it would be and, taking a fresh mouthful of ice-cream, I shift my tongue to the clitoris itself. Her moans confirm I am an A* student, a master of female biology.

I’m thankful for the butterscotch ice-cream, because pretty soon she begins emitting her own liquid into my mouth. She tightens her thighs around me for a bit, then they relax again, enough for me to stand up.

‘Wow,’ she says, propping herself up on her arm, her eyes shining. ‘If all researchers were that thorough, we’d have some pretty amazing films!’

‘I haven’t finished yet,’ I say. ‘Roll over.’

She does so. I move up the bed to take hold of her arms. Then I tear one of the satin scarves from the picture over her bed and use it to tie her wrists to the bed-head.

‘Ooh, kinky,’ she giggles.

Now that she is in position with the scarves, I take the proper restraints out of the bag.

‘What are you doing?’ she asks, as I clip the handcuffs in place over the satin.

‘Relax,’ I say, stroking my hand down the small of her back. ‘They won’t hurt. That’s what the satin is for.’

Then I get the blindfold and the gag from my bag. I slot the gag on first, before she can say anything. Next, the blindfold. It obscures most of her face. She could be anyone.

‘Now it’s time to warm you up,’ I say.

I get one of the candles and extinguish the flame. Then I begin to drip the wax down her back. She starts making a noise that may be an attempted scream. But it’s pretty quiet, so it doesn’t bother me. She starts kicking around with her legs, so I sit on them. Drip, drip, drip goes the wax down her spine, right to her tailbone. All the little hairs become sticky with it. Then drip drip drip all the way up, until I am at her neck again.

‘Is that too hot?’ I ask her. I blow on her neck, watching how all the little hairs stand on end. Those that aren’t covered by wax, that is. Then I kiss her, on the neck, on the ears, on what is accessible of the cheeks. I feel her relax underneath me.

‘You all warmed up, now?’ I ask. She nods. ‘Good,’ I say. ‘Then it’s time.’

I look down. Luke’s blue pill has done its work. Time to get as close as possible.

Luke unzips his fly and takes out his penis. He rolls on a condom and puts the wrapper in his pocket. Then he positions her just how he wants her: back slightly arched, bottom raised. He guides himself into her vagina and he thrusts. Although he has done this before, of course, because Luke is very experienced, each new person is different. His whole penis is in, without resistance from her. He pulls it out and thrusts again – again, all the way in. There is hardly any resistance, although when he slams into her he can feel at the top of what must be the cervix. He is riding her, riding her, but she is moving up the bed because they are going so fast, and so he unties one of the silk ties from her hands, leaving the wrists cuffed, and he loops it round her neck like reins. Then he can pull back and thrust and pull and thrust and pull and then there is an overwhelming rush of pink and red and if he just pulls back on the reins a little harder he will just explode and he does. And as he does he pulls as hard as he can to be as far inside her as possible, and there is a crack from her neck and she sags
.

He pulls out of her, clutching the full condom to himself and she collapses on the bed. He calls her name but there is no answer. He removes the gag and undoes the cuffs but still she does not speak, so he blows out the candles, does up his shirt and picks up his bag. Then he leaves the flat and the door slams behind him, he rushes down the stairs and into the street
.

I feel the fresh air against my skin. I am standing on the street, outside Ally’s flat.

I realise I am clutching something. I look down.

It is a used condom.

BOOK 2

Chapter 1

Even in London, it would be difficult for murder to go unnoticed.

Wouldn’t it?

If there was a murder, it must be reported.

My first instinct is to go back into the flat and check.

But then I realise although I know the code to the outer door, I need a key for the inner one.

My second instinct is to go and confront Nicole. She is there, of course, across the street, where she was last time. I cross the road towards her. But it turns out, when she faces me, that the woman in the red beret isn’t Nicole at all. Just someone with her hat, and a face like Ally’s.

So I come home and watch the news.

The next day, I am still watching.

There is nothing on the national news about dead girls in Soho. Maybe people have grown used to that, over the centuries. I watch the London news, but there is nothing about dead people, just about building train-lines and jobs.

I consider cancelling dinner, just staying in, lying low, like after book three. I could stay here, watching television, or writing up my research. That, after all, was the point of the exercise: to improve my writing, of Luke.

I should be celebrating. Eating lobster, drinking champagne. This is progress. But back in my flat, I don’t feel celebratory. I feel like I have a huge hangover. The previous day is cloudy. I have flashbacks of pink silk and forget-me-nots, of wax and ice-cream. What I need is a friend I can phone, like you would after a drunken night out, to ask; ‘I think I did this, but I’m not sure: do you remember?’

At least with book three, it was me, I was present, even if I couldn’t phone a friend afterwards. I did consider ringing Adam, but it didn’t seem quite appropriate. He might want to discuss stuff that I didn’t.

I will go for a run, do some resistance training – keep those abs in shape. I’ll need them for the next time.

Luke puts on his shorts, does up his trainers and breaks free from the house. He runs and he runs, beyond the North Circular, where no one can find him, leaves the grey far behind. He finds a park, full of green and lakes and a beautiful apple tree. Beneath the tree is a boy. He looks a lot like Adam used to. Luke jogs over to him. ‘Hello,’ he says to the boy. The boy doesn’t reply. ‘Shall I tell you a story?’ asks Luke. ‘I’m a banker, but I can also tell wonderful stories.’ The boy doesn’t reply. He simply gets up and walks away. Luke runs home, back to the grey, back to the North Circular, closing the door behind him
.

It would have been nice, when I came out of my reverie, to find myself still sitting in front of the television in my pyjamas. To find that there was no run. That when I am thinking Luke, I am not always being Luke, when I don’t want to be.

But it doesn’t seem to work like that. For here I am, in my shorts, in a sweat, post-run.

Which means it doesn’t look good for Ally.

Chapter 2

Dinner with Adam and Nicole is awkward. Nicole has booked a restaurant opposite Ally’s flat. I opt to sit facing the window. I hold my menu high above my face, looking out from behind it every so often, seeking out twitches in the curtains opposite. When the waiter asks what I want, I just say whatever Nicole is having.

‘All filleted for you too, sir?’ asks the waiter.

‘Yes, fine,’ I mumble, speaking from under my hand, which I am using to mask my face. Should Ally be alive, and watching.

‘So, to fresh starts!’ says Adam, raising a glass of champagne. The same toast his parents made, after Feltham. He gives me the fraction of a wink.