Jim was about to answer, but he was cut short when a plate of fried food landed on the table in front of him, so Bob slid off his seat, tossed his napkin onto his plate, and smiled at the waitress. He patted Jim on the shoulder and went to leave. ‘See you around, big man. I need to sleep.’
‘Yeah, get some beauty sleep,’ came the reply, mumbled through a mouthful of food.
The bell over the door tinkled as he went back outside. The sun was sharp but the streets were virtually empty. He saw a couple of tracksuits heading for the Fold’s only solicitor’s office, he guessed for a lift to court. A couple of old chaps, brown trousers, were heading for the greengrocer’s, hoping for the best of the early fruit. The butcher’s shop rolled out its red awning. The charity shop moved a rail of old clothes onto the pavement.
Another ordinary day in Turners Fold.
In an apartment high above the streets of Manchester, she was at work.
They were in the bedroom, naked, white curtains keeping the room in a softer version of daylight. She was kissing his shoulder as she straddled him, her hand gripping his neck slightly, her urgency mistaken for passion. His arms were stretched out, his wrists tied to the steel bedstead with two of his own silk ties. His short breaths were loud in her ear, his forehead glistening with sweat.
She turned her head to whisper, ‘I’ve got something for you.’
He slowed down and opened his eyes.. ‘You’re doing pretty well.’
Her hand stroked his hair. ‘No, something else.’
He smiled dreamily. ‘Will I like it?’
She smiled back, still rocking gently. ‘I think so.’
He closed his eyes. ‘It feels like a yes.’
She smiled again and pulled herself off him. ‘Keep your eyes closed.’
He nodded and lay back. The bedstead clanged against the wall.
She walked over to the corner of the room and knelt down to her bag. She looked round and saw him looking over. His legs were pale and blotchy, his paunch like a basketball in his lap.
‘Eyes closed,’ she scolded, schoolteacher style.
He grinned and did as he was told.
She rummaged in the bag, her eyes on him all the time. When her hands locked onto the silk scarf, she smiled. She could hear deep breaths, expectant, waiting. She didn’t know if they were his or hers.
She stood up and turned round, her hand behind her back. He looked at her, up and down. She knew she was framed against the window, the light outside shadowing her eyes. There was just an outline of her body, long and slender. He settled back, his eyes closed again, smiling.
She walked over slowly, feeling the carpet give way under her feet. He was grinning now. The voices in her head got faster, louder. She stood naked next to the bed, the scarf held behind her back, her chin trembling with tears. He had his tongue on his lip, expectant.
She straddled him again, felt a tear run down her face as they joined together. She stretched herself out, buried her face in his neck, her arms behind his head, rocking gently. She could feel the rise and fall of his hips, could hear his pleasure, light gasps in her ear.
She sat back up again and held out the scarf, one end in each hand. She watched his face, his pleasure, and then she leant forward to wrap the scarf gently around his neck.
He opened his eyes, stopped moving for a moment.
She pulled the scarf tight, just so that it made the skin pinch. The voices in her head were screaming, ‘Now, now, now.’ She tried out a smile and rocked faster. He understood.
His breaths got shorter as he rocked with her. She closed her eyes, screwed them tight. He pushed harder, so she pulled harder on the scarf. He was gasping, half-pain, half-pleasure. She began to cry, soft sobs, felt his legs go taut, his breaths coming fast. She pulled tighter. His chest puffed out, his eyes open, his teeth bared, his face red, searching for the air as he pushed. She put her head up and wailed. He put his head back, moaned, smiled.
She pulled tight on the scarf, felt him rise beneath her, then again. She leant forward, kept her hands on the scarf, gritted her teeth, pulled it hard. He gasped. There was nothing there. She started to cry out loud, rocking faster, pulling tighter. His eyes were wide open now, his face blood-red. He gagged. His chest puffed out, wouldn’t go back in. The bed started to crash against the wall as his arms pulled at the ties. Confusion mixed with passion mixed with fear, they all ran across his eyes, his body pushed out to meet hers. She kept on rocking, backwards, forwards, screaming at the noise in her head.
He started to struggle but he had no air left for the fight. Her hands were red, her fingers white as she pulled, and then he started to shake. He bucked hard beneath her but she still held on tight, her tears running onto his shoulder. She held him tight until he stopped shaking, the voices getting quieter now.
As the room fell still, she was aware of the silence.
The security guard nodded and smiled as he listened, and then he put the phone down. He shook his head. People can’t even have a noisy fuck these days without someone complaining.
He came out from behind his desk. He’d just make sure everyone was okay, and then he could get back to his newspaper.
She didn’t hear the door buzzer at first.
She was in the shower, her head in her hands, the water pounding her legs. Then the buzzer went again and she pulled her head up, startled.
She pulled the curtain back and saw him there, lying back on the bed, dead. The scarf was still around his neck, a gold neck-chain across his chest. She could see the medallion, the words ‘Rath Dé Ort EW’ etched across it. She took a heavy breath. Stay focused, stay sharp, think of the end.
The buzzer went again, this time for longer. She moved her head to the sound and stepped out onto the floor. She crept out of the bathroom, through the bedroom, and went towards the door. As she got nearer, she heard a cough, nervous, embarrassed. She pressed her eye to the peephole and saw a fisheye view of the security guard. She pulled her eye away, worried, thinking back to the noise of the bed. Had one of the neighbours called the police? She put her head to the door. She saw him looking around, bored.
She pulled away from the door. She looked down at herself, wet and naked.
‘Who is it?’ she shouted, trying to calm her nerves, not knowing what she would do if things went wrong. This hadn’t been in the plan.
There was a pause, and then, ‘It’s Carl, miss, from downstairs. Someone called me, saying they were worried about the noises.’
‘Why? What’s the problem?’
‘Are you both okay, miss? I just need to check you’re all right. Would you open the door please?’
‘Hang on.’
She looked around for her bag. She saw it by the window. She ran over and found a handgun. It felt cold, like it had no memory of what it had done the day before. She went back to the door. As she looked through the peephole, Carl was pacing around.
She put the gun flat against the door, and with her other hand she put on the chain and opened the door slowly. She put wet hair and a bare shoulder into view.
She saw him step back slightly. He looked apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, but someone said they heard someone choking and gasping, like they were having a heart attack or something.’
She