Dead Blonde Page 11

  Shut up, shut up, shut up Mother. Soon, not tonight but soon, he’d silence her voice for a while again. Soon it would be Caroline’s turn and she would belong to his collection, like all the others. Then he would be one step closer to his prize.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - DEACON

  Deacon heard Maria's key turn in the front door as he stepped out of the steam of the shower. Grabbing a towel he blotted at the water running in rivulets down his face and chest. Slinging the towel around his waist, he padded across the hallway carpet to the top of the staircase, grinning as he held open his arms to her in greeting.

  “Aha the prodigal one returns!” he said smiling broadly. She looked up at him, her eyes blank.

  “I’ve been waiting for you sweetheart, glad you're home, did you have a good time at the art fair?” He stopped abruptly, arms falling to his sides as he noticed her cold expression.

  “What's the matter?” he asked her, concerned.

  “We need to talk Deacon. Put some clothes on. I'll be in the kitchen making us both a cup of tea, just come through when you're dressed,” she said flatly, her tone matter of fact. Come through when you're dressed? What was this a bloody job interview?

  Bemused he turned to walk into the bedroom to retrieve his clothes, his footsteps leaving damp imprints on the carpet behind him. Dressing quickly, he pulled on his socks and shoes out of habit as well, before heading down the stairs. What this was all about? Maria tended to get mad at him periodically for not being around enough and he knew he had a tendency to bring his work home with him. Usually though, she’d just go into one of her rants and blow off some steam, then that would be that. He'd never seen her behave this way before, hard and cold, almost like she was a stranger.

  Pushing open the kitchen door tentatively, he saw her sitting there at the little table, her shoulders hunched, brow creased in consternation as she grasped a mug of tea between her hands. She looked up as he entered giving him a thin quick smile.

  “Yours is over there,” she said, nodding in front of her to where a second, steaming hot cup of tea sat at the opposite end of the table.

  “Thanks sweetheart,” he said looking at her, trying to discern from her face what this was all about, but her expression was giving nothing away.

  “What's this all about then, you look like you've seen a ghost or something, my mother hasn't been bothering you from beyond the grave has she?” he joked.

  His mother had somewhat disapproved of Maria. After his divorce from Zoe, she had wanted him to marry someone sensible and settle down. She’d always been naturally suspicious of artists and their like, and even when she had been dying from the aggressive bone cancer that had killed her five years ago, she was still asking him when he was going to find a nice girl to look after him.

  She pressed her lips together, her expression disapproving. “This really isn't the time for humour,” she paused, “I…I'm leaving you. I'm sorry, I can’t do it anymore, I’m moving out.” The words hit him like a punch to the stomach, and he reeled for a second, unable to think properly.

  “What do you mean, you can't just, you can't ... but what about us?” he managed to stammer out, staring in disbelief as she just sat there, unable to meet his eyes.

  He lowered his voice, “look sweetheart, I know I haven't been around as much as I should have been but we can work this out, this thing, whatever it is bothering you. We'll fix it, talk it through, I'll make it up to you.” She looked down at the table.

  “Deacon I've met someone else. And…I think I have real feelings for him. I'm sorry but it’s over.” He stood there staring at her, his body trembling. This couldn't be happening, how could it, she couldn't be sitting there telling him so calmly she'd met someone else? Not after 10 years together, not after everything they had been through?

  “You can't leave me. I'll, I'll fucking kill him, I swear. If he's touched so much as a hair on your head I'll fucking…” he shook his head, his voice thick with emotion. He was shaking with rage he realised, his fists were clenched, heart thumping loudly.

  She finally raised her head to meet his gaze.

  “I’m sorry. I really am. I never meant to hurt you. But it’s too late, we've already slept together. It’s over between us.” Clenching his knuckles tightly, he just stared at her. The anger threatened to overwhelm him. Standing up, she pushed the table away, grabbing her handbag from the kitchen counter.

  “Look it’s not really been working out between us for a very long time has it? We hardly ever talk anymore, not like we used to, it all seems a bit pointless. And Daniel, makes me feel, I don't know…” she reached for the words, “he makes me feel alive again.”

  Daniel. Who the fuck was Daniel? This was fucking unbelievable. He’d given his heart to her and now she was standing in the kitchen of the house they shared together telling him how wonderful Daniel made her feel?. Walking over to him, she placed her arm on his shoulder. He couldn't look at her, he just couldn't. His whole body was angry, shaking, trembling with humiliation and disappointment.

  “Get the fuck off me,” he pushed her away from him.

  “Deacon…wait..,” she pleaded, but he ignored her stalking from the room. Grabbing his car keys from the side table in the hallway, he opened the front door, slamming it behind him as he headed to his car.

  Unlocking it, he opened the driver’s side and slid in, shutting the door with an angry slam and revving the engine. He put his foot to the pedal and the car roared into life as he drove at speed through the streets. Drove towards the only friend he knew he could count on at a time like this. Doyle. Doyle would know how fix this. She would tell him what to do.

  ***

  He stood outside Jenny Doyle's door for a good few minutes as the rain poured down, soaking through the material of his thin shirt. He didn't care or even seem to notice, as he stood there helplessly, wondering if he should ring the bell or turn right back around, go to a bar, somewhere, anywhere, drink the pain away instead.

  After some consideration he reached out to the doorbell with a shaky hand, pressing it twice as it buzzed loudly. He heard hurried footsteps, as she came to the front door, her familiar voice calling out.

  “Who is it?” Somewhere in his consciousness he heard his own voice responding. Opening the door, her face crumpled in concern as she took in the miserable sight of him, standing there hunched over on her front porch, his clothes soaked, an expression of utter dejection etched into his features. Ushering him inside wordlessly, she shut the door turning to him.

  “What the bloody hell’s the matter Gaine?” He shook his head at her.

  “She left me,” he said blankly, staring into space.

  “Maria?” He nodded and she took him into her arms, holding him tight to her as he stood there stiffly, afraid to move lest the tears might start falling. She rubbed at his back soothingly.

  “It'll be alright, you two are tight, you’ll work it out,” she said, hugging him.

  Eventually perhaps sensing he wasn't quite ready to talk just yet, she pulled away from him, looking him over. Her eyes scanned his face as if she were searching for some sign of normality, anything by which she might gauge his state of mind, but his stony expression was giving nothing away. Sighing she shook her head, taking him by the arm.

  “Come on, you look like you need a stiff drink,” she said, ushering him into the lounge and sitting him down on a large overstuffed lemon sofa. She went into the little kitchen annex, and returned clutching two tumblers, setting them down on the low shelf of the long pine mantelpiece that lined the back wall of the lounge. Above the shelf was a little pull down flap, from which a small steel key stuck out of a tiny keyhole.

  He watched as she turned the key and the flap fell open, revealing several different spirit bottles huddled together on the shelf inside; four bottles, two different varieties of whiskey, a single malt and a bourbon, a bottle of gin, and one of brandy. Most of the contents of the bottles still remained, Doyle didn't drink much apart from the
occasional single malt after work to unwind. She probably kept them around to offer if she had company, and tonight he was glad that she had.

  She poured two large measures of brandy into the tumblers, and, picking them up, she walked over to where he sat on the sofa, holding out one of the glasses to him.

  “Here, drink this, you've had a shock, it'll help I promise,” she said. Looking up at her, accepted it gratefully. She stood there, watching him as he drained the glass greedily.

  “Another?” She arched an eyebrow at him. He nodded up at her as he gave her back the empty tumbler.

  “Please.”

  “I'll just keep the bottle out this time shall I?” she said, turning away to refill his glass as he stared at her back. He sat there in silence as she poured him another large measure. Finally he plucked up the courage to speak, the words slicing through the silence.

  “I've fucked up, I've really fucked up.” he spat the words out, “this fucking job it's had the best of me. She gave me chance after chance but I just bloody ignored her Jen.”

  “No. Don’t say that, look it’s not your fault…things happen, people drift apart you can’t blame yourself like that,” she rushed to defend him, her eyes full of concern.

  “But she tried to tell me and I just ignored her…fuck!” He thumped the sofa arm hard. Abandoning the glasses on the sideboard, she crossed the room to him, bending down to take him firmly by the shoulders.

  “Gaine,” she said urgently, looking into his eyes, “look, listen to me. I don't know what happened between you two but I know this and you have to listen to me.” He looked up at her, her large blue eyes were so lovely, so kind and full of concern, even in his miserable mood he could still notice that.

  “You're a good man alright, a good man. You mustn't, shouldn’t blame yourself, I'm sure Maria wouldn't want that. Listen to me,” she insisted, gripping the tops of his arms firmly.

  He nodded miserably. He felt broken, he’d never experienced feeling quite like this before. Nothing had even come close, not when Zoe had left, not even when his mother had died and he hated how powerless he felt. Doyle expected him to answer her, he knew, but he just couldn’t seem to open his mouth to say anything.

  Taking him into her arms again she hugged him close, and he slumped against her as if he were defeated. All the fight had gone out of him. Burying his head he nuzzled into her shoulder, her hands moving in small circles on his back comfortingly. It took him a few moments to realise the strangled choking noise permeating the silence was coming from his own mouth, as he sobbed heavily into the soft grey wool of her jumper.

  All the years Doyle had known him he’d always been so competent, so in control. He’d never broken down, never shown any weakness, but now here he was so completely and totally helpless in her arms. Though despite his grief, strangely he didn’t feel embarrassed to be like this with her, she made him feel safe somehow.

  He lifted his head to look at her, his blurry red rimmed eyes meeting her own dryer ones. He felt it then, the thing that passed between them, something they had both wanted before but never had dared to act upon..

  He wasn’t sure if it were he who moved into kiss her fist or she him, but suddenly his mouth was moving against hers, tasting the slight tang of brandy on her lips as they kissed. Tongues, searching each other’s mouths while fingers hungrily tore at clothing, unbuttoning, unfastening. Falling back onto the lemon coloured sofa, bodies writhing against each other as he moved on top of her. Then, collapsing against each other afterward, their limbs entwined, as he stroked her hair, until the gentle rise of her breathing informed him she was sleeping.

  Afterward, he stared at her for a while, wondering to himself as she slept, snoring rhythmically, her chest rising and falling. He knew there had always been something between them, but they had never allowed anything to happen before tonight, not while there had been Maria.

  Maria. He thought about what she had told him and felt a funny pang in his stomach. He’d not slept with anyone since he’d met Maria, hadn’t wanted to. What had just happened confused him. Had he taken advantage of Doyle’s feelings for him?

  Hopefully it hadn’t spoiled anything between them. You’re a bloody idiot Gaine. Still, part of him couldn’t entirely regret what had happened. Allowing himself to dwell on the memory of his mouth on her body for just a second, he watched her, recalling how she had moaned in his ear as his hard body had pressed up against her own softer one. Then, dismissing the memory, he got up from the sofa and began to dress.

  This had only happened because he was vulnerable. He’d needed someone and yes, while there might be a spark between them that's all there would ever be. Could ever be. It wouldn’t be fair to Doyle to lead her on; he couldn’t let her think there was any possibility of romance. No, he wouldn't let this spoil their friendship.

  Pull yourself together you fool, you're behaving like an irresponsible idiot. Getting up he hurriedly pulled his clothes on, as silently as he could, so as not to disturb her. As he made his way to leave, he grabbed the long beige coat she kept on the hook in the hallway, and returned to where she lay gently snoring on the sofa. Draping it over her body, he paused a second, bending down to plant a light kiss on the top of her head, before turning to leave again, the makeshift blanket a tender parting gesture.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - BIRTHSTONE

  He watched as the blonde exited the small Bayswater restaurant where she worked as a waitress four evenings a week, and turning right, began to walk down the street, her stiletto heels punctuating the pavement with each step. The figure hugging black pencil skirt that made up the lower half of her waitress’s uniform didn’t entirely escape the attention of several male passers-by, who turned their heads to stare at her admiringly as she walked past them.

  Standing there at a safe distance from the restaurant, he let her get a good way down the street before allowing himself to slip out of the shadows and begin to follow her, her blonde hair shining like a beacon to him, guiding his way.

  It’s time. His hand traced the familiar outline of the knife in his pocket. He felt an intoxicating mixture of excitement and anticipation as he imagined the rush, a high of pure adrenaline, followed by the blissful flood of total serenity that always followed afterwards.

  Shadowing her, he kept back as she threaded her way down the street, her curvaceous form sashaying a little from side to side. The way she walked reminded him of something he read once in a newspaper about Marilyn Monroe, how she used to saw a couple of inches off of one of her stiletto heels in order to give her hips that famous wiggle.

  Caroline had a true hourglass figure befitting of any 50’s screen siren; a tiny waist, voluptuous hips, that glorious ample cleavage. Eyeing her from behind he took in the tight red PVC of the cropped jacket she wore that stopped just above her small waist, the pencil skirt underneath caressing her ample hips as she walked. How alluring she would look displayed for all to see, that wonderful undulating motion finally stilled. And to think that he would be the very last one who would be privileged to witness the final struggling movements she would make.

  The thought excited him, though he knew it was wrong, it must be wrong. But the impulse, the urge, the desire to hold her close to him as she breathed her last compelled him utterly in that moment. It was the force that propelled him forward along the Bayswater street, his gaze narrowing as he focused on the prize in front of him.

  His stomach was tight, tense, the muscles coiled tightly and poised ready to strike, and his hands trembled as he held them in fists at his sides. Picturing the last time they had met, in the little Paddington flat she lived in, he remembered the feel of her smooth, soft, white skin under his rougher hands, her head thrown back in ecstasy as he had pleasured her, while she clung to him moaning softly.

  “She’s a whore, nothing but a filthy whore. She deserves to die like a whore.”

  Yes mother. She was a whore, and she did deserve to die like one, on display for all to see. On display, her h
air tumbling around her siren like, framing her motionless body and occasionally yielding to the breeze, giving some allusion of the life that had been while the body remained still. It was maddening that hair, so blonde, so bright, just like Sally's had been. His vision seemed to shift in to a sort of blonde blur as he continued to follow her, his body stiff as if on autopilot.

  Coming to an intersection she turned the corner, veering off the main road into a quieter street. He’d known she would take this route home to her flat, the walk one she had made on hundreds of nights before. And he also knew that tonight she wouldn't make it home, for tonight she was his.

  “You’re a dirty, filthy, little pervert, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Don’t start Mother, I’m warning you. She was making his anger rise now, but he kept trailing the blonde, keeping himself tucked well back into the shadows, his eyes focused on her back. Mother never knew when to leave it alone. Like the time she’d come up to his room while he lay under the bedcovers, his cheeks still burning with the fierce humiliation he'd felt as she sat there downstairs looking at him, an expression of scorn on his face, his journal open in front of her at the pages where he'd poured his heart out.

  “You stop these feelings, you disgusting little brat or I'll stop them for you,” she shouted at him, thrusting her finger under his nose as he tried to turn his head away from her. But it was too late, as she gripped him, grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking him off the bed to his feet, dragging him to the bathroom next door.

  “I'll teach you, you dirty little pervert,” she threatened him, pulling him to the edge of the bathtub and turning on the cold tap.

  The water gushed out suddenly, pooling in the bottom of the bathtub, and he stared at the inside of the white ceramic basin as it slowly started to fill up, not knowing quite what she intended to do. He didn't have to wait too long to find out as she gave a sharp yank on his hair again, forcing him to cry out loud in pain.