Читать книгу FALLEN IDOLS - Neil White - Страница 16

ELEVEN

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 blinked, and then caught herself. She put more of her body into the open door, felt her hand tighten around the gun. Her left leg was showing and most of her shoulders and breast. He stared down, taking in the view, couldn’t stop himself.

‘It’s okay. We were, well, you know, it’s been a while.’ Her eyes were all mischief, her face mock-innocent.

He looked back up and blushed. ‘Okay, thanks. I’m sorry.’

She grinned. ‘Everything’s fine. Thanks for your concern.’

He held up his hand in apology and turned away. Her grin turned off like a light.

She watched him go and then closed the door quietly. She leant back on the door and heaved a big sigh, her heart beating hard. She looked at her hand. The gun was trembling. That wouldn’t help.

She stayed like that for a few minutes, the water running down her body and gathering around her feet. Once she’d recomposed herself, she looked over to the window. Her rifle was in the bag. All she had to do was set it up and get the sights trained. And then wait.

The billow of the curtains as the wind blew through made her twitch. A laugh came from somewhere. She spun around. She told herself to stay calm. She knew she had to get this done right. The element of surprise would be lost this time. She had to fire the shot and get out within three minutes. That would give her enough time to get to the lift and get off at the second floor, then take the service stairs to the garage in the basement. She’d done the run many times, practice runs when she’d had the apartment to herself. No need to rush, just fire the shot, dismantle the rifle, and get out. Walk down the hall like she was going out for milk and leave.

She peeled herself off the door and walked back to the bedroom, her wet feet making footprints on the light carpet, lighting up her trail back to the bedroom.

She had work to do.

Johnny Nixon, tough defender, pride of the Manchester blues.

He wasn’t feeling good about himself. He looked around, twitchy, nervous.

He was on the corner of St Ann’s Square. The street was busy around him. There were people streaming in and out of Marks and Spencer just across the road, and in the square behind him bank workers and lawyers strolled around, peacock struts, enjoying the rush, the vibe, summer in the city.

His chest felt tight. He knew it was his own fault, but it was always his fault. He had a beautiful wife and three beautiful children. So why did he always stray when he got away from home? He knew he had a self-destruct button. It had plagued him throughout his career, from the over-the-top tackles – and there had been too many – to the fights in bars. He had always seemed like he was trying to wreck his career.

And now this. A one-night stand turned into an affair. It was sporadic, igniting itself every few weeks, but it had grown into a habit. He had tried to break it, but she had said it was her or the media. His wife would find out anyway, so why not get some happiness out of it?

He looked around, pretending to talk into his phone. It was what all footballers did. Talked into a phone, just to stop people from talking to them. But the phone was where his trouble had begun. Meet him or she goes public; text messages telling him what to do.

He’d had no choice. At least this way he might be able to talk her out of it.

He spun around, looking for her, hoping no one else had seen him. This wasn’t a time for photographs.

He heard a crack, and then it hit him in the head like a hammer blow.

As he went to the floor he saw faces. People on the street, twitching from the noise, eyes wide. Then he saw his children, smiling at him, laughing with him. His wife. The warm smell of her body. They rushed through his head as he saw the pavement get nearer, all the time getting darker.

The world had already turned black by the time his head hit the floor.