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Showing posts with label Dot King. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dot King. Show all posts
Friday, May 4, 2012
Interlude Stories: Dot King
NIGHT CALL 3: GINNY - DOT KING
She hadn’t meant to. At least not yet.
The minute Ginny saw the neat bedsit with its square skylight over the bed and its long, narrow window looking out from the kitchenette over the grey-blue roofs of the town, she felt that this was, at last, a place where she could stay awhile. A place where she could be normal.
And now he’d spoiled it. She hadn’t even moved in and she’d had to get him ready and it was over before it had begun. He shouldn’t have laughed at her like that. Like they all did.
She was always hungry afterwards and now she was tapping stubby, sticky fingers around a small, white china plate, dipping up the last crumbs from the slice of cold pizza and some fruit cake she’d found in the fridge.
She thought of Rob in his armchair, in her head she heard again his endless prattle. The worst was when he’d laughed at her, in front of that woman and the other girl. That wouldn’t do. It wasn’t normal. Even if they had all laughed at her. But he wouldn't laugh at her again. Rob was ready.
The thought of his readiness aroused her. First hungry, then sexy. Time for the dancing. She only danced these days once they were ready. She had to be careful because if they weren’t ready, they laughed. They didn’t understand that it wasn’t normal to laugh, especially at the dancing. They coaxed, goaded her into dancing, made her, then laughed and it got her mad. She practised so hard to get the movements just right, practised in front of her mirror, so that wasn’t why. It was because they weren’t ready. So now, Ginny got them ready, stubbornly holding back her dancing until they were quite ready.
The familiar dark swamp of desire sucking at the pit of her stomach, Ginny strode back into the lounge where Rob sat facing the space she’d created in the centre of the room. Her dance-floor. His head had lolled forward, his chin resting on his chest. Blood, run down from the neat, single slash in his neck, was drying on his shirt. He should to be looking at her. He should see her dance. She’d got him ready. She tipped his head up, but it only drooped again. She was disappointed. Things weren’t quite right this time.
She placed herself seductively in the middle of the dance-floor, plump hands with sausage-like fingers on vast, fleshy hips, one projecting to the side as if in mid-sashay. She was close enough to reach out and touch him. She switched on the music in her head.
« Desafinado »
She didn’t know the lyrics and wasn’t sure of the tune, but she liked the word.
« Desafinado ». Sexy word. On the first syllable she brought her flabby arm in an arc over her head and pointed a provocative, pudgy finger at Rob’s slumped body, as if choosing the lucky winner of a lazy, sexy lap dance. « Desafinado ».
Swaying, she drew her hands up the sides of her ribcage and breasts and pushed them into the air above her head. No-one laughed. It was going well. She brought her hands down, left to the right hand seam of her tee shirt, right to the other side, ready to peel it off, leaned forward and wagged her ample breasts where Rob’s face should have been, then gazing at the top of his head, dipped hers, lowered her eyes as if demurely.... and ..... stopped .... « Desafinado » shrieked, ended with a DJ scratch ....
Blinked. What the fuck is that? On the floor? The fucking phone! Shit! Shit! Who did he call? Shit! Shit! Shit! Ginny grabbed the phone where it lay by Rob’s feet. Punched the redial keys. Nothing. The battery was dead. Who? Fucking who? Might be here any time ... Shit!
Panicked, she hauled her bag to her shoulder and fled. Where? Where?
*
On the square, the light from all-night laundrette cast a reluctant glow on to the pavement. Clutching her bag to her to cover her blood-splashed tee shirt and jeans, Ginny ran inside. The man at the desk barely looked up, « A’right, love? »
« Yeah, OK ».
She hurried to the machine farthest from the door, squashed herself into the shadow beyond it, changed her soiled clothes and trainers for the clean ones in her bag and shoved the lot into the machine. Dropped in a coin. Slammed the start button. Subsided heavily on to a chair. Watched as her things began turning in pinkish-grey water.
Gradually, hypnotised by the steady thrum-swish of the washer, she felt calm enough to take stock. He’d been ready; hadn’t he? At least she’d thought so. All that was right. It was the phone that bothered her. Shit-shit! She couldn’t remember if it had been there before. Who had he called? What had he said? She took comfort in the thought that he’d been ready, she’d seen to that, she had to be careful and she was, so he hadn’t phoned anybody.
So... OK... Now... Where had she been up to? She was dancing, so she must have been sexy. But it wasn’t over. That wasn’t normal. It had to be over. It could never be normal if it wasn’t over. She looked around.
She knew it wasn’t right, not ever, to touch herself in the toilet. Touching like that was only all right if she was dancing. But what choice did she have? None, that’s what. None.
She locked herself into the dim, narrow cubicle. It was too cramped to dance in there and she wondered whether she should stand or sit and couldn’t decide.
For a while her fingers scraped dry flesh. She didn’t like it. It hurt. Not like when she was dancing. But it had to be over. She closed her eyes, pictured Rob, ready. Then a few more of them. Then it began to be nice, especially with her eyes closed and them all watching her, ready....
At last elusive waves of pleasure came rolling through her. Timidly at first. Then rolling, lurching, unrelenting. The ultimate, long-awaited dam-wave curled itself perversely over and around all of them, gyrating on and on, on and on, each wave its own small turbulence of craving, pitching, roaring ... then ...
... recoiled abruptly, sucked into a churning, convulsing maelstrom of shame and humiliation. And they were all laughing. And Ginny saw this. And heard it. And felt the arid, bitter rasp of failure.
*
Oh, this wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t do at all. This wasn’t right. Wasn’t right at all. This was far from right. It wasn’t over.
This...Was...Not...Normal...
In the drab, yellow pallor of the cubicle, Ginny opened peevish eyes.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Interlude Stories: Dot King
NIGHT CALL 2 - DOT KING
She was nearly awake by the time she had got the receiver to her ear and clocked the caller ID on the screen. Rob.
*
Rob. Was he waking her to prattle some more? Since his wife’s death nearly a year ago, he had been trying to pull the strings of a new life together, making mistakes along the way, but getting there all the same. Even if he was extremely exasperating ...
Going from a full year of twenty-four-seven care to sudden freedom had gone to his head. He had become erratic, unfocused. Soon, perhaps too soon after the funeral, he had gone into a new relationship, moved in even with his new love. True romance it was not, so here he was back again in the house around the corner, keeping company with his late wife’s clothes, cosmetics, even her toothbrush had still been in the bathroom when he left. She had been trying, day by day, to help him clear things, but he got her down – not because he was sad or maudlin, but because if he was, he masked it behind endless puerile prattle. She found it wearing.
But still, she had to admit that he was trying to move forwards. He had adapted the top-floor bedroom and shower into a small, self-contained bedsit, given contact details to the local college and rented it out, six months ago, to his first student, who was on the point of leaving to be replaced by another, rather strange young woman whom she’d met two days ago.
Her luck had definitely been out as she passed by Rob’s house just as he was opening the window.
‘Hi, why don’t you come in and meet Ginny. She’s my new tenant, moving in tomorrow.’
And so, reluctantly, she had found herself sitting at Rob’s kitchen table with a mug of coffee, a plate of Speculos (which Rob insisted on calling ‘speculum biscuits’ - it had nearly been funny the first time) and feeling vaguely discomfited by the undercover visual inspection that Ginny was subjecting her to.
‘Ginny used to go to the school where you taught. I thought you might know each other. It was Rosemoor High, wasn’t it?’
‘No, in fact it was Roseleigh High.’
She hadn’t known she was going to lie and it shocked her, but something about this young woman made her feel that the less she said about herself, the better it would be. She looked at Rob to see if the lie had registered, but an unattentive man he had always been, ‘women's prattle’, such as their careers, skills, opinions, being of no consequence to him, whilst his own stream-of-consciousness prattle was, by his own definition, a mine of fascinating information.
She looked then at Ginny and attempted a smile. The girl looked back expressionless, her narrow eyes, slits in a palid, puffy face, still engaged in their scrutiny of her.
‘You went to Rosemoor then, Ginny? I have friends who worked there, when did you leave?’
‘Two years ago,’ Ginny replied, her voice as devoid of expression as her face and as atonal as her flat vowels.
So, there was something odd here, very odd. Rosemoor High had closed to merge with another school on another site a little over ten years ago. Why would anyone lie about the school they went to? She glanced at Rob, but judging from his absent, self-sufficient smile, he clearly wasn't even listening. She imagined trying to explain to him later what she was - not thinking exactly - but sensing about this girl. Stony ground. None of her business anyway. And hadn’t she lied about teaching at the school? Well, there we are. Goose and gander. Leave it alone.
‘What are you studying at the college?’
‘Hairdressing.’ Ginny reached down into her bag and brought out a neat cylinder of black cloth which she unrolled carefully on to the table. It contained scissors, combs, hairbrushes, grips. She displayed them proudly, the tools of her trade, touching them, one after another, slily, almost caressingly.
‘What’s this one?’
‘Oh, that. It’s a razor. We have to learn how to do old-fashioned shaves.’
And she extracted from its pocket in the cloth a cut-throat razor and half unfolded the blade. She touched the tip of her finger to its edge and showed her a spot of blood before licking it away. ‘Very sharp. Have to be careful,’ she murmured.
Rob roared with laughter and asked whether they got to practice on whiskery dummies or real live men. Ginny didn’t seem to think an answer was needed. She remained silent and closed.
A clumping noise from the stairs announced Angela, a cropped-haired, pretty, smiling girl of twenty, who backed into the room dragging two heavy cases in before upending them ready to be wheeled out of her studies and into her new life as an apprentice mechanic.
‘I’ll be off then, Rob. Thanks for everything.’ Looking at Ginny, she said: ‘You’ll be all right here. I’ve left everything as I’d like to find it, so you can just move in.’
She had taken the opportunity to escape and left at the same time as Angela, wanting to be away from the duty of chatting amiably with the singularly unlikeable Ginny, who fixed her with a porcine stare as she stood to leave. She stopped at the door, wondered again whether she should try to tell Rob of her misgivings, tried, but failed to catch his attention.
As she turned and stepped outside, it struck her that Rob’s usually unkempt goatee beard and stubble were unexpectedly.... well.... kempt.
*
She turned her head to look at the time as she spoke into the receiver.
Three twenty-four.
Rob.
At three twenty-four in the morning.
« Hello, Rob. »
Nothing. The line buzzed and echoed, a hollow noise.
« Rob? »
There came a rattling sigh. Then silence.
She was nearly awake by the time she had got the receiver to her ear and clocked the caller ID on the screen. Rob.
*
Rob. Was he waking her to prattle some more? Since his wife’s death nearly a year ago, he had been trying to pull the strings of a new life together, making mistakes along the way, but getting there all the same. Even if he was extremely exasperating ...
Going from a full year of twenty-four-seven care to sudden freedom had gone to his head. He had become erratic, unfocused. Soon, perhaps too soon after the funeral, he had gone into a new relationship, moved in even with his new love. True romance it was not, so here he was back again in the house around the corner, keeping company with his late wife’s clothes, cosmetics, even her toothbrush had still been in the bathroom when he left. She had been trying, day by day, to help him clear things, but he got her down – not because he was sad or maudlin, but because if he was, he masked it behind endless puerile prattle. She found it wearing.
But still, she had to admit that he was trying to move forwards. He had adapted the top-floor bedroom and shower into a small, self-contained bedsit, given contact details to the local college and rented it out, six months ago, to his first student, who was on the point of leaving to be replaced by another, rather strange young woman whom she’d met two days ago.
Her luck had definitely been out as she passed by Rob’s house just as he was opening the window.
‘Hi, why don’t you come in and meet Ginny. She’s my new tenant, moving in tomorrow.’
And so, reluctantly, she had found herself sitting at Rob’s kitchen table with a mug of coffee, a plate of Speculos (which Rob insisted on calling ‘speculum biscuits’ - it had nearly been funny the first time) and feeling vaguely discomfited by the undercover visual inspection that Ginny was subjecting her to.
‘Ginny used to go to the school where you taught. I thought you might know each other. It was Rosemoor High, wasn’t it?’
‘No, in fact it was Roseleigh High.’
She hadn’t known she was going to lie and it shocked her, but something about this young woman made her feel that the less she said about herself, the better it would be. She looked at Rob to see if the lie had registered, but an unattentive man he had always been, ‘women's prattle’, such as their careers, skills, opinions, being of no consequence to him, whilst his own stream-of-consciousness prattle was, by his own definition, a mine of fascinating information.
She looked then at Ginny and attempted a smile. The girl looked back expressionless, her narrow eyes, slits in a palid, puffy face, still engaged in their scrutiny of her.
‘You went to Rosemoor then, Ginny? I have friends who worked there, when did you leave?’
‘Two years ago,’ Ginny replied, her voice as devoid of expression as her face and as atonal as her flat vowels.
So, there was something odd here, very odd. Rosemoor High had closed to merge with another school on another site a little over ten years ago. Why would anyone lie about the school they went to? She glanced at Rob, but judging from his absent, self-sufficient smile, he clearly wasn't even listening. She imagined trying to explain to him later what she was - not thinking exactly - but sensing about this girl. Stony ground. None of her business anyway. And hadn’t she lied about teaching at the school? Well, there we are. Goose and gander. Leave it alone.
‘What are you studying at the college?’
‘Hairdressing.’ Ginny reached down into her bag and brought out a neat cylinder of black cloth which she unrolled carefully on to the table. It contained scissors, combs, hairbrushes, grips. She displayed them proudly, the tools of her trade, touching them, one after another, slily, almost caressingly.
‘What’s this one?’
‘Oh, that. It’s a razor. We have to learn how to do old-fashioned shaves.’
And she extracted from its pocket in the cloth a cut-throat razor and half unfolded the blade. She touched the tip of her finger to its edge and showed her a spot of blood before licking it away. ‘Very sharp. Have to be careful,’ she murmured.
Rob roared with laughter and asked whether they got to practice on whiskery dummies or real live men. Ginny didn’t seem to think an answer was needed. She remained silent and closed.
A clumping noise from the stairs announced Angela, a cropped-haired, pretty, smiling girl of twenty, who backed into the room dragging two heavy cases in before upending them ready to be wheeled out of her studies and into her new life as an apprentice mechanic.
‘I’ll be off then, Rob. Thanks for everything.’ Looking at Ginny, she said: ‘You’ll be all right here. I’ve left everything as I’d like to find it, so you can just move in.’
She had taken the opportunity to escape and left at the same time as Angela, wanting to be away from the duty of chatting amiably with the singularly unlikeable Ginny, who fixed her with a porcine stare as she stood to leave. She stopped at the door, wondered again whether she should try to tell Rob of her misgivings, tried, but failed to catch his attention.
As she turned and stepped outside, it struck her that Rob’s usually unkempt goatee beard and stubble were unexpectedly.... well.... kempt.
*
She turned her head to look at the time as she spoke into the receiver.
Three twenty-four.
Rob.
At three twenty-four in the morning.
« Hello, Rob. »
Nothing. The line buzzed and echoed, a hollow noise.
« Rob? »
There came a rattling sigh. Then silence.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Interlude Stories: Dot King
NIGHT CALL - DOT KING
And that was when the hand grabbed her by the throat...
In that instant, unconnected, simultaneous reactions assailed her: a feeling that something was familiar, should be, yet she couldn't seize, hold on to it; a strange, dangerous comfort that she was going to die: no more TV dinners, no more empty, lonely nights, relief from that torpor of all-consuming sadness ... feelings that were thrust aside by raw instinct screaming in her head « BREATHE ».
She couldn't. Nor could she see. She realised with a shock that her attacker's other hand was over her eyes. Her arms and hands were useless, unable to connect with those pressing her down on the bed, blocked by his arms. She was dimly aware of her hand releasing her cellphone and by the muffled skittering noise as it hit the floor, she knew it had slid under the bed.
Kicking out, she tried to bend her knees to get some purchase on the counterpane, to push away, lessen his grip, but it slipped away beneath her until her right arm, in its flailing, connected only with air as the top part of her body was pushed over the edge of the bed. She felt the pressure increase on her neck until she thought it would snap and still the voice in her head commanded « BREATHE ».
From somewhere, she thought she heard another, external voice. Then she knew she'd heard a voice, was still hearing it: « Police. Are you there? You have called the police. Please state your name ... » For a split second the pressure on her throat eased as her attacker tried to assess what he too was hearing. Susie needed no more time than this. Her hand connected with the empty glass from the night before, grasped it, lifted it, smashed it, dragged the jagged edge along the underside of his arm, elbow to wrist.
Liquid warmth ran over her hand and dripped down on to her chest. As the pain from the wound kicked in, the man gasped and raised the hand that held her throat. Susie dragged in a breath. It made her dizzy, but already her hand was arcing over for another slash. Into the side of his face. « You. Bitch! » Again. Again. The hand over her eyes yanked away.
In the darkness she scrambled back, away from him. He was holding his face, covering it, his head flung back. As her sight adjusted and her breathing steadied, she could see dark stains oozing between his fingers. He moaned loudly.
« Hey, what's going on there? »
The cellphone. Had she still had her finger on the call button when he grabbed her? She opened her mouth to yell. Her throat burned and her voice was no more than a strangled rasp. He was getting up from the bed.
Get out! Go!
Keeping her eyes on the man, back to the wall, Susie edged around the bedroom to the door. On the pale bedcover the dark stain was spreading. With every breath, the man moaned. He was standing, swaying.
The cellphone tinnily interrogated « Where are you? »
Finally, the open door, the landing, the stairs. Susie struggled with the multiple security locks on the front door, glancing behind her every couple of seconds. The man's moans seemed louder in the silence of the carpeted hallway. A thud from above panicked her.
Sliding the last bolt with trembling fingers, turning the handle made slippery with blood, she stumbled out into the yard, tried to fill her burning lungs with night air, but could only take small panting breaths. If they were all she had, then she would manage. Barefoot, she made her way to her car, vaguely hoping the keys might be on the dashboard. They weren't. Three miles on foot to the town. Auto-pilot.
The officer on the desk recognised Susie, took in her bleeding feet, blood-soaked pyjamas and the bruising on her neck and cheekbones. He called a doctor and asked a female colleague to lead her through to a quiet office where, in a halting, absent monotone, she told her tale. After hearing of her ordeal the desk sergeant immediately called control to dispatch officers to her house, only to discover they were on their way after her unanswered 999 call had been traced.
Passively, she sat silent while the doctor cleaned and dressed her feet and examined the bruising. She was helped out of her pyjamas and given a washed-out tracksuit. The world was cotton wool. She could not speak. She could not think. She had survived, that was all.
The radio on the officer's belt crackled. Reporting in from the house. Did Susie feel strong enough to go out there? She nodded distractedly.
As she was helped from the car, medics were carrying a stretcher from the house. She heard muffled, disjointed phrases. «Alive. Just. Lost a lot ... blood. Maybe lose ... eye. Unconscious. Pull through. »
« Do you think you could look at him? Perhaps you can identify him... if you feel up to it. »
Susie assented. Part of her picked up a distant, detached, flinty quality to the officer's voice. She looked at him, wondering. The woman officer walked her to the gurney, nodded to one of the medics who shone a light on to the devastated face of the man.
As unconsciousness finally pulled her under, Susie breathed his name, « Mike. »
And that was when the hand grabbed her by the throat...
In that instant, unconnected, simultaneous reactions assailed her: a feeling that something was familiar, should be, yet she couldn't seize, hold on to it; a strange, dangerous comfort that she was going to die: no more TV dinners, no more empty, lonely nights, relief from that torpor of all-consuming sadness ... feelings that were thrust aside by raw instinct screaming in her head « BREATHE ».
She couldn't. Nor could she see. She realised with a shock that her attacker's other hand was over her eyes. Her arms and hands were useless, unable to connect with those pressing her down on the bed, blocked by his arms. She was dimly aware of her hand releasing her cellphone and by the muffled skittering noise as it hit the floor, she knew it had slid under the bed.
Kicking out, she tried to bend her knees to get some purchase on the counterpane, to push away, lessen his grip, but it slipped away beneath her until her right arm, in its flailing, connected only with air as the top part of her body was pushed over the edge of the bed. She felt the pressure increase on her neck until she thought it would snap and still the voice in her head commanded « BREATHE ».
From somewhere, she thought she heard another, external voice. Then she knew she'd heard a voice, was still hearing it: « Police. Are you there? You have called the police. Please state your name ... » For a split second the pressure on her throat eased as her attacker tried to assess what he too was hearing. Susie needed no more time than this. Her hand connected with the empty glass from the night before, grasped it, lifted it, smashed it, dragged the jagged edge along the underside of his arm, elbow to wrist.
Liquid warmth ran over her hand and dripped down on to her chest. As the pain from the wound kicked in, the man gasped and raised the hand that held her throat. Susie dragged in a breath. It made her dizzy, but already her hand was arcing over for another slash. Into the side of his face. « You. Bitch! » Again. Again. The hand over her eyes yanked away.
In the darkness she scrambled back, away from him. He was holding his face, covering it, his head flung back. As her sight adjusted and her breathing steadied, she could see dark stains oozing between his fingers. He moaned loudly.
« Hey, what's going on there? »
The cellphone. Had she still had her finger on the call button when he grabbed her? She opened her mouth to yell. Her throat burned and her voice was no more than a strangled rasp. He was getting up from the bed.
Get out! Go!
Keeping her eyes on the man, back to the wall, Susie edged around the bedroom to the door. On the pale bedcover the dark stain was spreading. With every breath, the man moaned. He was standing, swaying.
The cellphone tinnily interrogated « Where are you? »
Finally, the open door, the landing, the stairs. Susie struggled with the multiple security locks on the front door, glancing behind her every couple of seconds. The man's moans seemed louder in the silence of the carpeted hallway. A thud from above panicked her.
Sliding the last bolt with trembling fingers, turning the handle made slippery with blood, she stumbled out into the yard, tried to fill her burning lungs with night air, but could only take small panting breaths. If they were all she had, then she would manage. Barefoot, she made her way to her car, vaguely hoping the keys might be on the dashboard. They weren't. Three miles on foot to the town. Auto-pilot.
The officer on the desk recognised Susie, took in her bleeding feet, blood-soaked pyjamas and the bruising on her neck and cheekbones. He called a doctor and asked a female colleague to lead her through to a quiet office where, in a halting, absent monotone, she told her tale. After hearing of her ordeal the desk sergeant immediately called control to dispatch officers to her house, only to discover they were on their way after her unanswered 999 call had been traced.
Passively, she sat silent while the doctor cleaned and dressed her feet and examined the bruising. She was helped out of her pyjamas and given a washed-out tracksuit. The world was cotton wool. She could not speak. She could not think. She had survived, that was all.
The radio on the officer's belt crackled. Reporting in from the house. Did Susie feel strong enough to go out there? She nodded distractedly.
As she was helped from the car, medics were carrying a stretcher from the house. She heard muffled, disjointed phrases. «Alive. Just. Lost a lot ... blood. Maybe lose ... eye. Unconscious. Pull through. »
« Do you think you could look at him? Perhaps you can identify him... if you feel up to it. »
Susie assented. Part of her picked up a distant, detached, flinty quality to the officer's voice. She looked at him, wondering. The woman officer walked her to the gurney, nodded to one of the medics who shone a light on to the devastated face of the man.
As unconsciousness finally pulled her under, Susie breathed his name, « Mike. »
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