Birdman

Then he unzipped her boots and placed them carefully in the corner. He pulled off the suede skirt and cut the T-shirt off, letting the big, swollen breasts droop outwards.

Experimentally he squeezed one engorged nipple. He had wondered how these new, unnatural things would feel; surprisingly they were quite warm: grained and springy to the touch. He pinched the right nipple between thumb and forefinger and lifted the whole breast, stretching it as far as it would go, a full six inches above her ribs, fascinated by the warm pliancy of the flesh and silicone. 'Mmmm.' He leaned in and inspected the slightly raised, shiny scar where they cut her to put the silicone in. Good. There would be no need to do too much cutting.

* * *

'So…' Rebecca had finished sorting the paintings. She was calmer now. She ferreted under the paper and paints and found the corner of a frame, laid it over one of the sketches and squinted at the effect. 'Veronica, isn't it?'

Caffery looked up. 'Sorry?'

'Veronica. She lives with you?'

'Oh God—' He shook his head and leaned against the door jamb. 'Yes, yes. I suppose she thought she did.'

'What went wrong?'

'Really?'

'Really.'

'Me.' He smiled. 'It was me. I'm a human failure, y'know.'

'Mmmm.' She was silent for a while, watching him. 'It doesn't show.'

'You can't tell from looking; it's not visible to the naked eye. But it's there.'

'What?'

'An obsession.'

'Ah. A woman.' She turned back to the painting. 'Then I can't blame Veronica.'

'No. Not a woman.'

'Then it must be Ewan, I suppose.'

'Yes — I—' He was taken aback to hear Ewan's name spoken by someone else. 'You remember his name.'

'Did you think I wouldn't?'

'I thought you wouldn't.'

'Well, I did.' She put down the frame and began stacking the paintings in small piles, placing them at the end of the table. 'And I'm sorry to disappoint you but personally I think it's all crap.'

'I'm sorry?'

'It's a crap excuse for not living your life, isn't it? The past. I mean I don't know exactly what happened, but I do know this: by now, being a big grown-up adult and stuff, you're supposed to have let it go — moved on.' She dropped the last pile of paintings and turned to him. 'Don't you read your American poets? ''Let the Past bury its dead'' and all that gab.'

Caffery stared at her, the glass halfway to his mouth. He didn't answer.

'Oh shit,' she sighed, seeing his expression. 'I'm so rude to you, aren't I?' She opened her hands and looked around the room as if her own behaviour was a mystery, as if the explanation might be tacked up on the wall. 'It's like a compulsion — I mean, don't you think I was rude not answering that call, for example? And hanging up on you. Don't you think that was unnecessarily rude of me?'

'Yes,' he said. 'You were rude.' He lowered the glass and thought about this for a moment. Then he said. 'Did I deserve it?'

Her face softened. 'Yes.' She smiled. 'Yes, you deserved it.'

Jack nodded and sighed. 'Thought so.'

* * *

Bliss got irritated when he couldn't lift Joni's hips to remove her knickers, and gave in to his temper again, pushing her roughly onto her side and holding her there with all his force. Then he slipped a pair of his underpants between her teeth, taped over them, and sat back down on the bed to look at her.

The Greenwich woman had been tied up here for almost twenty-four hours. When he'd come to remove the packing tape gag, to replace it where it was becoming soft with saliva, she'd begged him to let her use the toilet. He'd refused and she'd begun crying.

'Please let me go. Please.'

But he'd shaken his head, replaced the gag, and watched her coolly until, in tears, she had wet herself. He'd beaten her for it, but dutifully cleaned up the mess. There was blood in it. He believed it meant that her kidneys were struggling with the infection.

'Now.' He glanced at his watch. 'It's ten-thirty, Joni. I'll be coming in to prep you at eleven. Until then just relax.'

* * *

Ten forty-five. The studio windows were open, the streetlamps lit the same red as sunset. Passing cars spilled music into the streets. The night and the wine had softened Rebecca, she had unfastened her hair and her skin was brilliant in the half-light. She sat facing him, not speaking. They'd talked themselves to a standstill long ago — nothing more to say except what was really on their minds.

It was Jack who eventually broke the silence. 'I should go,' he said but didn't move.

Rebecca sipped her wine and said nothing.

'It's getting late, I've got an early start tomorrow.' He let the sentence hang, waiting for her to respond. 'So I should go.'

'Yes,' she said eventually, putting her glass down. 'Yes, of course.'

They walked down the stairs, Rebecca leading. From two steps above he could see the small indents in the flesh of her shoulders where the ribbon straps of her dress had imprinted and slipped. At the front door she stopped — standing an artificial distance away from him — put her hand on the latch, but didn't open the door.

'Well—' She stared at a button on his shirt, not meeting his eyes. 'Thanks for the advice.'

'That's OK.'

Silence again. Her eyes remained fixed on his shirt buttons and Jack instinctively lifted his hand, holding his fingers over his chest. At the movement her mouth opened. She covered her face and turned away.

'Rebecca?'

'God, I'm sorry.' Her voice was muffled.

'Rebecca?' He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders, over the straps, conscious of the dents in the hot skin under his palms. 'Maybe we should go back upstairs?'

'Yes.' She nodded, not looking at him. 'I think so.'

'Come on, then.'

He tried to turn her but she made a small noise in her throat and caught his right hand, pulling it to her mouth, kissing it, sinking her teeth lightly into his palm, sucking each finger in turn. Jack stood quite still, staring at the back of her head, his heart thumping. She rubbed his finger across her lips, lifted her chin, drawing his hand down her neck, over the dress, and suddenly, unexpectedly, an urge kicked off in him—

'Oh Jesus—'

He turned her to face him, gripped the backs of her thighs and lifted her backwards — up and back, so she was resting on the cold hall radiator. He pushed the dress up her thighs and she took a sharp breath, leaning blindly towards him, trying to kiss him, her teeth bumping against his, hands fumbling to help him pull her underwear off, not smiling, but concentrating.

Responding.

Her bare feet scrambled for purchase — found the mountain bike propped next to the radiator and got shaky balance — her foot pressed against the wheel, as Jack braced his feet square on the ground and unzipped himself. Through the fan-light headlights swept across the ceiling, the light shifting on Rebecca's face as he moved inside her. Her eyes were closed, she bit her lips — not stopping him but jacking her hips up against his, matching his rhythm. The bike rocked forward, pedals slammed into his calves, bringing blood that he didn't notice. His focus narrowed — speeded and strained — until every atom of energy and anger and need was isolated in this act and he had forgotten how it had started.

'No—' she said suddenly, looking at his face. 'No — don't come inside me.'

'Jesus—' He thrust himself away, back across the hall — out of control — coming onto his shoes, on the floor. For a moment he stared at her in disbelief, then he put his hand over his face and sank onto the bottom stairs, shaking his head. Breathing hard. 'Oh God. I'm sorry — I'm sorry.'