Carrion: A Story of Passion (8 page)

“Does this make you happy, Charlotte? Is this what you have been searching for?”

I look around and sigh. I have no answer.

“You’re in danger of falling in love with him, Charlotte. Be careful. Alexander is…” her words fade. She laughs. “Alexander just
is
…”

“Yes,” I sigh. But I am not sure what I am agreeing to. “Do you know where he is?”

Arabella scans the room for a moment and smiles “Does it matter?”

“No, I just wanted him.”

A smirk dances over her lips. “I have someone else that maybe you might want more – for a moment.”

She pulls a chain from her neck on which is a key. “Find the room, Charlotte and take your reward. Forget about Alexander for a while – it’s good to learn how to forget about him.”

I take the key from her and close it tightly in my hand.  Her words hurt more than the blows of the whip. Arabella knows Alexander. She knows that eventually he will leave me, and I will be left with little choice but to forget him or live with a loss that will never be healed.

I can make him love me. This is different. We are different.

I stand up and make my way to the door, trying to erase Arabella’s message from my mind with each footfall I make up the stairs.

On the first floor is a long gallery of rooms, each with the door shut and locked. I try every one before coming to the last of the doors and finding that too is locked. Exasperated, I curse and turn, and start to make my way towards the stairs, noting that at the end of the corridor is a small door that I’d missed because it initially looked like part of the panelling.

My bare feet trip lightly down the corridor, foolishly excited to have discovered a ‘hidden door.’ I run my hands over the panelling looking for a lock and am just about to give up with a bitter disappointment when I note the candle sconce (now adapted to take an electric light) has a keyhole disguised within its filigree decoration. My hand trembles as I lift the key and insert it into that secret hole.

To my delight it turns.

I look over my shoulder, keen that my secret should not have been discovered and spoiled, before slipping behind the panelling and closing the door behind me. The door leads to a narrow staircase, lit by nothing other than the cold blue moonlight.

The bare wooden steps creak under my feet. “Hello. Is there any body there?” I whisper into the seemingly derelict space. There is no response. The stairs lead to a hidden attic room, the moonlight flooding through a circular window in the roof: an oculus to the gods. A cold blade of light falls onto a post to which a figure is tied. A ripple of excitement runs through me and I advance to discover who it is.

“Daniel!” I gasp; a smile flitting over my lips.

“Mistress,” he replies, and there is a twinkle in his eye that suggests he is genuinely pleased at last to see me.

I step back in order to appreciate his form. There is a small basket of gifts at his feet, paddles, whips and other various contraptions of punishment and pleasure, but I am tired of pain – I am tired of the mounting, agonised anticipation. I raise myself up onto my toes and place my lips against the crease of his mouth, offering butterfly kisses across his lips until he responds, urgently, crushing his lips against mine. Whilst we kiss, I untie his hands, but he has been trained to be good – and they remain crossed behind his back, until I take one of them in my own and lead him away from the post. All the time, I am kissing his face, his lips, his neck. I pull him down until we are both kneeling on the dusty, splintered floor boards, and I push him back and straddle him, feeling his stiff cock against my thigh. I pin his arms above his head and cover him in light kisses until he is sighing, his hips moving, his cock nudging at my wet sex. I lower myself down on him, moaning at the delicious stretch and fullness of his shaft. Our hips circle, grinding into each other, exploring the novel sensations. I lift myself up, nudging the soft velvet head of his cock with my clit, and then slide back, slamming until I can feel the base of his cock rub the whole of my sex. He responds hard, jerking his hips upwards to meet my grinding pubis. I brace myself against his shoulders. I am riding him, our bodies unified in one ultimate quest for orgasm. My hand clamp across his mouth, his nose and I feel his body buck and strain with the fear of suffocation, but he doesn’t remove my hands – he doesn’t fight them off.  I come with a roaring burst of light and warmth, triggering Daniel’s crisis; his hips jerk and he gasps for air with the liberation of his mouth, before swooning. I scramble back, fearful that I’ve killed him. I watch his chest for signs of life and tap his cheeks. He lets out a small sleepy mewl.  It is only then that I notice how Daniel’s hands are still held firmly above his head by another.

I cry out, fearful that my near murder of Daniel has been witnessed. It is Alexander and he has fixed me with a bemused and satisfied smile. “Charlotte, the boy can only use the safe word if he’s left alive.”

“Oh, my God, oh my god. I’m so sorry,” I mumble – frightened by my own actions.

Alexander sighed in the style of a disappointed tutor. “Thankfully, I was here to make sure it didn’t get that far. It’s alright, he was perfectly safe. ”

I look down on Daniel. His eyes are closed, and his breathing, although quick, is perfectly rhythmic.

“Shit, I nearly killed him, Alexander! I nearly killed him.”

Alexander laughed. “Trust me, he’s come a lot closer at the hands of Arabella. But let this be a lesson, Charlotte. You can’t just go and play without knowing the rules.”

“No, Alexander.”

“Come. I see that we have some instruction to administer.”

He guides me back down the stairs, his hand at the base of my spine.

We returned to London the next afternoon. I never did go back to my flat to pick up my personal things, and now they are gone. There was no going back, because there was no back to go to.

Chapter Seven: Broken Dolls

There’s a gallery exhibition on the works of Hans Bulmer, one of the lesser-known and yet most active members of the Breton led surrealist group. It’s at small privately run gallery that doesn’t have a name, just a number: 62. Bulmer mostly worked in the medium of photography, a dark exploration into the dismemberment of the female form. He was searching for humanity by tearing it apart. After the taxidermy lesson, I understand this more than I did before. It is whilst standing in front of the sharp black and white image of a broken doll, trussed with black ropes, her body spread down a set of stairs, that I meet Anya. Green eyes, the shape of Almonds – flecked with gold leaf and sorrow. She has auburn hair that tumbles down the back of a green velvet jacket, which is studded with various ironic pin-badges. My heartbeat increases. Immediately, I know that she is the one. I watch her studying the image in front of us, and I try to work out whether she is shocked or aroused. I return my eyes to the image and ask myself the same question. I don’t have a definitive answer. All I know is that somehow these images make me feel incredibly sad, but sometimes sadness is a delicacy that the body appreciates. I turn back to look at her.

She senses my eyes on her and she offers me a nervous smile. I try to see myself through her eyes but I can’t. In my own eyes I have become a chimera, an illusion beyond form.

“Fascinating, aren’t they?” I say, drawing her into conversation.

She doesn’t answer at first, and I like that. I like the idea that she’s thinking about a response; so many people don’t actually think, they just emit.

She states, “They are very ugly,” but the way she says it suggests that she senses the same paradox I do. I go to respond, thinking that this is her entire statement, but I am wrong. She was merely thinking. She cuts me off. “But I guess the way men see us often is.”

My initial response fades, and I nod. “Yes, you are probably right.”

I can’t help thinking about Alexander and whether he harbours a secret desire to pull me apart and refigure me. I shake the thought away.
‘Better her than me’
, I think looking into the green pools that are Anya’s eyes.

“There’s a talk in half an hour by the gallery owner. Would you like to join me for coffee whilst we wait?” I ask.

She’s surprised by my invitation but nods and smiles. I wonder if she’s lonely – if she’s hurting.

We talk about other pieces in the exhibition; how they make us feel, what they make us think. I learn that she is nineteen, an art student completing a fine arts degree. When she enquires about what I do, I tell her that I too am an artist. After the disappointingly dull talk, I invite Anya to supper on Thursday at our flat, scrawling my number and address down on the back of her exhibition program before she can protest. I explain how we have a regular supper group that she’s sure to find interesting. I see her squirm under a conditioned instinct not to accept invitations from strangers. I rapidly extend the invite to one of her friends too. It’s all about trust.

Relieved, she laughs, “That would be lovely. What shall I bring?”

“Just yourself.”

She waves the program and says, “I’ll see you Thursday then.”

“Thursday!” I say walking away. Even though I know she will have a million doubts between now and Thursday, I know she will come.

I keep her a surprise, informing Alexander that I’m hosting supper for six, which will include Emeline and Quentin in a manipulative attempt to show Alexander that married doesn’t mean damned. When he asks who the others are, I tell him that it is a couple I met at one of the Lost Soul’s lectures who I thought, ‘curious’.

He kisses me on top of the head and laughingly says, “You’re becoming quite the socialite, Charlotte.”

I start to menu plan, all with the idea of seducing Anya.

Anya arrives accompanied by a willowed-youth, sporting glasses and a pained expression. His name is Stewart. He may as well be wearing a t-shirt with the slogan, “I am an art student.” Alexander flashes me an amused smile and I know that we both know that the boy is going to be a terrible bore.

We are rescued by the arrival of Quentin and Emeline, who are naturally gregarious and affable; two qualities that you could not ascribe to Alexander.

I take the wine from Anya’s arms and carry it through to the kitchen whilst instructing Alexander to take Anya’s cape. She blushes when he approaches her. I smile triumphantly.

Throughout the evening, Alexander keeps trying to catch my eye. He wants to know if this is the kitten we get to keep. I bite my lip. The image of Bellmer’s broken dolls refuses to leave me. I scrutinise his face. In the candlelight his features are sharpened. He is chiselled lines and ice-blue eyes. He is beautiful but cold. I watch him watching Anya; it reminds me of when he looked at the stoat with a scalpel in his hand. I convince myself that Alexander is incapable of murder – and yet, twice in the last month our playtime has ended in quiet tears and dark shadows. Through the lens of a camera they have been moments of sublime beauty – in reality they were moments that left ugly bruises.

Anya is as charming as I had hoped. Demure and interesting, with a spark of intellect that Quentin clearly finds endearing. Emeline is unusually quiet, and she drinks deeply from her glass before refilling frequently. I have tried to make a friend of her, but she is distant and aloof. Animal instincts inform us that we are natural rivals. There have been moments between them; a broken conversation when I walked into the kitchen, a smile, a look in the eye, his hand spread across the well of her back as they walk into a room – that tell me they have been lovers. They are not anymore, and it makes her unhappy. She wants him.

Quentin’s laughter fills the tiny flat, and it’s infectious. He entertains the table with a host of table parlour tricks and even surly Stewart cannot resist smiling.

We have dined on wood pigeon with morels, and lamb with anchovy butter. We have skipped the pudding course, and opted instead for a whole round of Stilton and a charger of fruit. Quentin and Emeline brought the port and slim French cigars as a dinner gift. The flat fills with the smell of blue smoke, and the sound of slow jazz makes everything feel heavy and soulful. We talk about poetry and art – Alexander asks Anya,

“Where do you think the line between pornography and art is drawn?”

I hold my breath.

She blushes and turns the question over in her head before answering, “There isn’t a line, only a frontier.”

Emeline snaps, “What the fuck does that mean?”

Anya turns to her and looks her in the eye. “It means, that we’re obsessed by drawing lines but in the end all lines are violated.”

Emeline takes a long drag on her cigar and creates a perfect circle of smoke that shimmers and breaks. “Sometimes I get so sick of all this shit.” She wipes her eyes clumsily with the back of her hand and staggers up from the table, walking towards the record player. Quentin watches her as she flops down onto the floor and begins sorting through the vinyl collection. He exchanges a look with Alexander and something is deeply communicated.

Stewart pours himself another port before declaring, “Pornography is cheap and art is not – it’s all to do with the price tag – how much the customer it willing to pay. In the end it’s all a form of prostitution. The artist, the whore, there’s little difference. One let’s you fuck their body, the other their soul. We’re all for sale, for the right price.”

“To capitalism!” Quentin says raising a glass and laughing.

For the first time that evening, Alexander looks at Stewart and smiles. “Indeed. So I guess the next question is... what is your price?” His eyes rest on Anya. There is a moment of awkward silence, broken by the sound of a smashing glass.

Emeline starts to cry. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” Her glass has hit against the side of the table and a deep red stain now spreads across her lap. She sits perilously amongst blades of glass.

Quentin bounds across the room with more agility than his six-foot five frame would suggest he is capable of. “Hang on, darling. Don’t move. I’m coming. Don’t touch anything!”

Between Alexander and Quentin, they tidy her up as she sits with a cocktail of tears and eyeliner tracing down her cheeks. I don’t feel anything for her, only the hope that somehow Alexander has managed to capture her on film.

Quentin gathers her coat and wraps her up, helping her to her feet. As he bundles her out of the door, he mumbles something to Alexander in explanation. Whatever Emeline’s secret is, the boys have sworn to keep it.  

  When Alexander returns to the table, he glances at his watch and I can see he is calculating how it might be possible to get rid of Stewart. It isn’t going to be. The boy thinks he’s heading to Anya’s bed. He isn’t. She knows that she’s drunk too much wine and she’s put her guard up.  I yawn dramatically, stretching my arms wide behind my head, signalling that it’s time for everyone to go.

“What a lovely evening,” I say, smiling sweetly. “It’s been so lovely to meet you, Stewart.”

“And you,” he says standing. Alexander hands him his coat and starts an inane conversation about how they are getting home. It is a tactic to divide them in conversation.

“So, Anya, are you free for supper next Thursday?” I ask.

She nods, “Yes, I think so – I’ll have to check but I think so.”

“Feel free to bring
another
friend.” I say it in a way that clearly means ‘different’ friend. She picks up on it and emits a little, “Oh,” before glancing at Stewart. “Yes, okay.” She stands and then remembering her bag, bends down to reclaim it from the floor. I see Alexander observing her bent form approvingly. In his mind, he has stripped away her clothes.

Her long auburn hair falls over her face and I am reminded of an art-deco sculpture. The kind where the woman’s hands are bound. I bite down on my lip and feel a flutter of desire. When I next look at Alexander, he is looking at me. 

That night in bed he asks me if I’ve ever seen a snuff movie. I look at him with wide eyes and say, “No! Have you?”

“No, of course not,” he says through a laugh.

“Then why did you ask?”

In the navy-light I can only just make out his face, but his eyes glitter. “No reason.”

“No, come on, you can’t just ask a question like that and expect the conversation to evaporate.”

He fidgets uncomfortably and sighs heavily. “This thing with Anya,” he says, “ – the way you are with her...” his words trail off.

“What about the way I am with her?” I ask defensively.

He shrugs.

“What about the way I am with her?” I repeat.

Cornered, he blurts out his response, “I don’t know Charlotte, you’re like a cat playing with a mouse – you had a glimmer in your eye that looked a little crazy!”

I burst out laughing, mainly because I can’t think of another response. “Me?” I cough. “You are worried about
me
? I’m not the one introducing snuff movies into our pillow talk.”

“That’s the problem, Charlotte, talking about something is one thing, but desiring it is another.”

I’m regretting not being sober. Somehow this conversation is rapidly heading towards loony-ville. “Are you suggesting that I want to...? What are you suggesting, exactly?”

“Nothing more than I think you’ve found a muse, Charlotte.” He turns his back to me and settles down for sleep. The conversation is over.

When I close my eyes, I see Anya’s porcelain face and green glass eyes. ‘Ridiculous!’ I whisper to my thoughts.

I text Anya the next morning to let her know that supper next week is cancelled. I make no attempt to fix another date and I do not see her again. I convince myself that it is to protect her from the darkness I see in Alexander, but really, I know it is to protect her from the darkness inside myself. Alexander does not mention the idea of introducing someone into our bed again. We carry on as before in a whirl of sensational entertainments, but we are on a spinning, giddy round-a-bout and there is only so fast it can go before the centrifugal force starts to split us apart. 

One Sunday afternoon, when the parties have become tiresome and we haven’t spent any time on our own in weeks, I stand at the bottom of our Antique French bed, dressed in a cream silk set and draped in opera beads with a bottle of half drunk champagne in my hand, and I say to him half teasingly, half serious,

"I love you."

The silence roars in the space between us, and I falter because he thinks that I was being serious.
I was
.

Not able to bear it, I ask, "Do you love me?"

He smiles awkwardly, "No, Charlotte. You know I can't love anybody."

...and the walls are falling in as if they were nothing more than stage flats. In all the months we have been together, he has not shown me a single act of love. I had known the answer before I'd even asked the question. Now it has slipped out, there is no taking it back.

"Come to bed. Are we fucking or what?" he smiles beguilingly from the bed and holds out a hand. He has no idea about the internal storm raging in my body. It takes him almost a minute - a very long minute as I stand there, my brain crashing - for him to register that I am hurting. He starts to laugh nervously, "Come on Charlotte," he coaxes. "You know how I am?"