Page 7

H is back burned and the spray cut clean to the bone as fat wet snakes slithered down his arms and legs, so cold they burned.

Eyes hooded and vacant, Richard watched the run-off collect around the shower drain, swirling around and around. The blood was almost washed away, leaving only long accusing fingers of dark crimson streaking across the porcelain.

Time had lost all meaning. Seconds and hours bled together until…

“Goddamnit!”

He wanted to scream. To shout. To bellow like a bear in a cage, being dragged through the streets for the amusement of a medieval mob, roaring and bawling in a show of futile outrage at the hard, inescapable reality. Yet the pitiful grunt was all he dared with Alexander in the next room, liable to stir at the smallest sound, and Alice sleeping peacefully just across the hall. So instead, he took it out on the shower wall the way an angry child would beat a pillow.

Red-hot knives stabbed between his knuckles and up his arm in a blast of near-crippling agony as he hit the wall hard enough for bone to crack against the porcelain. Regardless, he ground his knuckles into the tile, relishing the agony it induced, needing it and not knowing what else to do.

Then the moment was gone, and Richard was left shivering in the cold, hot tears stinging his eyes. “Wh-what the fuck have I done?” The question rang hollow, even to his ears.

What had he done? He'd fucked his babysitter, a girl almost young enough to be his daughter. He'd cheated on his wife. And, what was worse, he'd loved every fucking second of it. Then he'd fled.

He could still hear Rebecca crying in her room.

Her sobs had chased him out of the Blaire's flat like a pack of hounds snapping at his heels and it had been all he could do to make it back to the flat without breaking his neck. Alice had already gone to bed when he came bursting through the door. Deep down, a more rational part of him was relieved he didn’t have to explain to his instinctively suspicious wife why he was getting in so late, or the fact he smelt like sex and his shirt was misbuttoned, but in that moment, all he could think about was a shower. He'd barely spared a moment to look into their bedroom to check on her before jumping into the bath and cranking the water temperature as low as it would go.

Goddammit! What the fuck had he done! Why had he even gone to fix the computer in the first place? It wasn’t a vital job. Rebecca might have been in a state, but it could have waited until morning. So, why the fuck had he gone to the fix the bloody computer, when he’d known, he’d just known it was a bad idea.

Alarm bells had gone off the moment Alice had suggested the girl fancied him. He would have pressed her for more, but then she kissed him, and his world had dissolved to just the feeling of her luscious body pressing into his.

It had been much the same the night they first met, when she’d cornered him in The Burning Book’s storeroom. He’d been getting a fresh crate of beer when he’d noticed her leaning against the door. He hadn’t noticed her slipping in after him, and the sight of the tiny brunet, all curves and smiles in a black wrap-around dress that could only have been painted on, standing there with her hand on her hip almost had him jumping out of his skin.

Only the Lord alone knew how he managed not to drop the bottles in each hand.

Her smile had only grown more sinful when he'd told her she was in a staff-only area. Then, with a cock of her head and a pouting moan, she’d been on him and he’d promptly forgotten all of his fears of getting caught.

Richard would have stayed. He would have, but then Alice’s remarks about Rebecca rung in his ears. Suddenly, he couldn’t get the girl out of his head and he'd felt so ashamed that he just needed to get away.

The irony of it all did not escape him.

Self-loathing twisting his guts, he opened and closed his fist, working the feeling back into the stiff digits. They all moved. That was good, nothing broken, but they hurt pretty bad and the throbbing in the knuckles was enough to make him wince with each flex. Then again, that was good too. He deserved the pain.

Christ, I need a drink.

The thought came from out of nowhere but had a restorative effect that had Richard thumbing the shower panel. Pulling the curtain back before the deluge had ceased, he stepped out of the bath, grabbed a towel off the rail and, heedless of the water still running down his legs, made straight for the kitchen.

The oven’s display showed it was just after two in the morning.

Out of habit, he made to fill the kettle, but then at the last minute opened the top cabinet. The British Empire might have been built on tea, but this called for something stronger. And he needed to get royally shit faced. Rummaging through the various jars, bottles, and tins, he retrieved the mostly full Bushmills they kept for when Alice’s parents came to visit, before grabbing a glass from the draining board.

Pouring himself a measure, Richard threw his head back and downed the whiskey. It burned all the way down, but the liquor brought the warmth back, lessening the sickening knot rooted in his gut, so he savoured it all the same, relishing the hard flavour and distinctive aroma that curled up his nose-

“C-C-Christ,” he bit out, coughing so violently each breath rasped like sandpaper, and his hand shook as he filled the glass again. This time making it a double, he stowed the bottle, and its now notably emptied contents, back into the cupboard before exiting the kitchen, drink in hand.

The living room had lost all its warmth as Richard half-sat, half-collapsed onto the sofa. Bathed in the soft light of the standing lamp they kept on a timer to dissuade thieves from getting ambitious, inky blackness pooled along the edges of the walls. Long shadows stretched across the floor like the bars of a cell. His cell.

Wary of another coughing fit that might rouse his wife, he only nursed the drink, sipping the dark amber liquid while staring over the rim of the glass at the dark outside the window.

What have I done?

Hardly a frequent or heavy drinker, the Bushmills made his eyes heavy and his head feel light as the alcohol took effect. The question haunted him, ringing through his ears while flashbacks of the last hour played out before his eyes.

His cock stiffened at the memory of Rebecca standing in the doorway in nothing but that robe. The way her slender curves rigged in his lap. The taste of her on his lips. Her breathy pleading as he tongued her clit. The feeling of her tight little cunt exploding around him...

He hated himself for what he’d done. He’d cheated on Alice, broken his vows to her and risked their marriage. He’d used Rebecca, fucked her like a bitch in heat. Then, worse still, discarded her so callously even though he knew, well suspected, she had feelings for him.

God in fucking hell, he was a beast.

A part of him still couldn’t believe it. Here in the safety of his home, on his sofa with a glass of whiskey, the night felt like a bad dream. A God damn fucking nightmare. Only he’d woken to it. The night was like a dream he could only half remember, slipping out of his grasp like pale wisps of morning mist curling around his fingers whenever he tried to focus on one moment. All except for those moments. They were sharp and clear and played before his eyes whenever he’d closed them.

What the fuck was wrong with him? He and Alice were finally getting their lives back to a sense of normality… How was he going to look her in the eye again, knowing that he’d… Christ, what would she say? What would she do? He’d ruined everything. And just when it had all seemed to be going so well. In layman’s terms-

“I’m fucked.” He toasted the declaration by downing the rest of his Bushmills. “Oh God. Al , I’m sor-”

The timer on the lamp’s plug clicked over, cutting the power.

Darkness consumed him