Decay Inevitable

Will returned to the main street. He didn’t know where he could go. What if the news told of a man on the run, capable of violence? How could his friends take him in? His friends were also Cat’s friends; there could be no chance of some sort of skewed loyalty here. Even his closest companions would shop him; it was what he would do in the same position.

He caught a whiff of reefer, heard heavy, fast bass; a Saab parked up a sidestreet contained two teens watching the road. He knew them; they cruised around in their car late into the night, playing hip hop at full blast, or hung around outside coffee bars. Every time they saw his wife, one of them would smile and say: “Not long now, hey?”

The driver wound down the window without looking at Will as he approached.

“Want some blow?” he asked, softly. Now he did look. “Shit. Are you all right?”

Will said, “No. I want you to burgle my house.”

NOW PARKED ACROSS the way from Cumberland Mansions, Will watched from the car as the two kids – Known and Hot Badge – waited for the others they had phoned when Will had promised them it was no set-up and that they could keep what they could carry. All he wanted was a report on how the flat looked, and his coat and his wallet – untouched. Known had said: “Let’s see what we can’t do for you.”

“One more thing,” Will stipulated. “I want a weapon.”

The man in the cricket cap was clearly bothered by the sudden build-up of youths and had risen to his feet while trying to maintain a disaffected air. Known and Hot Badge and their friends, three or four louche boys in denim jackets and baseball caps, ambled across the road and up the steps to the front door. Cricket cap was on his phone once the lock had been sprung. Will huddled in the car, trying not to think too much about what they might find in his flat. The heater roared, coaxing movement back to his frozen joints. He closed his eyes and realised he was shifting into a dream. How could he sleep? But he saw Cat there now, waving to him through the warp and weft of his thoughts. With a slight tremor of fear, as of someone giving up life because of a lack of anything left within it to care about, he succumbed to the depths and followed her.

CHEKE HAD BEEN left in a stone room with a high window and a solid wooden door. A deep bath made of thick, frosted glass awaited her. The water was cold, but she had begun to understand how to alter herself to accommodate for temperature changes. She moved the blanket slightly and looked down at her body.

Already she was losing her hold on her own identity, such as it could be after such a short time – that which mapped out the set of characteristics was being subtly differed and she could feel invisible fingers plucking at her, though mercifully the change was painless. After a while she’d begun to notice it wasn’t restricted to her interior. Her breasts were swelling, the nipples becoming darker, more pronounced. Her hips were growing rounder, her buttocks firmer. Three moist, puckered punctures buttoned her abdomen. A curious fingernail made the punctures shiver and relax, betraying a moist, pink velvety lining within. The woman who had provided her with her first real sustenance did not have anything remotely resembling this formation on her. Absorbing her, feeling her body pulverise under the juices she ejaculated, Cheke had pored over the woman’s face, her interest quickening when death settled and her features relaxed. The woman had a rind of colour to her eyes; a dip at the apex of her top lip; just one set of canine teeth. Subtle differences, but they were fascinating to Cheke, who was coming to grips with the slow play of limbs still apparently discovering their true shape. Her body seemed to be going through a variety of minute alterations. She had spent an hour transfixed by the undulation of her knuckles, which dissolved and reknitted themselves in a new configuration. She couldn’t understand the motive for this mischief in her flesh, but she welcomed the freshness it inspired; the gradual improvement in her movement and thought.

She bathed, baptising this new body of hers. Faces she didn’t know (but seemed maddeningly familiar) loomed in the patterns of oil in the water, inspiring different levels of emotion. Hatred for this tired, ageing man; grief at the appearance of a woman with cataracts in her eyes; desire for a young man disfigured by scars almost beautiful in their symmetry. She realised with disappointment that these phantoms were somebody else’s memories, faces in the fire, tricking her into thinking they bore significance to her own life. She remained alone.

Her hands made their acquaintance with the fresh geography of skin and muscle, the experience both like self-exploration and the touching of another. Still there existed that vestigial tremor at her core – it transmitted itself no matter where her fingers reached.

“Why me?” she whispered.

A car drew up outside. Even before its doors opened she could hear Gleave barking orders.