Experiment With Destiny by Stephen Carr

infuriatingly against his swollen manhood and Marcus moaned aloud in frustration, hissing a sigh as he buttoned the flies and tightened the real leather belt. By the time he had donned the shirt, blazer, socks and shoes, which also proved a little too large, he had regained control of his passion. Resting the boater on top of the basket, he reached down and cupped the woman mannequin gently in his arms and lifted her face to his. Comely in her soft white dress, her painted eyes stared lifelessly back at him, her rouged lips still and silent though, he was sure, curled in a curious smile. Marcus swung her beneath his right arm and, placing the boater on his head, reached for the basket.
                  “Damn!” he cursed, realising it was too heavy to lift. He glanced at his plastic partner and then back to the basket. He had come this far and there was no way he could leave either of them behind now. He gripped her waist tighter and began dragging the basket from the annex.
                  Since emerging from the men’s room his fear had subsided but now, with the sharp click of his new shoes against the stone floor and the scratch of the basket dragging along behind him, it returned with a vengeance. It was only a matter of time before somebody heard his progress through the museum. Every few yards Marcus paused to listen and catch his breath but he heard nothing. He reached the end of the corridor and turned into the next, which led to the foyer. Not far to go now, he realised excitedly. Spurred on by the closeness of the exit, he quickened his pace. He could make out the auto-styles and the unattended information desk in the dimness ahead.
                  Crash.
                  Marcus froze.
                  He listened to the echoing clatter of plastic against stone and the distant chiming of broken glass as it tumbled to the floor. In his mind’s eye he pictured the naked male mannequin he had balanced against the wall. It must have toppled into a display cabinet.
                  His lungs began working again, his chest rising and falling as sickness gripped the pit of his stomach and his heart laboured in terror. Somewhere up ahead, beyond the reception and foyer, a door opened, there was a dry cough and footsteps paced toward him across the gleaming floor. Marcus felt the panic rising through his torso, constricting him. He released the basket and dropped the mannequin from under his arm, wincing at the noise. The steps quickened. Marcus turned and ran.
     
                  The night watchman did not see the intruder disappear but he was sure he heard the sound of someone running away. His old eyes were still struggling to adjust to the reddish glow of the security light after the brightness of his office and the glare of his television when he spotted the squat box-like shape and the prone figure beside it. This was most odd.
                  “Hello,” he called, his voice trembling. The figure lay motionless. He pulled his torch from his belt and flicked it on. Approaching cautiously, the beam swept the corridor and highlighted the intricate weaving of the squat willow box. The sight of a picnic basket in the middle of the corridor unsettled him, though he could not put his finger on why. The beam picked out the brilliant white dress of the woman lying beside the basket. “Hello,” he called again. The woman did not respond, did not move. There was something not right about her, something strange about that dress, her hair, her painted skin…
     
                  The blow that felled him came from the side, and too swiftly for him to have seen the figure detach itself from the nearby pillar and lunge. The torch glass shattered as it struck the floor. The thud of his body dropping to the stone followed an instant later.
     
    Marcus stood over his quarry, shaking. The night watchman did not move. He leaned