People in Season by Simon Fay

church. As a man who thrives in chaos, he has a taste for the unpredictable and craves it in the company he keeps. When he pushes, he appreciates a woman who can push back. The proposition he set, to talk as though they were untouched, one UPD to another, was enjoyable for its taboo, so she humoured him with it, but it’s clear she has a singular direction in mind and resumes working the man toward it.
    ‘Back to the beginning,’ she says.
    ‘Ask me again.’
    ‘Ask what? Your name?’
    The doctor stares blankly until she takes her cue and mouths the words widely, fully expecting to hear an honest answer this time.
    ‘What is your name?’
    ‘James,’ he repeats, mimicking her wide mouth.
    Ava had hidden her curiosity when he lied the first time and realises it probably means that he knows that she knows his name already, along with his colourful list of legal problems. The tease about stabbing her throat confirmed it, surely? He’s playing up to his almost-public-persona. The man who gets his kicks from death. How banal. Joanne was right in assuming he’d be perfect for capturing the public imagination though. He’s aware of his magnetism too, and playing on it, pushing and pulling at whim to see what he can get. There’s a childishness to him that she doesn’t like, hidden under the mature face, though she decides to put up with it, supposing that the foolishness is a part of his charm. He could tell you his blood covered hands were actually soaked in paint and you’d give him the benefit of the doubt, only because of his boyish smile. He’s the perfect news story embodied in a human being – a nightmare posing as a dream. Ava though, is already tired of the cat and mouse antics – who’s the cat and who’s the mouse? – and ends them abruptly.
    ‘You’re not a very good liar, Alistair,’ she underlines his real name with a deeper tone.
    Grinning, his hands go up in surrender. Ava follows them, feeling for a second how it was to have them touch her. Under the table, she uncrosses a leg and folds the other over, barely brushing her foot against him as she does. She’s enjoying having him in front of her, charged with the knowledge of what’s going to happen, admiring him like something she’s about to buy.
    ‘You’re well informed,’ he says. ‘Maybe you can tell me, am I really untouched?’
    His hands are always moving, leading from one thought, one sentence, to the next. Later, she knows, one will close around her waist as the other grips the dark hair at her neck, pulling her close by the hip and drawing her back to feel her lips on his. The hands, they’ll move along her body clinging to her as they go. She’ll move away from him and stand in full view to pull down her slip so she’s stood in her underwear, a strap of her lace bra loose on her shoulder like an untied ribbon. He’ll stand coolly, pursing his lips in approval as he waits for her to come back. Lifting a toe out of the dress bunched on the floor, she’ll loosen his tie with a flick or two of her wrist, open his shirt one button at a time, and making sure he keeps his hand at his side, she’ll take her time to examine him, his hard chest heaving slowly, his flat, ripped stomach, tensing as she runs her palm along the muscles. When she indicates her approval, they’ll slip out of their last items of clothing and into the thin sheets of the bed, her skin like a pool of milk on his olive body, and writhing together, their touches will become gropes as they lick and suck and fuck through the fading hours of the night.
    ‘Are we still playing?’ she asks, rapping her knuckles on the booths table.
    He remains quiet but there’s a quiver on the surface that says, ‘Maybe.’
    Under the screen, the barman sneezes again and wipes his hand on the back of his jeans.
    ‘Well, I’m not,’ she cuts into the silence. ‘You probably are.’
    ‘Untouched or playing the game?’
    She sips her wine.
    ‘You’re a journalist,’