matter, it was a kind of togetherness.
2
The man with the white tie had not bided his time. Almost as soon as he set eyes on Julia he came across to her. She decided, even as he approached, that he was not suitable. Too big; too confident. After the way the first one had fought, she was determined to choose with care. So, when White Tie asked what she was drinking, she told him to leave her be.
He was apparently used to rejections, and took it in his stride, withdrawing to the bar. She returned to her drink.
It was raining heavily today-had been raining now for seventy-two hours, on and off-and there were fewer customers than there had been the week before. One or two drowned rats headed in from the street; but none looked her way for more than a few moments. And time was moving on. It was already past two. She wasn't going to risk getting caught again by Rory's return. She emptied her glass, and decided that this was not Frank's lucky day. Then she stepped out of the bar into the downpour, put up her umbrella, and headed back to the car. As she went she heard footsteps behind her, and then White Tie was at her side and saying: "My hotel's nearby."
"Oh..." she said and kept on walking. But he wasn't going to be shrugged off so easily.
"I'm only here for two days," he said.
Don't tempt me, she thought.
"Just looking for some companionship..." he went on. "I haven't spoken to a soul."
"Is that right?"
He took hold of her wrist. A grip so tight she almost cried out. That was when she knew she was going to have to kill him. He seemed to see the desire in her eyes.
"My hotel?" he said.
"I don't much like hotels. They're so impersonal."
"Have you got a better idea?" he said to her.
She had, of course.
He hung his dripping raincoat on the hall stand, and she offered him a drink, which he welcomed. His
name was Patrick, and he was from Newcastle.
"Down on business. Can't seem to get much done."
"Why's that?"
He shrugged. "I'm probably a bad salesman. Simple as that."
"What do you sell?" she asked him.
"What do you care?" he replied, razor quick.
She grinned. She would have to get him upstairs quickly, before she started to enjoy his company.
"Why don't we dispense with the small talk?" she said. It was a stale line, but it was the first thing that came to her tongue. He swallowed the last of his drink in one gulp, and went where she led.
This time she had not left the door ajar. It was locked, which plainly intrigued him.
"After you," he said, when the door swung open.
She went first. He followed. This time, she had decided, there would be no stripping. If some nourishment was soaked up by his clothes then so be it; she was not going to give him a chance to realize that they weren't alone in the room.
"Going to fuck on the floor, are we?" he asked casually.
"Any objections?"
"Not if it suits you," he said and clamped his mouth over hers, his tongue frisking her teeth for cavities. There was some passion in him, she mused; she could feel him hard against her already. But she had work to do here: blood to spill and a mouth to feed.
She broke his kiss, and tried to slip from his arms. The knife was back in the jacket on the door. While it was out of reach she had little power to resist him.
"What's the problem?" he said.
"No problem..." she murmured. "There's no hurry either. We've got all the time in the world." She touched the front of his trousers, to reassure him. Like a stroked dog, he closed his eyes.
"You're a strange one," he said.
"Don't look," she told him.
"Huh?"
"Keep your eyes closed."
He frowned, but obeyed. She took a step backward toward the door, and half turned to fumble in the depths of the pocket, glancing back to see that he was still blind.
He was, and unzipping himself. As her hand clasped the knife, the shadows growled.
He heard the noise. His eyes sprang open.
"What was that?" he said, reeling round and peering into the darkness.
"It was nothing," she insisted, as she
2
The man with the white tie had not bided his time. Almost as soon as he set eyes on Julia he came across to her. She decided, even as he approached, that he was not suitable. Too big; too confident. After the way the first one had fought, she was determined to choose with care. So, when White Tie asked what she was drinking, she told him to leave her be.
He was apparently used to rejections, and took it in his stride, withdrawing to the bar. She returned to her drink.
It was raining heavily today-had been raining now for seventy-two hours, on and off-and there were fewer customers than there had been the week before. One or two drowned rats headed in from the street; but none looked her way for more than a few moments. And time was moving on. It was already past two. She wasn't going to risk getting caught again by Rory's return. She emptied her glass, and decided that this was not Frank's lucky day. Then she stepped out of the bar into the downpour, put up her umbrella, and headed back to the car. As she went she heard footsteps behind her, and then White Tie was at her side and saying: "My hotel's nearby."
"Oh..." she said and kept on walking. But he wasn't going to be shrugged off so easily.
"I'm only here for two days," he said.
Don't tempt me, she thought.
"Just looking for some companionship..." he went on. "I haven't spoken to a soul."
"Is that right?"
He took hold of her wrist. A grip so tight she almost cried out. That was when she knew she was going to have to kill him. He seemed to see the desire in her eyes.
"My hotel?" he said.
"I don't much like hotels. They're so impersonal."
"Have you got a better idea?" he said to her.
She had, of course.
He hung his dripping raincoat on the hall stand, and she offered him a drink, which he welcomed. His
name was Patrick, and he was from Newcastle.
"Down on business. Can't seem to get much done."
"Why's that?"
He shrugged. "I'm probably a bad salesman. Simple as that."
"What do you sell?" she asked him.
"What do you care?" he replied, razor quick.
She grinned. She would have to get him upstairs quickly, before she started to enjoy his company.
"Why don't we dispense with the small talk?" she said. It was a stale line, but it was the first thing that came to her tongue. He swallowed the last of his drink in one gulp, and went where she led.
This time she had not left the door ajar. It was locked, which plainly intrigued him.
"After you," he said, when the door swung open.
She went first. He followed. This time, she had decided, there would be no stripping. If some nourishment was soaked up by his clothes then so be it; she was not going to give him a chance to realize that they weren't alone in the room.
"Going to fuck on the floor, are we?" he asked casually.
"Any objections?"
"Not if it suits you," he said and clamped his mouth over hers, his tongue frisking her teeth for cavities. There was some passion in him, she mused; she could feel him hard against her already. But she had work to do here: blood to spill and a mouth to feed.
She broke his kiss, and tried to slip from his arms. The knife was back in the jacket on the door. While it was out of reach she had little power to resist him.
"What's the problem?" he said.
"No problem..." she murmured. "There's no hurry either. We've got all the time in the world." She touched the front of his trousers, to reassure him. Like a stroked dog, he closed his eyes.
"You're a strange one," he said.
"Don't look," she told him.
"Huh?"
"Keep your eyes closed."
He frowned, but obeyed. She took a step backward toward the door, and half turned to fumble in the depths of the pocket, glancing back to see that he was still blind.
He was, and unzipping himself. As her hand clasped the knife, the shadows growled.
He heard the noise. His eyes sprang open.
"What was that?" he said, reeling round and peering into the darkness.
"It was nothing," she insisted, as she
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