"Consummation" is a piece Sean wrote in the dark noir tradition.
It's a genre he's completely unfamiliar with and, for all intents and purposes, should have stayed away from. But the editorial staff at "Necrotic Tissue" actually enjoyed the tale - they said so in their rejection letter. They also encouraged him to try place it in another publication - one with a better 'fit', in other words.
Sean canvassed a couple of places, but to no avail. But the constant influx of rejection hasn't really deterred him. Rather, the one thing he has found somewhat flattering is the one criticism he's received most often: this piece is too reminiscent of works by Clive Barker (for you South Africans out there, that's Clive Barker the imagineer, not Clive Barker the soccer coach. At least, Sean hopes that's who they mean.)
So without further ado - here's "Consummation" in all its glory. Enjoy.
CONSUMMATION
By Sean James Bosman
William Bowman (Jr.) lifted his heavily shod feet and thumped them on to the table. The rubber soles were so thick it felt as though his heels were suspended in the air. He dug deep in his trench coat pocket, felt the silky cellophane wrapper and pinched a filter between his forefinger and thumb. He poked the cigarette into his mouth, running the tip of his tongue over the exposed filament. He liked the dry bitterness.
A match flared up, the sulfurous flare burning his nose as the woman across from him swam out of focus into a yellow ocean as he lit his smoke, cupping the end with both hands. He flicked the match across his office, in the general direction of the wastebasket. It missed, landing on bare concrete, where it shriveled and died.
He scooted his butt down on the seat, so his legs were slightly bent. Tobacco swirled into his sizeable lungs. He held his breath, then jetted the smoke back up his throat and out through his mouth.
The woman looked uncomfortable, perhaps offended.
Good, he thought. Bring her down a peg. Bowman looked her up and down again, his gaze lingering on her generous cleavage. Has she deliberately skipped that button – show off some of the wares?
She barely disguised her snort as a cough.
Bowman met her eyes. They were almond-shaped, steely grey: beautiful, even with the undertones of disgust.
“Do you mind?” she asked sardonically, waving a hand to fan through the cloud he puffed directly at her.
“Not at all,” Bowman replied politely. She glowered in return to his over-toothy grin. “Listen, this won’t be cheap.” He stretched, tapping ash into the ashtray precariously close to the edge of his pine desk.
The chain dangling from the ceiling fan clicked lazily against the fitting.
“Money isn’t a problem. When?”
He smiled at her, tossing his open palms up against his chest.
“Hold it just there, Miss Harrison.”
“Mrs. Harrison,” she said caustically.
“Sorry. Mrs. Harrison. I haven’t said I’ll do it.”
She reached down, snatching up her handbag. The wicker chair she was in rattled back as she stood, slinging the strap over her shoulder. “Thanks for your time,” she flicked her blonde hair, exposing a diamond earring that radiated as it picked up and refracted one of the narrow golden beams of late afternoon sunlight poking through the Venetian blinds. Bowman noticed her pencil skirt had hitched a little higher on her shapely legs as she headed for the door, hips swinging in an exaggerated stomp. He felt a warm stirring in his crotch.
He swung his legs off the desk as he mangled the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t, either,” he called after her, just as she opened the door.
She stopped, shoulders hunched: one hand on the doorknob, the other on the door frame, as if she needed the support.
Bowman could smell the warm fruity fragrance of her perfume lingering where she’d been as he rounded the desk. He stopped a few feet from her, and said in a low, almost sympathetic voice, “I just want to be sure you know what you’re asking. What you’re going to get?”
Mrs. Harrison lifted her head, but still didn’t turn to him.
“Once it’s done, it’s done.”
She turned to him, slowly.
She was young and beautiful. Some of the fading day lit her from one side, creating a halo of her long, straight hair. She looked up at him, her petite frame seeming to stiffen with resolve. The pout of her mouth – moist, he saw – puckered briefly before she sucked in her bottom lip, nibbling at it with pearl white, perfect teeth.
“I know what I’m asking,” her voice was the quiet whisper of a lover.
Bowman stared directly into her eyes, probing for signs of doubt.
He found none.
When he gestured towards the displaced chair theatrically, she smiled at him briefly and went back over to the desk.
***
Tina Harrison was a beautiful woman, she thought as she looked at herself in the full-length bathroom mirror.
Twenty-seven, her body vouched for her daily gym routine: flat stomach, rounded legs, and perky breasts and taught buttocks. Her arms were shapely.
She admired herself, turning slightly so the sweat glistened on her naked skin. She ignored the viscous white pool that oozed between her breasts, tickling its way towards her belly.
Soon she’d have her fun again.
Tina Harrison was Tina Harrison’s only source of pleasure these days. Ferdinand hadn’t always been like this. At first, it seemed as though the honeymoon would never end. They’d summered in the Bahamas; gone skiing in the Alps. They’d hosted some of the best parties in town, attracting everyone from local soap-opera stars to the mayor.
She’d had fun then.
But Ferdinand seemed to have changed somehow. He was growing restless – and more persistent about starting a family.
They’d tried several times for a while. At first she’d enjoyed it. But then it started getting weird: like he was shoving a coin into a vending machine rather than being there, in the moment.
She hadn’t “taken” – as he’d put it – and she told him it was all right. Maybe they just weren’t ready.
And that was when the business trips started – long trips that never relented. He’d go abroad, leaving her at home rather than take her with as he’d used to. Whenever he was home, he was in his study. Then he started leaving at weird hours – for meetings that were never discussed when he’d gotten home.
She could feel them growing further and further apart. It was in their separate lifestyles and in their lovemaking. No. Not lovemaking. They didn’t do that anymore.
He just fucked her – going through the motions – when she complained a bit too much.
But that would not be for much longer.
Tina reached over the basin and tugged at his orange facecloth. It came loose, the silver towel railing clinking softly against the tiles. Its fluffy fabric sent pins and needles up her spine as she wiped it from her stomach to the puddle clinging between her beasts.
She could smell the rank musk. It stirred butterflies in her belly.
The facecloth was sticky and clotted with come as she tossed it into the sink. She felt good about it, like a school kid who’d slipped the class bully a laxative-soaked sandwich.
She smiled at herself in the mirror again. And when she met her reflected eyes, she knew she’d better be home when Ferdinand arrived.
***
William “Billy” Bowman (Jr.) cracked open a second beer, stabbed the mute button on the remote and dropped on to the tattered couch in front of the buzzing Panasonic TV set.
It farted a cloud of dust, and he shifted to get the hard coil of a sprung spring out his ass. He took a sip and helped his decrepit spaniel up on the cushion beside him. The dog twisted as it sat up, slowly reaching its dripping snout towards his face, planting a sloppy pooch-kiss over his mouth. Billy gently swatted her away: she smelled like a damp carpet.
“Lie down, Nutty. Lie down.”
He watched as the dog performed a breathtaking feat of acrobatics; twisting around three times before plopping down with her wagging stump pushed firmly against his thigh. Its sad eyes looked at him from beneath its heavyset eyebrows. Then it turned away, resting its head on its forelegs.
Bowman patted her head then turned back to the manila folder open in front of him. The previous beer can, now crumpled in the middle, stood to one side like the leaning tower of Pizza, with a dam of condensation welling beneath it.
He looked at the photo she’d given him, then at the crudely scrawled itinerary and back at the photo. It was a wedding picture. Mrs. Harrison was radiant, the side of her face pressed up against a square jaw. The man at her side was easily ten years her senior, roguishly handsome with broad shoulders and hardly a neck.
He ruffled through the sheets and pulled out the CV. He read the section “Service History” twice and sighed.
He had heard of Ferdinand Harrison before. Harrison was constantly featured in business insets – interviews, biographies and commentaries. He was practically a tycoon, loaded. He’d started his property and real estate development company in his late twenties and it had started flourishing after its first year: a miracle considering the economic crises.
Of course, there had been speculations: ties to the mafia, Al Quaida, terrorist organizations, blood diamonds and, of course, the drug industry. But all of that had just been speculation and had proven to be quite an embarrassment to the Department of Justice after they’d turned up nada after sixteen months of inquiry.
But there had never been any mention of this before. Nothing.
Bowman sighed, dropping the CV back on the pile after he’d read it again.
He looked at Nutty as the dog snapped its head in his direction, tail reawakened.
“This isn’t going to be easy,” he said, scratching her floppy ear.
***
Tina twisted the bronze latch, unhooking the chain at the same time.
The big man slipped through the door as soon as there was enough space, his heavy black trench coat brushing against her face. She slapped the label out her way as she closed the door, resealing it.
“Anyone see you?” she asked.
“I seriously doubt it,” he said, taking in the kitchen. Chicken was roasting in the oven, gravy bubbled on the stove. There were potato peels strewn on the stainless steel workspace next to the double sink, where water still poured down into a colander. Tina walked passed him. She pulled up a potato, shook some of the water from it and placed it back in the colander.
She stared into the sink. For a moment he thought she was crying, but she turned to him as he approached her. Her eyes gleamed with excitement, and she grinned at him maniacally.
“Tonight’s the night, isn’t it?” She grasped her hands in front of her chest, her fingers pumping as she bounced up and down on her heels, like an excited Beatles fan back in the day.
Was she really this worked up? Was she delirious? Ecstatic?
“Yes,” he said.
She nearly knocked him over backward as she threw her arms around his neck, her hot mouth smashed against his. Her breasts pushed against his chest. He stumbled against the kitchen table and almost doubled over. He felt her gripping at his shirt. She’d pulled it from his pants as he grabbed her wrists and managed to push her back.
Tina looked at him and cocked her head slightly, smiling coyly.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Bowman?”
He stammered and gently released her. She crossed her arms over her stomach and pulled her baggy shirt up over her head, tossing it to the floor.
She smiled again as she moved in to him, resting her open palms on his chest.
“Too much woman for you?” Her breath tickled his earlobe, gooseflesh prickling the small hairs on the back of his neck.
“What about Ferdinand?” She took his right hand and placed it on her breast. He felt her nipple swell.
“He’ll be here in an hour,” she whispered. “Plenty of time…”
***
William Bowman stirred.
He grabbed his shirt and dressed as the headlights washed through the kitchen window. Tina was in her panties, standing near the open door, her back to him.
“Get dressed! Quickly,” he hissed at her. She turned and smiled at him.
She was pale and her legs were trembling. Her left arm was pressed across her stomach. Dark crimson blood was dribbling down, staining her waistband.
“Jesus! What happened?”
She smiled again.
“You did,” she smirked as she cocked her head to the floor near her shirt. Horrified, hardly hearing the clap of the car door from the driveway, Bowman first couldn’t make any sense of the dirtied paring knife, arcs of blood splashed up the white kitchen cabinets. Dumbly, he looked back at Tina, who grabbed the elastic of her panties and ripped them off, flinging them towards the shirt.
She smiled at him again and nodded slowly at him. She blew him a kiss and screamed: “Help! Ferdinand! Help me!” Tina swung her arm, smashing over a dish rack. Porcelain shattered. Bowman spun as the dark shape of Ferdinand Harrison briefly eclipsed the headlights.
He ran from the kitchen, knocking his shoulder against the archway as he dashed into the living room. He could see diamond wedges of light from the glass inlays of the front door.
Behind him, the backdoor ricocheted off the nearby cabinet as a huge bulk crashed through. “Tina!” Ferdinand roared. Bowman heard her sobbing, saying something unintelligible.
He reached the door, grabbed at the handle. It wouldn’t turn.
Latch!
He twisted it, turned the knob again. It moved, but the deadbolt was in place. He turned in time to see the huge Ferdinand Harrison flying at him. He braced himself, but the impact still winded him. Fists flew at him, connecting painfully against his raised forearms. Everything flashed as his temple burst into a flower of pain. His teeth mashed down on his tongue. Copper blood filled his mouth.
Falling into a seated position, he lashed his legs out, connecting with Harrison. He slumped to one side and reached out for Bowman’s ankles as he skipped up, headed for the stairs. Harrison’s hands slapped at his boots, and Bowman plunged forward, catching the balustrade.
He climbed two steps at a time, reaching arm over arm, pulling himself as he went. At the top, he turned, thrusting his hand into his coat. The 9 mm was heavy as he tugged it from its holster, the silencer throwing it slightly off balance.
Harrison was on top of him again, grabbing his arm in two vice hands. Bowman slapped his other hand over the grip, hoping a double-hand stance would hold long enough. His arms cart-wheeled to the ceiling as Harrison spun around, almost lifting Bowman off his feet. He jumped back, smashing Bowman into a mirror. Chips of glass pecked away at his skin.
The barrel spat twice, pulling dust from the ceiling, before he lost hold. It clattered across the tiled floor as an elbow drove into Bowman’s diaphragm. He gagged and felt his knees buckle. His face buried in Harrison’s jacket as he slid down. His badly chafed wrists stung as the pressure released. Harrison spun on him again.
Thick fingers wrapped into his hair and ripped his head up. Tears stung his eyes. His arms flapped as he uselessly tried to grab the arm. When his hand slapped the sleeve, his fingers wouldn’t close.
Harrison snarled down at him, spitting in his face.
“Tina!”
“Yes,” she was limping up the stairs, her baggy shirt pulled over her, blood still dripping down her thigh. The material was pasted against her midriff: red-washed and black in the centre.
Bowman noticed the blade dangling from her limp right hand. As she stepped up, she winked at him secretly and blew him a kiss.
He flapped his arms again. This time he managed to hook the fingers of his right hand into Harrison’s shirt collar. Harrison slapped his hand away, hard enough for his knuckles to crack.
“No. No, she… She wanted…” he grunted as Harrison ripped at another handful of hair, tearing a clump by its roots.
Tina smiled down at him now, sidling past Harrison. Her knees popped as she went to her haunches, wincing. She leaned forward, reaching out. The soft mound of her right breast brushed against his arm.
“Kill… You…” he croaked as the serrated blade snagged its way through his throat. She looked up at Ferdinand, who smiled down at her and winked. She leaned forward again – Bowman’s blood splattering into her face – and gently planted a kiss on his open, blabbering mouth.
She’d had her fun again.
