The bespoke hitman, p.12
The Bespoke Hitman, page 12
‘Thank you for your support, sir, and fighting so hard for me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got important matters to attend to, like parking tickets and drunken brawls in pubs.’
Chapter Nineteen
She was trouble looking for somebody to happen to.
Ross MacDonald, The Wycherly Woman
It was nearing midnight. For the last hour, Rasharkin had stood in a filthy entry, like a lone exclamation mark, studying the barren wasteland across the street.
The word street was an overstatement; more an apocalyptic scene from a war movie, with pyramids of muck and crushed bricks coiled in desolation alongside rusted machinery.
The Maddens’ house was in total darkness. Outside in the street was a similar story, the handful of streetlights still standing decapitated by vandals. Fifty feet away, an almost identical house, lights flickering from the weak afterglow of TV, bookended the street, or what was left of it.
He wondered if Madden and Ross had somehow figured something out about McCabe, and fled? Did they have a secret warning signal in the event of one of them not showing up at a designated meeting place?
Ross’ flat in the city centre was also deserted when he had visited a couple of hours earlier, so the possibility was strong. It was something he would have to seriously consider, regardless of how unpalatable it tasted. Yet, despite what he had witnessed, he was confident that Ross would be back. Ultimately. Of that he had little doubt. Madden? Perhaps never.
He walked back to the car, and once inside made a phone call.
‘Yes?’ Conor O’Neill said.
‘One of the three suits you left for cleaning is ready.’
‘How does it look?’
‘A couple of threads missing, but nothing serious. A very stubborn stain gave resistance, but I was able to break it down, eventually.’
‘How’re the other two coming along?’
‘Unfortunately, they’re offering a bit more resistance.’
‘I see … that’s not the news I was hoping for.’
‘One of them, I’m confident of eventually cleaning. Just need a bit more time. I’ll give due attention to the other one first chance I get, but just letting you know to be prepared in case I can’t mend it.’
‘I know you’ll do your best, as always. Two out of three I can live with. That would be acceptable.’
The conversation ended, Rasharkin drove off, heading over to the affluent Malone Road area in the south side of town.
He parked the car at the side of a large detached house-cum-bordello. The impressive Victorian abode was camouflaged by Ent-like ancient trees, alongside expertly trimmed shrubbery.
Exiting the car, he admonished himself for his previous uncharacteristic bout of weakness in the shower concerning McCabe. McCabe was a distant memory. A man who lived and died by his mistakes, by his own choice of path. A name on a long list of names fading into the past, soon to be forgotten. That was why he was here, and McCabe there.
At the imposing wrought-iron gates, he pressed a brass button. The gates opened soundlessly. He walked up the pathway to be met by two large mahogany doors. One slowly opened. A woman appeared.
‘Good evening, Mister Bailey.’
The voice belonged to Louise, the madam of the establishment. Attractive. Mid-forties. Elegantly dressed in sombre attire of black and red silks, providing ample but tasteful cleavage.
‘Good evening, Louise.’ He stepped inside.
‘Your usual room?’
‘Not yet, thanks. I’m going to have a drink first.’
‘Just let me know when you’re ready. I’ll have everything prepared. Take a seat and I’ll send a girl over to serve you.’ Louise smiled and left.
He found a seat and table of his liking nestled in the far corner, and made himself comfortable. Soft music was everywhere, mixing seamlessly with the pleasant ambience and voyeuristically inclined vignettes of beautiful courtesans fussing over smartly dressed punters, most of whom originated from high-paying professions such as law, medicine and business. Ironically, probably not one John among all the johns.
No names. No identities. No existence.
However, despite the dimmed lights and strict rules guarding privacy, he recognised a few of the faces from earlier visits over the years.
‘What would you like to drink, sir?’ an attractive young woman asked, appearing at his table, face smiling an official enjoin.
‘A Lagavulin single malt please.’
She returned two minutes later, drink perfectly balanced in the centre of a silver tray. He didn’t mind the wait, having occupied himself watching – à la Rear Window – the comings and goings of the inhabitants, lips mouthing surreptitiously into ears, mysteries and secrets revealed and discussed.
He tipped the young woman generously. She smiled again, but this time it was authentic.
‘Anything else, sir?’ Her eyes were inviting in a shy, tentative way.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Candice,’ she said, with just the slightest hesitancy in her voice.
He doubted very much she was a Candice. Everyone here was a pseudonym living inside a matryoshka doll.
‘Well, Candice, if I should need anything, you’ll be the first to know.’
He watched her walking back across the floor. Confident. Elegant. Halfway there, she tilted her head slightly. He was certain she was watching him from her peripheral. He raised the glass in a friendly salute, then brought it to his lips, swallowing half the contents in one gulp, no grimace.
He was just about to order another from Candice, perhaps discuss spending the night with her, when he saw a figure over near the impressive winding mahogany staircase.
Without warning, his breath caught hard in his gullet. Cleared it with a cough while keeping his eyes on the woman at the staircase. Even from this distance, the resemblance was uncanny. Chillingly so.
A nervous smile skittered across his face. He glanced at his hands. Uncharacteristically, they were trembling slightly.
‘Mister Bailey? Are you okay?’ Louise broke his thoughts.
‘That girl … over by the stairs. What … what’s her name?’
Louise turned her head, and looked over towards the stairs.
‘Alice? She’s only been with us a couple of weeks, but she’s proving to be very popular. Gorgeous, isn’t she?’
‘Beautiful …’
‘Would you like her to prepare your room?’
For the longest time, he couldn’t take his eyes off Alice. Finally, he answered: ‘I want to bring her home. Would there be a problem with that?’
‘No problem whatsoever. I’ll arrange it immediately.’
Chapter Twenty
And you’ve just had some kind of mushroom … And your mind is moving low.
Jefferson Airplane, ‘White Rabbit’
‘Wow!’ Alice said, entering the apartment, taking in its opulence in one sweeping gaze. ‘What a place you have, Mister Bailey.’
‘Jack. No Mister.’
‘Okay, Jack.’ She smiled coyly, making her way over to the enormous show-window centred in the living room and gazing out on the panoramic night view. ‘Who’d have thought dirty old Belfast could look this beautiful?’
Down below, the streets, fast-moving wisps of car lights brushed against the darkness, all forming a conglomerate of electric join-the-dots.
‘Distance gives a cleansing appearance.’ He reached towards the drinking cabinet. ‘Would you like something to drink?’
‘No thank you.’ From her handbag, she removed a Betty Boop lighter and matching cigarette case. Clicked the case open, exposing a family of homemade reefers. ‘I prefer these. Do you mind if I smoke?’
‘Can you do it out on the balcony? I’ve numerous paintings that are sensitive to the slightest change in their environment. I have to be careful with them.’
‘Not a problem. I like that in a man.’
‘What?’
‘Sensitivity and caring.’
They both stepped out into the balcony. The night air was cold, but in a refreshing sort of way. She held the Betty Boop case out to him. He declined. She selected a reefer. Lit it, then inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in her mouth for a few seconds, before sending contrails down her nostrils.
‘You look like you needed that.’
‘I did.’ She sucked on the reefer again, closing her eyes, allowing the smoke to slowly filter from her mouth in a very sexy, seductive manner. ‘Helps me …’
‘Helps you … face the likes of me?’
She opened her eyes, now slightly glazed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It can’t be easy, what you do.’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s a business. I’m a professional. I make good money. Pays the bills. Anyway, if all my clients were like you, well then.’
‘The money, you mean?’
‘Not just that. Your whole persona, style, good looks.’
‘Good-looking, I am not!’
‘Oh, you don’t know just how good-looking you are. Men like you attract women, like moths to a flame. There is something dangerous about you, something that says “fuck with me and suffer the consequences”.’
‘Don’t hold back.’ He laughed. It sounded rusty, unused and foreign.
‘Plus, you smell nice.’
‘Is that an essential requirement?’
‘It helps! Some of the men I’m introduced to haven’t washed in days. They sit in the club, smelling of sour sex and stale alcohol. And some of them can be mean.’ She leaned in and kissed him. ‘But not you. You’re kind.’
‘You know me how long? Less than an hour?’
‘Don’t smirk. I can tell you’re kind. I’m a good reader of people. There’s a sorrow in your eyes. Even when you smile, it remains. Something … wounded. You’ve suffered in the past, but your kindness is there, in the darkness.’
He suddenly felt uncomfortable.
‘Let’s go inside.’ He guided her down a landing, and into the master bedroom.
‘It doesn’t disappoint, Jack. For a single fella, you’ve got great taste.’ Alice nodded approvingly, all the while teasingly discarding most of her clothing via a seductive, Salome-like dance, which transported her steadily across the floor toward the king-sized bed.
Rasharkin watched, spellbound. He thought of the young seductress, clutching the Baptist’s decapitated meaty head, well worth Herod’s bloody payment for her services.
Alice stood semi-naked at the side of the bed, before flipping playfully onto it, backwards, as if diving into a swimming pool. She patted the top of the sheets. Winked. Smiled so fucking innocently sweet, while whispering a double entendre: ‘Coming, Jack?’
‘One second.’ He pressed a button on a remote control. A few ceiling tiles above the bed parted, leaving a square of darkness peering down at Alice like a chunk of moonless sky.
Looking nervous, she pointed at the gap. ‘What’s that? I hope it’s not some sort of camera? I don’t want compromising pictures of me out there. It would kill my mum and dad if they knew what I do.’
‘No, nothing of that nature, I assure you. This is private. You and I. You have my word on that. Just relax. It’s an old projector, showing old movies.’
‘Old blue movies? Well, I can’t moralise. Last week I went to bed with twins just to see if their cocks were identical. And guess what?’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘They were!’
He knew he should have laughed, but puzzlingly, a dull coin of resentment entered the pocket of his feelings.
‘You’ll have to close your eyes for a few moments, until they acclimatise to the brightness. The beam of light from the projector can be quite sharp at the beginning.’
‘You … you’re not going to tie me up, are you?’
‘No, I’m not going to tie you up.’
‘I don’t like to be tied up … I had a bad experience with a client … he was very cruel to me.’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t do anything you don’t want to do. I’ll stop it the moment you become uncomfortable. You have my word on that.’
‘Okay …’
From a drawer, he removed the gold box. Flipped it open with a two-thumb push. Retrieved an LSD/BBC stamp.
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘My ticket to worlds of wonders.’
‘A ticket to ride?’ Her eyes were twinkling mischievously. ‘Can I accompany you on the trip? I promise not to take any clothing with me.’
He shook his head. ‘This isn’t weed. It’s LSD Prime, mixed with coke. A major-league fuck-with-your-mind, if your mind isn’t strong enough to be fucked with. It’s dangerous, it takes no prisoners.’
‘I’m a big girl. I like danger. It excites me. That’s why I really like you. Besides, I can fuck with the best of them.’
He was hesitant.
‘C’mon! Don’t destroy the moment. Why should you get to have all the fun? Pleaseeeeeeeeeee! Pretty please?’
‘Okay. Take it.’
Giggling excitedly, she removed the stamp from his fingers.
‘What do I do with it?’
‘Place it under your tongue. It’ll dissolve in a few minutes. Then, just lay back, relax.’
She did as instructed. While waiting for the magic to happen, she hoisted her hips and wriggled out of her panties, becoming completely naked.
He listened to their silky sound as they slipped down her long, beautiful legs.
‘I don’t shave my pussy,’ she said, running her fingers through her natural overgrowth.
‘That’s okay. I don’t shave mine, either.’
She laughed.
He began removing his clothes.
‘God … all those scars … what … what happened?’
‘Nothing. Just old wounds from old wars. Don’t be put off by them.’
‘I … I’m not. Anything but.’
He removed two stamps from the box. Popped them in his mouth. Pressed the remote. The projector began beaming grainy images onto Alice’s body. He selected a song from his music collection.
‘A song for you, Alice.’
‘Me?’
The room was filled with the hypnotically quivering voice of Grace Slick’s surreal ‘White Rabbit’.
One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small … And the ones that mother gives you, don’t do anything at all … Go ask Alice, when she’s ten feet tall …
‘It might be the LSD, but that beam of light from the projector is tickling my pussy.’ Alice was giggling, while pushing her bush towards his face. ‘Can you lick her for me? Taste her. Tell her not to be nervous …’
He bent into her crotch, whispering, ‘Don’t be nervous, little bush.’
Alice giggled again, louder this time. ‘That’s even more ticklish.’
He placed a hand at the small of her back where it flowed into her buttocks, then began kissing her inner pinkness until she was wet with excitement.
‘Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh …’ She groaned, thrusting herself further into his face.
And if you go chasing rabbits, and you know you’re going to fall … Tell ’em a hookah-smoking caterpillar has given you the call … And call Alice, when she was just small …
He came up for air, lips glistening a silvery sheen. The projector’s images continued dancing on her skin. The Jane Russell lookalike appeared, smiling.
He positioned Alice’s body until it was in perfect alignment with the woman on the screen, becoming one, like clones in light and flesh.
A man’s voice in the background faded the moment. Rasharkin muted the sound.
‘Now play with yourself …’ His voice was low.
Alice and the woman let their fingers do all the work.
‘Harder! Fuck yourself harder!’
Alice began thrusting harder and harder, her face intense. Teeth pressed tightly against lips.
‘I … want you to … to fuck me in the mouth. Say it.’
‘I … want you to … to fuck me in the mouth.’ Alice and Jane’s lips worked in perfect sync.
‘Then … then in the ass. Hard in my ass … with … with that big cock of yours. Say it!’
‘I … want you to … to fuck me in the mouth, then in the ass. Hard in my ass with that big cock of yours.’ Alice’s body was trembling. ‘Hurry, Jack. Hurry … I can’t hold off much longer … fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck me …’
When the men on the chessboard get up and tell you where to go … And you’ve just had some kind of mushroom, and your mind is moving low … Go ask Alice, I think she’ll know …
He eased in beside Alice. The woman on the screen was laughing. Harder, she mouthed. Harder … in the ass …
Remember what the dormouse said … Feed your head, feed your head …
* * *
While Rasharkin was having sex on Alice’s epidermis canvas, Alice went traversing down the rabbit hole via her first Astral Projection. Exiting at the other end, she found herself naked, sprawled out on a lawn, with the sun beaming down upon her. Two figures stationed at a picnic table watched her, crafty bemusement on their bizarre faces. March Hare and Mad Hatter.
Hare was the first to sing a comment:
‘A naked Alice with exposed titties releasing fragrance!
How titillating! What a heavenly entrance!’
Hatter quickly joined in:
‘And such a hairy ranch, a lovely spread for all to see!
One could make a hat from it, or at least a fine toupee.’
Alice quickly tried covering up her nakedness, but what covered one part exposed another.
Hatter and Hare pushed away from the table. Stood towering over her. Hatter was naked, except for his hat hanging on his half-cocked cock. Hare was naked also, except for a dickie-bow on his rather long carrot-shaped dickie, with what looked suspiciously like Hatter’s teeth-imprints nibbled into it.
‘You won’t hurt me, will you, Mister Hare? Boop oop a doop.’ Alice sang, eyelashes fluttering seductively like Betty Boop.
