Killing Kiss Read online

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered against her lips. ‘I don’t mean to rush you.’

  The air bristled and froze with the turmoil of my emotions as I realised that Steve was going to be a problem. My cold aura parted them and Carolyn rubbed her bare arms.

  ‘It’s gone chilly.’

  She slipped into the passenger seat. Reaching into the back seat, Carolyn grabbed for a cardigan and pulled it on. Her quick jerky movements were like a broken marionette as it swings on insufficient strings.

  ‘There’s a wind picked up outside.’ As she looked back at her sister I was dazzled by the brilliance of her eyes. For a moment it seemed that she could see me, as she gazed out of the rear window of the dilapidated car. Her head turned, eyes narrowed, straining in the dark. I held my breath, waiting.

  Then, the engine fired up. She turned, pulling the seatbelt over her small breasts as the mini hobbled away. The pollution pouring from the exhaust pipe offended my sensitive nostrils and sent an obscene swirl of corruption into the atmosphere. I sniffed the air long after they left, mesmerised by the swirling microbes illuminated in the sky by the lights of the fair. Carolyn’s scent mingled with the noxious fumes but it was her odour that I focused on. I drew it into my lungs like a trained hound, choking on it. It was rapture. Until, slowly, I followed; sometimes on foot, sometimes by air.

  ‘Hi. Could you tell me where the freshers ‘do’ is?’ I ask Steve. He stares at me confused as I block his way in the narrow corridor.

  ‘’Course, mate. We’re just going there now.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m Jay.’ I hate being called mate.

  ‘Steve.’

  We shake hands. I’m careful not to squeeze too hard. The air smarts with hormones as we weigh each other up. Steve crosses his arms over his chest flexing his muscles. I don’t respond with any particularly aggressive or macho moves so I am quickly integrated into the group of young men. I have cultivated looking harmless and so my posture makes Steve relax his shoulders. His arms fall down by his sides, where he tucks one into the pocket of his jeans.

  ‘This way,’ he says.

  ‘Jay? Is that short for something?’ someone asks as we traipse down the stairs to the first floor.

  ‘No. Just Jay.’

  ‘Didn’t see you arrive?’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  The questions ripple through the group. Most know each other but are willing to accept this new face if I give satisfactory, safe answers.

  ‘London,’ I tell them, and acceptance flows through their body language. ‘I don’t know Manchester very well. I’d be grateful for any suggestions of where to go and what to see.’

  They are eating out of my hand; all willing to help as they offer details of the local haunts. I listen carefully to Steve’s ideas, knowing this reveals where he and probably Carolyn will be most evenings - particularly that their favourite bar is in the student union building.

  We enter the huge hall. It is decorated like an American Prom ball - but without the style. Dull crape tassels and streamers droop from one corner to the other, with bunches of balloons pinned between them. A group of girls - clones of each other - push their way through into the hall, all wearing tight low cut jeans and crop tops that show their smooth androgynous bellies which are mostly pierced with shiny titanium jewellery. The room is warm with the throb of their auras and blood whistles through my veins, into my sex, with a mind of its own. I am embarrassingly aroused by the atmosphere. I really need to get out more.

  We are welcomed into the room by a pale, suited, auburn-haired waif who tells us she is our ‘Pastoral Co-ordinator’.

  ‘Tiffany,’ she tells me, holding out a leaflet. ‘I organise all the fresher gatherings. Here’s a timetable of forthcoming events.’

  Tiffany’s fingers brush mine as she places the timetable onto my outstretched hand. The lust pulses through her finger tips before I have time to shut it down and she leans forward immediately.

  ‘You’re not from round here are you? I could maybe ... show you around ...’

  ‘That will be nice,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll call you.’ As I walk away quickly.

  I look around, hoping no one noticed this momentary slip. Then I see her and my heart stops. Carolyn, in a short summer dress of pale blue that shows the boyish shape of her figure. She is talking to her friend Alice, who’s wearing jeans several sizes too big and a sloppy tee-shirt. Her hair looks like Rod Stewart’s did in the eighties - like it’s been hacked away with garden shears. They look like the proverbial chalk and cheese, one feminine, one feminist.

  Steve walks over and kisses Carolyn; his arm possessively surrounding her waist as I join them.

  ‘Caz, this is Jay. He’s up from London.’ Steve introduces us.

  ‘We’ve already met ...’ blurts Alice.

  ‘Yes. Nice to see you both again.’

  Steve weighs me up once more and finds me lacking.

  ‘Caz is my ...’ he begins then stops, staring behind me at a new arrival.

  The change in the atmosphere is intense, prickly. Nate gapes over my shoulder. His jeans droop below the waistband of his Calvin Klein underpants. He is one of my new acquaintances; a shifty (I’m sure of it, and I’ve never been wrong) looking, spotty kid with several facial studs, and yes, he’s the one with the tongue piercing. Following his straying eyes, and those of my new male friends, I swivel to avoid suspicion, the last to turn because I know already who it is. The blonde - of course.

  She moves into the centre of the room and the bustle of the party returns to full volume. She is wearing a tight red dress, which accentuates her full figure. Two girls, both wearing ripped jeans, eye her up with pursed lips and sour faces as they stand near the bar. She walks between them and they part despite themselves. As she reaches the bar a thin weedy student and a big chunky lad, (they look like Laurel and Hardy) gather either side of her and a debate begins over who will buy her first drink.

  ‘What are you drinking, girls?’ Steve asks, unable to resist the pull of this beautiful entity.

  Carolyn is oblivious to the movement of the other males in the room but glances nervously at the bar and the blonde when Steve speaks.

  ‘My round,’ I suggest, and take their orders.

  I revel in Carolyn’s look of gratitude. Brownie point to me.

  ‘I’ll help you carry,’ says Alice.

  We pass a crowd of youths surrounding the blonde. I don’t look at her, even though I can feel her green eyes follow me. Her type thrive on the attention of all men, and hate to be ignored by any. As we wait for the barman to serve us Alice stands as close as possible; the crowded bar gives her a good excuse and I carefully avoid bare skin contact. I don’t want a full scale riot on my hands.

  ‘What’s all the fuss over there?’ I ask trying to distract Alice as she gets slightly too close.

  ‘The fuss is called Lilly,’ she replies. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t notice her.’

  ‘She’s not my type.’

  ‘She’s everyone’s type.’

  ‘I like brunettes.’ I smile at Alice as she ruffles her spiky dark brown hair and grins.

  ‘Well, they say opposites attract. I like blondes.’ She winks flirtatiously, pushing a stray strand of gold from my eyes. Her fingertips barely miss the flesh on my forehead.

  The music changes, becomes less frantic. We return to Steve and Carolyn as they smooch on the dance floor. I quell a pang of jealousy as I notice Alice begin to shiver next to me. I do not wish her to notice how unnaturally cold I can be.

  ‘Cheers mate. My round next time,’ Steve says, clanging his bottle of Budweiser against mine. ‘The good stuff, huh?’

  Like them, I swig from the bottle and ignore the wave of Tiffany the ‘Pastoral Co-ordinator’ from across the room. Her skirt seems to have become shorter and an extra but
ton is opened on the top of her blouse. It’s going to be a long evening.

  I watch in the dark as Steve kisses Carolyn in the doorway of her halls. His libido is in overdrive, but she doesn’t invite him in. For a moment he pushes her up against the door frame, his hands wandering - he is going too far. Her response is heated but she holds back. I consider intervening, rage rushing into my head, but Carolyn disentangles herself expertly, by pressing her hand firmly on Steve’s chest.

  ‘Night. See you in the refec tomorrow.’

  Quickly opening the door she goes inside and Steve is left unsatisfied as it closes with a click behind her. He sighs, staring at the door as if it is a barricade, before turning and walking towards the men’s halls a few feet away. Head drooping, hands stuffed into his pockets, he limps a little. I wait until he enters the main entrance of the block before allowing my attention to return to Carolyn.

  The campus is dark and still. In the girl’s halls, there is the distant hum of a hairdryer, the soft splatter of a running tap, the swish and scrape of toothbrush against teeth signifies the occupants are preparing to retire. A pop and fizz echoes through an open window of male halls as the smell of beer and cheap sparkling wine drifts into the atmosphere, followed by the gulps of an eager throat.

  The room is in darkness when I enter. Nothing stirs. Carolyn lies sleeping, half covered by her duvet, her breath softly moving her small chest in and out. Her posture is inviting; a deep V is dinted in the duvet where her legs are parted. It is tempting, but I don’t touch her. The time is not right. I breathe deeply because the room is soaked with her odour and I cannot resist this indulgence any more than I can resist touching her possessions. I revel in my perversity as I particularly enjoy the feel of her clothing, especially the fabric she had been wearing this evening.

  Her bra lies discarded over the chair and I bend to smell her musky scent. I approach her and she shivers but doesn’t wake. In her sleep she pulls the duvet up over her exposed shoulders. I breathe on her as she inhales, sending my image into her dreams.

  She smiles in her sleep as stealthily I slip away.

  Though I don’t need to sleep, tonight I crave rest, and once I am in my own tiny room I sink into the harsh cotton-covered pillow. Tossing and turning with grim determination until finally the weightless pull of sleep tugs at the corners of my consciousness.

  Sophia joins me once more, her innocent eyes gazing up at me in wonder as my cold hands lead her to her doom.

  ‘My darling,’ I tell her, ‘you’ll be with me forever.’

  She falls with my touch, wanton and willing onto the bed, only to become a still bundle, half buried in the satin sheets. A strand of chocolate coloured hair peeks out, waiting to be cut and inserted into the locket that I carefully remove from her frozen, lifeless throat. I am full and empty all in one gulp. The life I’ve taken flows in my veins and I imagine I hear her sobbing as her blood pumps through my heart. Let me go, Jay. I don’t deserve this. Her dead face, smooth and perfect, imprinted on my memory, becomes confused in my dream state. Suddenly it is Carolyn who lies dead in my sheets, her brown eyes wide open, stare accusingly into mine.

  I wake, icy perspiration beading my brow as the cold fever freezes my soul. My flesh convulses and the shivering continues as I pull the covers around myself. I am weak and I have to feed soon. My body is harder to warm with every passing day and night. Sophia, the last and most precious to date, is failing me finally. Yet she has sustained me for more than the usual twelve months. Almost fifteen months have passed since my last feed but the need has become more acute than usual. Maybe I have erred in leaving it so long? I feel crazed. The blood lust controls me. I’m out of bed suddenly willing to pounce on the next available female; ready to risk everything.

  But, no. Sophia’s image returns, her eyes empty and sadness suppresses the malnutrition madness as I fall back onto the narrow bed. The remainder of the night sees my pillow seeped in tears for the many loves found and lost; the many loves I’ve murdered with my uncontrollable passion.

  Chapter 4

  Ysabelle was my first lover. As I grew I sometimes thought of my night in the brothel, but never returned. The company of whores did not appeal to me again.

  ‘You’ve made a man of me,’ I told her as I dressed. ‘I’m grateful.’

  ‘And you, you have made a whore of me, signore!’ She spat at me. ‘I am not grateful.’

  She sobbed in the pillow as I callously turned away and left. The echo of Ysabelle’s tears and stinging words followed me for many months as I tried to forget that my lust had cost her a respectable future, and no amount of coaxing from my uncle would make me return to Madame Fontenot’s establishment.

  I immersed myself in my singing and was invited eventually to the court to perform in a chamber concert for Grand Duke Ferdinando de’ Medici, with my cousin Francesca. I was still obsessed with her and, now I knew how to gratify my lust, I wanted her all the more. My fantasies of her always involved a night of passion in the red boudoir at the brothel. Even so, my intentions were more honourable; I planned to marry her as soon as my uncle deemed me old enough.

  I was sixteen when I first entered the court. My uncle led us into the antechamber where we were greeted by an old man hobbling towards the door. His face was framed by white hair. Deep lines surrounded sincere brown eyes but it was his hands that drew my attention; the long and tapered fingers were those of a composer.

  ‘Maestro,’ my uncle crooned, ‘may I present to you my nephew, Gabriele Sante Caccini, my late brother’s only child? His singing is pure magic, a child after my own heart. Gabriele, this is my own teacher, Maestro Spicioni.’

  ‘If you have half the talent your uncle proclaims we shall have an interesting concert this evening,’ the Maestro said.

  ‘Thank you Maestro. I hope I shall not disappoint my uncle.’

  We moved into the chamber and my uncle immediately took his position behind the harpsichord while Francesca sat behind a harp, carefully lowering the heavy instrument onto her delicate shoulder. They quickly ran through the warm-ups, preparing for the concert and my nerves disappeared as I heard my voice blend with Francesca’s. It echoed around the chamber ringing into the furthest corners before bouncing back.

  After singing Amarilli, I took a seat while Francesca sang my uncle’s favourite, Ave Maria, which was both a vocal exercise and a religious tribute to the Madonna. My cousin’s voice was so pure it reverberated beautifully in the high-ceilinged chamber. I looked around, enjoying the rapt gazes of the lords and ladies, who clearly appreciated the beauty of my cousin’s voice.

  And then, my eyes fell on the most stunningly beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was in her mid twenties I guessed, though she looked much younger. Her eyes, however, belied the youth of her face and figure; they were far too knowing when briefly they met mine. I quickly looked away, having been taught great respect by my mother, but not before she gave me a dazzling smile; a smile that reminded me all too well of the women in Madame Fontenot’s brothel.

  After several more solos and some duets with my cousin the concert ended and as I walked through the chamber I was applauded. The night had been a triumph.

  ‘Many a young girl swooned as you sang,’ Francesca teased.

  ‘Swooning is not an affectation I find attractive in a woman,’ I said, trying to hide my embarrassment.

  My cousin laughed. ‘No. But it is all the fashion. I may have to take up the habit myself.’

  ‘Don’t you dare or I shall have to deny our relationship,’ I told her, laughing.

  ‘Oh, Gabriele. Are you not proud to have me as your cousin?’ She placed her hand on my arm, smiling happily because she too was pleased how the concert had progressed.

  ‘I’d be very proud to have you ... if you’d let ...’ I could not hide the glow of admiration in my eyes as I gazed at her.

 
My cousin flushed brightly. ‘Stop it. You always take our wit too far. You mock me so appallingly.’

  She walked away quickly into the crowd, her head high and shoulders back; the perfect courtier. She always knew how to behave no matter how she felt.

  ‘I would never mock you,’ I told the empty space beside me as a tingle travelled to my loins at the thought of her modest blush and what it might mean.

  Later, I found myself looking among the crowd of people for the lovely blonde woman. Though I didn’t know why, I was curious about her. She was the complete opposite of my cousin, in looks and form. Her figure was much more curvaceous and her eyes were a similar colour to my own. Since my visit to the brothel I had frequently craved the release of my sexuality, therefore I was sure that this woman’s appeal was far baser than my feelings for Francesca.

  ‘An amazing talent, just as your uncle said,’ the old maestro praised, stepping purposefully in front of me.

  ‘Thank you.’

  At that moment I looked up over the old man’s shoulder and caught one last glimpse of the woman as she draped a black velvet cloak over her provocative gold gown, covering her exposed shoulders. I watched, unable to extricate myself politely, as she made her way to the reception hall. I knew she was leaving but hoped I would see more of her during future visits to the court.

  ‘Go then, young man,’ the Maestro said at last. ‘I can see the praises of an old man do not hold your attention.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, it’s just ...’

  The watery brown eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘A lady takes your eye ... but of course.’

  I thanked him and left, hurrying to the reception hall, but she was long gone. I wandered back through the mirrored ballroom, mingling with the guests. I saw Francesca. She was so stunning in her elaborate gown of pale blue silk and gold chiffon and as always a modest décolletage. She stood with a tall young captain dressed in his finest blue and gold livery. I noticed how strangely blended and fitting they looked in their similar colours. The captain was clearly as besotted with her as I was. His hazel eyes never left the movement of her lips as she spoke with soft precision and I suspected that like me he wished he could place a gentle kiss on the warm blush of her mouth. It did not please me to note the shine in Francesca’s smile as she responded to his compliments. As they talked she touched his arm, in the same way she had mine, but her fingers lingered longer than modesty allowed. The sight of their familiarity stopped me in the centre of the ballroom.