insistent voice in the back of his brain, always talking, always convincing him of their need to be together, united.
I am yours and you are mine…
Summoning all his strength, he turned over and carefully, reverently, placed the bones onto the floor beside the bed. He stared down at them for an unknown time, as if staring down at a beloved child; then, with great willpower, he slid them under the bed and out of sight.
When he rolled over, he felt a vast weight fall away from him. He closed his eyes and was asleep in seconds.
***
Day into night, night into day.
Outside his apartment rooms the world rumbles by like the distant mournful sound of a slow-moving freight train. His dreams are lurid and fragmented, the images appearing in a flickering blur, like a movie reel showing in a darkened theatre: a moving canvas of writhing flesh, a tableau of bottomless carnal lust and depravity, of sex and brutality and everything in between. Occasionally, the moving kaleidoscope focuses on a moment in time, lingering over it with voyeuristic pleasure: a girl, no more than eighteen, naked and tied to a filthy mattress, snot and blood running from her nose, her eyes streaming with tears, not in ecstasy, but in pain and fear. Another washed-out image from the same point of view: the man, the bastard they called the Devil, standing over a man and woman, forcing them at knifepoint to have sex. Somehow their grief-stricken faces tell Carter everything: they are not a couple, or strangers even, but brother and sister, and the man is getting off on their enforced incest, smiling his gleeful smile as he pleasures himself in the shadows . . .
In the midst of this grim carnival, he realises that these are not just troubled dreams, they are memories. Not his, but that other man’s, the man whose bones had once been the framework on which choice cuts of mortal flesh had performed those long-forgotten acts of depravity.
The bones call to him from their resting place below, tempting him, enticing him to return them to their rightful place at his side. There is a moment when he almost wakes, ready to do their bidding . . .
But he fights it, encouraged by the old woman’s caustic accusation:
I know you are weak . . . I see it in your eyes . . .
Not anymore, he tells himself. Not anymore.
When he descends back into the deepest recesses of sleep, the nightmares fade into the background and he begins to dream good dreams. And they soothe his aching spirit . . .
***
He surfaced from the depths of sleep, vaguely aware of a figure standing over the bed. He felt a momentary stab of fear, before the figure leaned over and placed a finger across his lips.
“Shh. It’s me,” Jasmine whispered. “You left the door unlocked, stupid.”
He watched her undress in the dim light, the sight of her supple body acting as a curative to his aching senses. When she slipped between the covers, he shivered at the feel of her warm breasts pressing against his narrow chest, her honey-scented hair, her expensive perfume, her soft skin. He pulled her close, kissing her carelessly, overcome with passion.
She climbed on top of him and held up something long and silky in her hands, smiling down at him with her secret lustful smile.
“Just like old times, honey,” she said in a husky tone, reaching for his willing hands.
In the ensuing passion, he never once thought about the poisonous relic beneath his bed.
***
Snik. Snik-snik.
He opened his eyes, blinking. The room was still dark, the ceiling above him dappled with bizarre shadow-shapes. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.
Snik .
He tried to sit up but found his hands still bound to the bed by her neckties. He was just able to peer over the end of the bed, where he could see Jasmine, still naked, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the balcony window with her back to him. She was holding something in her hands, but he couldn’t see what it was.
“Jasmine?” he said.
Snik-snik .
He
I am yours and you are mine…
Summoning all his strength, he turned over and carefully, reverently, placed the bones onto the floor beside the bed. He stared down at them for an unknown time, as if staring down at a beloved child; then, with great willpower, he slid them under the bed and out of sight.
When he rolled over, he felt a vast weight fall away from him. He closed his eyes and was asleep in seconds.
***
Day into night, night into day.
Outside his apartment rooms the world rumbles by like the distant mournful sound of a slow-moving freight train. His dreams are lurid and fragmented, the images appearing in a flickering blur, like a movie reel showing in a darkened theatre: a moving canvas of writhing flesh, a tableau of bottomless carnal lust and depravity, of sex and brutality and everything in between. Occasionally, the moving kaleidoscope focuses on a moment in time, lingering over it with voyeuristic pleasure: a girl, no more than eighteen, naked and tied to a filthy mattress, snot and blood running from her nose, her eyes streaming with tears, not in ecstasy, but in pain and fear. Another washed-out image from the same point of view: the man, the bastard they called the Devil, standing over a man and woman, forcing them at knifepoint to have sex. Somehow their grief-stricken faces tell Carter everything: they are not a couple, or strangers even, but brother and sister, and the man is getting off on their enforced incest, smiling his gleeful smile as he pleasures himself in the shadows . . .
In the midst of this grim carnival, he realises that these are not just troubled dreams, they are memories. Not his, but that other man’s, the man whose bones had once been the framework on which choice cuts of mortal flesh had performed those long-forgotten acts of depravity.
The bones call to him from their resting place below, tempting him, enticing him to return them to their rightful place at his side. There is a moment when he almost wakes, ready to do their bidding . . .
But he fights it, encouraged by the old woman’s caustic accusation:
I know you are weak . . . I see it in your eyes . . .
Not anymore, he tells himself. Not anymore.
When he descends back into the deepest recesses of sleep, the nightmares fade into the background and he begins to dream good dreams. And they soothe his aching spirit . . .
***
He surfaced from the depths of sleep, vaguely aware of a figure standing over the bed. He felt a momentary stab of fear, before the figure leaned over and placed a finger across his lips.
“Shh. It’s me,” Jasmine whispered. “You left the door unlocked, stupid.”
He watched her undress in the dim light, the sight of her supple body acting as a curative to his aching senses. When she slipped between the covers, he shivered at the feel of her warm breasts pressing against his narrow chest, her honey-scented hair, her expensive perfume, her soft skin. He pulled her close, kissing her carelessly, overcome with passion.
She climbed on top of him and held up something long and silky in her hands, smiling down at him with her secret lustful smile.
“Just like old times, honey,” she said in a husky tone, reaching for his willing hands.
In the ensuing passion, he never once thought about the poisonous relic beneath his bed.
***
Snik. Snik-snik.
He opened his eyes, blinking. The room was still dark, the ceiling above him dappled with bizarre shadow-shapes. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.
Snik .
He tried to sit up but found his hands still bound to the bed by her neckties. He was just able to peer over the end of the bed, where he could see Jasmine, still naked, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the balcony window with her back to him. She was holding something in her hands, but he couldn’t see what it was.
“Jasmine?” he said.
Snik-snik .
He
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