Алекс Баркли - I Confess

Helen gestured to the notebook. ‘Something like this — this is beyond that. I don’t have all the answers, I’m not a psychiatrist, I can’t diagnose him, but... somebody like this... this level of rage, the detailed, violent fantasies. Someone like that doesn’t change. This is—’

‘But how do you know that for definite?’ said Edie, her eyes wide. ‘Lots of people change. They have to. I—’

‘Edie,’ said Helen, opening a page of the notebook. ‘Listen to this: “You pushed my face into a sink full of butter knives and every time, I used to imagine rising up out of it with the handle of a hunting knife between my teeth and taking it in my hand and turning to you and—’

‘Stop!’ said Edie. ‘Stop!’ She put her hands to her ears.

Helen looked at her.

‘Obviously that was his mother doing that to him!’ said Edie. ‘That would mess anyone up.’

‘And what I don’t get is...’ She paused. ‘Did you not think he was completely normal tonight?’

‘He hardly spoke,’ said Helen. ‘He had to be drawn into every conversation.’

‘But he’s shy!’ said Edie.

Helen looked at her. ‘Why was that piece I read out “obviously” his mother?’

Edie stared at her. ‘What?’

‘I think you’re right, but’

‘Maybe Jessie told me — I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. The main thing is—’

Helen spoke softly. ‘You showed up here in an awful state — I’ve never seen you like this.’ She put her hand on the notebook. ‘And I’ve never read anything like this. It’s so disturbing—’

‘I know, I know,’ said Edie, ‘but... I just can’t—’

‘Why do I feel like you came to me so that I would tell you Patrick Lynch is OK now? It seems to matter to you beyond—’

‘I know, I know, but it’s my fault he’s here, tonight—’

Helen nodded. ‘Forget that—’

‘And what if he’s... what if...’ She bent over and started rocking.

Helen put her hand on Edie’s back and rubbed it gently. ‘Edie, pet... something’s happened... hasn’t it?’

Edie sobbed. She drew herself slowly upright.

‘What is it?’ said Helen.

‘I think... I think he might have killed Terry Hyland. Terry’s dead.’

Helen’s eyes went wide. She sat up straight. ‘What?’

Edie nodded. ‘Terry was killed tonight, and it’s all a mess and—’

‘Oh my God,’ said Helen. ‘Are the guards here?’

‘It’s a mess!’ said Edie. ‘We’ve all been trying to figure out what to do and we haven’t a clue, and...’

‘And where does the notebook fit in?’ said Helen. ‘Where was it?’

‘In Terry’s van. I don’t know how Terry got it, but...’ Her gaze couldn’t settle anywhere.

Helen shook her head. ‘Edie! What’s going on? You’re going to have to tell me. This is not about Terry. This is about something else.’

Edie covered her face with her hands, and sobbed. ‘Oh, Helen, I messed up, I messed up so bad, I messed up so bad.’

Dublin

16 July 2018

Edie sat on the hotel bed, a firm pillow between her and the headboard, one long leg folded over the other. She was dressed in a black lace push-up bra and black lace Brazilian-cut knickers. The curtains were drawn. The warm light came from the bedside lamp. The searing white came from the reading light she had angled over her book. She heard the door click. She turned off the reading light, put the book down, and stood up. She walked around to the end of the bed, and stopped.

Patrick was standing in front of the door, dressed in a dark blue suit, and a white shirt with the top button open. Edie smiled. He smirked, then, ran his gaze slowly up her body at the same time he was lowering his zip. As she walked towards him, he was taking out his cock, and by the time she was on her knees, he was ready to push it into her mouth. She looked up at him as she took it all in, then watched his eyes close, and his head tilt back. He looked down, grabbed her head with both hands, and pulled it towards him. He held it there, his fingers firm, and started moving his hips in short sharp thrusts.

‘I love fucking your face.’

She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling. He stared down at her, his eyes dark, the smirk back. A shiver ran up her spine, a ripple of fear that she buried. He pulled her to her feet, reached behind her neck, and yanked her towards him, kissing her hard. Then he released her, and she stepped back as he got undressed, her eyes never leaving his cock. He walked towards her, reached out, and grabbed her wrist, pulling it up, then twisting her around, and pushing her, face down, on to the bed. He grabbed her knickers and yanked them off. He unhooked her bra, and waited for her to pull it off. He knelt against the end of the bed, between her legs, and slipped his arm under her waist, pulling her back against him, grabbing her breasts. He pushed inside her from behind, fucked her hard, then turned her on to her back. She moved up the bed, and he followed her, climbing on top of her, pushing inside her again. He held his hand over her mouth, and pressed down hard. Her eyes widened, and her shout against his closed palm was a muffled hum vibrating between them. His eyes were cold and dark, fixed on hers, and then they were over her head, and far away.

She lay under him watching the movement of his taut chest muscles, his arms, his neck. Then his eyes were on hers again, and she could see the challenge in them, then he looked away, and she could feel his hand slide a fraction higher so the edge of his little finger was covering her nostrils. She grunted, shifting under him, twisting sideways, aiming with her sharp hipbone to push him off her, digging her heels into the bed, trying to leverage her weight against him. He didn’t stop. He looked down on her again. Her chest was heaving, her eyes wide. He shifted his hand a fraction to let her take in some air. She rocked against him again, threw him off balance, until he took his hand away from her mouth, grabbed her arms, and held them over her head. He smiled down at her, kissed her hard, fucked her harder. She closed her eyes, lifted her hips, let him grind against her, then gave him two sharp squeezes, and he released her so she could wrap her legs around his waist. He hooked his arm under the small of her back, and yanked her up towards him. She squeezed her legs tighter around him, grabbing his neck to pull her mouth up to his. He watched her face, listened to her breathing. Then he slid his arm out from under her and let her head fall back on the pillow and he held the palms of his hands to each side of her neck, and squeezed as he moved slower inside her, then tighter against her, grinding and slamming until he squeezed as tight as he could and she came hard, and he pressed his hand over her mouth and she cried into it.

As her body relaxed under him, he flipped her over, and fucked her from behind as she was still gasping for air.

He came, then fell back on to the bed beside her. He lay there, his chest heaving, one arm over his head. She turned towards him and smiled, and he straightened out his arm, and she lay her neck on to it, and he rolled her into him, her head on his chest, her leg over his. She slid her hand up the centre of his chest, and rested it there.

‘Hey,’ he said.

‘Hey, yourself,’ she said.

She kissed his chest, then moved her hand up to his face and held it there. He kissed her head and pulled her closer.

‘I love you, Edie Kerr.’

‘I love you, Patrick Lynch.’

It still blew her mind that after one meeting, after all these years here they were. If someone had told her when they were ten years old that there would be a time when she would be in love with Patrick Lynch, wrapped around him, wanting him, needing him...