Lee Kerr - Welcome to the Apocalypse

My heart sinks as I let out a gasp. I imagine what will be waiting for me on that bed, his darkest desires overshadowing any genuine concern for the world outside. I load up my pictures of Antonio on my phone, using the secret app he showed me – his clever way of letting him always be with me – all of them taken by me and hidden by Antonio. I flick through them, taking every part of him in, from his cute young face; a few days’ stubble on it, to his thick cock, bigger than I even thought was possible. The first few times he stripped off I always wondered why he wanted to be with me, a woman twice his age. I would look at my body, my desperate attempts to make myself appear younger, and then I would look at his smooth, tanned skin and I never understood what the attraction was. But as we spent more time together, our experiences growing, I realised that what I offered him other women of his age never could. I brought depth and experience to his flat life, and as our love-making sessions got longer and more intense I forgot about the age issue, just as he stopped letting my lifelong wisdom and so many more stories than him be anything but a clear turn on. I think now of all those times together and how it couldn’t just be about money, couldn’t just be sex, and so could only be love, separated by decades but has now finally come true.

I hear the main door open and feel thankful that the alcohol has finally arrived. I decide that I’ll down two glasses and do all I can to keep the memory alive of my darling young man. It should just about be enough to get me through the next half an hour or so.

I move to the door and wait for the attendant to leave. The leather gimp mask and assorted tools are no doubt laid out on the bed, and although I have a good idea of what they will have seen, I can at least choose not to let myself become a face in this desperate tale. The room service attendant will no doubt tell everyone about it but I will just be thought of as the secret mistress; a dirty little title without any real identity.

I suddenly hear a thud and I wonder what has happened now. I lean my ear against the door, wondering if they have already left. ‘Stan?’ I shout.

‘I’m not Stan,’ this voice says, sounding like it is coming from just the other side of the bathroom door.

I push myself away, back towards the toilet. I wait, and I say nothing more, realising that this dark voice matches the one I heard on the phone.

The handle slowly moves, making its way down until it’s stopped by the lock.

I gasp, finding a boundary he is willing to push. ‘Stan? Is that you? Stop playing around.’

The handle returns to its safe place. ‘I told you, I’m not Stan.’

I feel scared, and involuntarily let out a whimper. I dial 999 and think about what I can say, ready to whisper, knowing that the precious lock won’t help me for long. No one answers my call, no one seems to care. An automated message tells me that all lines are busy and that, wherever possible, I should seek local help and medical assistance. I try Antonio again but it won’t connect to him, either.

I look around the bathroom and then at the base of the door, watching for a shadow that isn’t there. I take a brave step forward and put my ear back to the wood, listening for Stan or for anything that will give me a clue as to what’s outside. I picture the path to the main door in my head and I think about whether I can make it out of here. Thinking of the bright new world that I am going to create with Antonio spurs me forward; I won’t let circumstances or the actions of others hold me back any more. I take a deep breath, tuck my hairspray can under my dressing gown, and then unlock the door.

When I step into the room I see Stan on the bed, tied up with the gimp mask on. I think that maybe it was him all along, and that the person who delivered the champagne is long gone. I consider heading to the bed to take part in whatever new fantasy my husband has created. My overworked mind has obviously been creating nightmares. But then I think about that voice, so out of place for the world created by this hotel and this brand, and so I immediately check my path to the door.

I soon realise that it was not just my imagination, seeing that the coffee table, sofa and chest of drawers are all lined up against my only way out, creating a barricade. I let out another whimper, feeling there is someone behind me.

‘Do you like what I’ve done to your place?’

I turn around to see a man standing in front of me. He’s middle-aged, bald, and his blood-red eyes tell me more than I ever want to know. I step away but he moves closer. I look at him, trying to take in as much as possible, hoping that within the hour I will be reciting this in a witness statement to the police, who will have traced my call and come to my aid. He’s wearing a suit jacket but I notice that underneath is a pair of jeans and a ripped t-shirt. The jacket is covered in red splashes, which I keep telling myself cannot be blood.

My heart beats faster with every little detail I take in. The name badge that says ‘Robert’ and the title underneath that states ‘Manager’. I step back further and think about how much damage a blast of hairspray could do to his eyes, and whether that would give me enough time to pull all the furniture out of my way. Only in the last few seconds of my simple plan do I give Stan any thought. I make one quick glance his way and silently tell him that he’s on his own; it was always going to happen, although I never would have dreamt up this situation in my worst nightmares.

‘I think these places are far too orderly,’ the man says, throwing a chair across the room. ‘I think a little chaos is exactly what we need in times like these.’

I hold my hands out. ‘Please,’ I say, my eyes filling up and my whole body shaking.

‘Just come here,’ he says, his own arms spread out like he’s offering some sort of silent assurance that he won’t hurt me.

I don’t believe him and so I take my chance, the only one I may get, and pull out the hairspray. I quickly aim at his eyes and press the top of canister. It’s a new can, bought especially for my new life, and I let it all go now. It jets out a mist towards him and I hold down, firing as much of it as I can. It seems to work: he staggers backwards and starts rubbing his eyes. It’s enough for me to grab my chance as I turn and start pulling at things. I claw at whatever I can get my hands on, frantically pulling at the solid, luxury furnishings, whilst screaming as loud as possible that someone needs to help me.

I start to see that I won’t be able to clear a path before he recovers and I realise that I have made a mistake: I should have hit him with something. I quickly turn, looking around for the heaviest thing I can pick up. It proves too late as I find him in front of me. I step backwards but he grabs me and smacks my head.

‘You clever little bitch,’ he says, before smashing our heads together. A daze falls over me as I realise that I’m on the floor and he is dragging me. I feel him lifting my body as I land on a sofa, the one nearest to the bed, and then I feel his breath on me. He is licking his way up my chin and across my face. ‘I like the creative ones. The better the fight, the less pain I will cause you in the end, you have my promise on that.’

We are both disturbed by Stan as he suddenly moves and I hear the muffled screams coming through that thick mask. His naked body struggles, so obviously fighting against the restraints.

The man looks over at him. ‘Oh, he’s finally awake. I assume I was about to interrupt something between you.’

‘No,’ I say, my desperate head shaking. ‘I was going to stay in the bathroom whilst we have guests. Two other men are coming over and they’ll be here soon. It’s what he likes.’