Lee Kerr - Welcome to the Apocalypse

He lurches forward and kneels down in front of me, taking my hands in his. ‘You’re my wife, so what is mine is yours. We’ve shared the good times and the not-so-good times together, so my win is a reward for both of us. Now we can start a new life.’

I simply nod, knowing the game we are playing. He squandered our savings and threw our life away but he’s still my ticket to a happier world, and so I kiss him. I kiss him so hard that his cock rises to the occasion. I grab it and I tease it, just how he likes it. I don’t jerk at it like some violent monster, trying to quickly placate it. No, this moment requires me to play the game. Two, maybe three, dirty sprays from that ugly, veiny, red thing, and only one more fake orgasm from me and then my escape plan will start in earnest.

He suddenly pulls away from me. ‘The champagne still hasn’t arrived.’ He walks to the phone, his eyes still on me. ‘We need to start celebrating, don’t you think?’

I nod and continue looking out of the window as Stan taps away on the phone. I watch the few people scrambling around beneath me. ‘I haven’t seen a black cab or any other car pull up outside since we got here.’

Stan doesn’t hear me as he taps a finger on the oak table. ‘No one has picked up yet. Can you believe this? It’s supposed to be one of the poshest hotels in London and no one has bloody answered.’

‘Give them a minute. Perhaps they’re just busy.’

‘They might be busy, but it’s still their job to answer the phone and make our stay a comfortable one.’ He heads to the bathroom, finds his white bathrobe and puts it on. ‘I’m going to go down there and give them a piece of my mind.’

‘Why are you doing that?’ I ask, knowing that Stan getting involved in anything is never a good idea.

‘Gloria, we deserve some bubbles, and I’m going to get us some, okay?’

I pick up the phone and redial the number, hoping that someone will answer and solve this minor issue, wanting to stop Stan going down there and giving them grief. Much to my relief, someone answers. ‘Could I possibly get some champagne to room 412 please?’

‘I’m not room service,’ the voice says, slow and ever-so-slightly sarcastic.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Could you please put me through to them?’

‘Room 412, you say? I’ll be up in a few minutes.’

The line goes dead but I take this as a success. I don’t bother to mention how abrupt his tone was to Stan: the risk of him demanding to see the manager is just too great.

‘Well done to my darling wife,’ he says, and drops his gown on the floor, the poke in his pants back for another round.

I turn on the TV and start flicking through the channels. ‘After some bubbles, perhaps,’ I say, giving him a quick glance, and seeing that pathetic, sad face staring back at me.

I watch the news as he watches me. Despite the immediate future looking bright and hopeful, I can’t help but feel that this is the lowest point in my life. I feel depressed, my husband is sat next to me and the grey world outside seems bleaker than I have ever known it. Only Stan and Gloria could turn a stay in the best hotel in London into something so shit; everyone else’s dream just the climax to my lifelong nightmare.

‘Someone was shot outside Ikea yesterday,’ Stan says, focusing on the TV, quickly revealing that I’m not concentrating at this important moment.

‘What?’ I say and turn up the volume.

‘Well, coming out of that place it was bound to happen.’

I tut at yet another view of his that has changed. ‘It’s nice – we have been there lots of times and you never complained before.’

Stan shakes his head, frowning at me like I’m stupid. ‘We haven’t been there in years and we will never set foot inside there again. It will be only the best for us from now on.’

I don’t answer and instead I realise that Stan is right. I’ve been to Ikea a lot lately but not with him. I think about how many times Antonio and I have been there in the last few months and I suddenly see the how easily I could have been caught. It was all I could afford to help him sort out his little place and it desperately needed some colour, some organisation, and most of all a woman’s touch. The few hundred pounds I spent on kitting out mine and Antonio’s little love nest is the only secret I’ve ever kept from Stan, and it still pales into insignificance to the thousands he squandered. Despite the big dent it made in my small, secret savings account, it was worth it all to see Antonio’s bright young face when we finished decorating. That day was the most pleasurable one of my dreary existence, as I watched my Spanish lover do all the work, admiring his ripped, smooth torso, covered in splashes of white paint. When he finished the last wall he smiled at his work, then silently ripped my skirt off and took me in every position we could think of.

I remember every bit of him was primal. He had teased me for hours as he stretched and worked, before silently letting his pants fall around his ankles and my lips settle around his monster cock. The smells and juices that ooze from Stan would normally make me feel sick, and since at least the ‘80-s, I have refused to go down on him unless he has showered thoroughly, but with Antonio those scents were like an intoxicating drug to me. That night he fucked me into heaven, and every night since then, I have wanted only him.

‘Are you okay, darling?’ Stan says, tapping my arm.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I say, as I stand up and head to the bathroom.

Stan doesn’t say anything as he watches me leave. I know his gaze is fixed on the door as I slowly close it again; his beady little eyes watching the lock turn, no doubt.

I turn on the shower and sit on the toilet as I leave Antonio another voicemail. There’s still no answer but this time I tell him everything I’ve wanted to tell him for so long. I tell him about the lottery win and that I intend to spend all of my side of the winnings on our new life together. I whisper, ever-so-quietly, as I confess my plans for us both to escape the chains that keep us from being together forever; his student debts and my indebted husband – both of which will be a thing of the past in just a couple of days.

I put the phone down and imagine Antonio and I sitting on a first class flight, the ching of our champagne flutes as the plane takes off. Stan will likely be at home, trying to figure out where I am and when I will be coming back. I won’t leave him a note; I won’t tell him anything. He will forever wonder where I have gone and he’ll never be able to trace me. I will transfer the money to Antonio and we will live together in a Spanish villa by the beach. Antonio will swim every day as I lie on a sunbed. I imagine watching him walking out of the sea, water dripping down his muscled body, both of us smiling at what lies ahead of us.

We’ll be happy and Stan will be nothing. While he wastes his share of the winnings I will build a new life with the kind of lover who should have been mine from the start, my real man – half Stan’s age and double the man he will ever be.

I suddenly hear a tap on the door. ‘Gloria, are you okay?’

I sit forward. I know he is not about to burst into the room and discover my darkest secret, but I clear my phone’s call list anyway. ‘Yes, I’ll be out soon.’

‘You won’t believe it, they’re saying zombies have started appearing and they have shot one in West London. The world has gone crazy, I tell you.’

‘Okay,’ I say, as if that’s a half-good answer to what he has just told me. ‘I’ll be out to look in a minute.’

He says nothing back and for a moment I think he’s gone, until I see a shadow moving, creeping across the small gap at the base of the door. I wait, wondering if he’s listening – both of us quietly sizing up the other’s movements. ‘I’ll get ready,’ he finally says, and the shadow disappears.