Richard Laymon - Flesh

Helen’s shoulder slammed the top of the coffee table. Roland’s side hit the surface, knocking her drink out of the way. She squirmed and kicked. Her wild struggle scooted Roland along the table. Its other end flew up. He dropped to the floor, Helen smashing down on top of him.

Pinned beneath her writhing body, Roland clutched the bag tight to her face. With his other hand, he jerked open the snap of his knife case.

No! No blood!

He threw his free hand across Helen. Her robe had come open. He grabbed a breast and twisted it. She squealed into the plastic over her mouth. Letting go, he pounded a fist down hard into her belly. Again. Her body flinched rigid with each blow. Then she seemed to quake. He heard heaving noises. The bag pulsed warm and mushy against his hand and he realized she was vomiting. He fought an urge to pull his hand away. He pressed the bag even more tightly to her mouth. Convulsions wracked Helen’s body. She twisted and bucked on top of him, finally throwing herself off.

He rolled with her, but lost his grip on the bag. Vomit slopped out onto the carpet. Her hand slipped in the mess when she tried to push herself up. Roland scrambled onto her back. She was choking and gasping beneath him. But breathing, at least enough to stay alive. As he straddled her and reached for the bag, she tugged it off her head.

Roland wrapped his fingers around her slick neck and tried to strangle her. As he squeezed her throat, Helen pushed herself up. She got to her hands and knees. Whimpering, she began to crawl. Roland rode her. His fingers weakened. He felt a tremor of fear.

Letting go, he scrambled off Helen’s back. He staggered a few steps, got his balance, then rushed at her and kicked the toe of his shoe up into her belly with such force that she toppled onto her side. She hugged her belly and sucked breath. She had lost her glasses. Her face was scarlet where it wasn’t smeared with vomit.

Roland danced back and forth, looking for the best target. He wondered for a moment what one of those mammoth breasts might do if he punted it. That wouldn’t be lethal, though, and he needed to finish this business. She had already proven herself almost too much for him.

He aimed a kick at her throat.

It missed, but knocked her jaw crooked and threw Helen onto her back.

Roland jumped, bringing his knees up high and shooting his feet down, stomping her crossed arms and belly with all his weight. Breath exploded out of her and she half sat up. Roland bounded off her.

Whirling around, he kicked the side of her head.

Her arms flopped onto the floor.

He kicked her head again for good measure.

Then he retrieved the plastic bag. He sat on the soft cushions of her breasts, pulled the filthy bag down over her head, and held it shut around her neck.

As he sat there, he hoped Alison would be spending a long time at her boyfriend’s apartment. It would take a long time to clean all this up.

The pig had made a real mess.

They were nearly done eating and Alison grew uneasy about what might happen once they left the table. To postpone the moment, she asked for coffee. Evan got up to prepare it.

Don’t worry so much, she told herself. So far, everything has gone fine. Reasonably fine.

She had been terribly nervous on her way to Evan’s apartment, had even come close to backing down. But somehow she found the courage to knock on his door.

She had half expected Evan to look wild-eyed and desperate. If he’d been that way when he wrote the letter, however, he’d had time to recover. The man who opened the door seemed composed and cheerful. Perhaps a bit too cheerful.

“Ah, la belle dam san merci,” he greeted her. “Make that avec merci.”

“That’s better,” Alison said.

“Come in, come in.” He didn’t try to hug or kiss her. He backed into the apartment, smiling. “You look terrific.”

“You don’t look so bad, yourself.”

“You got some sun.”

“I was over at the quad for a while.”

Evan lifted a glass off the table in front of the sofa. It was empty except for a few ice cubes that had melted down to nuggets. “What could I get you? How about a margarita? We’re having Mexican.”

“Great.” Alison took a deep breath, relishing the aromas that filled the apartment.

“I’ll just be a minute. Make yourself comfortable.”

He walked past the bookshelves that lined the wall, stepped around the table in the small eating area, and disappeared into the kitchen. The table had been cleared of the typewriter and pile of books and papers that usually covered it. Places had been set. In the center of the table stood a single red candle.

Alison heard the blender whine.

She stepped over to an armchair and sat down.

The gulf between the chair and the sofa, in this small room, looked enormous.

This is no way to start things fresh, she thought. Evan’s not contagious.

So she moved to the sofa. On the seat of a folding chair straight ahead was an oscillating fan. It swept a mild warm breeze back and forth. The moving air felt good on her damp face. She leaned forward. The top button of her blouse pressed against her throat. She unfastened it. Arching her back, she reached around and plucked the clinging fabric away from her skin.

It hadn’t been that hot outside, she thought.

Nerves. Confronting Roland, then coming here.

It can only get better, she told herself.

What makes you so sure?

It’s already better, she thought. I’m done with Roland, Evan seems all right, and the fan feels terrific.

Alison looked around the room. She had been here so many times before. Nothing looked different, yet nothing seemed quite the same. This might have been a movie set cleverly made up to look like Evan’s apartment, and she was an actress in the role of Alison—a role she didn’t quite know how to play.

Need a script, she thought. That’d certainly help.

Evan came in with a margarita in one hand and a bowl of tortilla chips in the other. After placing them on the table in front of Alison, he returned to the kitchen. He came back with a bowl of red salsa and another margarita. He put them down, then sat on the sofa beside her.

Beside her, but about two feet away. A good sign, Alison thought. He isn’t going to pretend that everything is like it used to be.

They lifted their drinks. “To new beginnings,” Evan said. They clinked their glasses and drank.

Alison asked how his dissertation was coming along. He spoke with enthusiasm about its progress, his hopes of developing his study of flight imagery in Finnigan’s Wake into a full book that could gain him recognition as a Joyce scholar and help ensure tenure a few years down the road. While he talked, Alison dipped chips in salsa, ate them, and drank. Occasionally, she made comments or asked questions.

When Evan finally lapsed into silence, Alison asked if he had heard, yet, from any of the universities to which he had applied for teaching positions. He gave her a strange look. “You mean since Thursday?”

“Seems like longer,” Alison said.

“Seems like weeks. God, it’s good to have you back.”

Not all the way back, she thought. Not yet. I’m here, but I’m not back.

Evan took the empty glasses into the kitchen. While he was gone, Alison dipped another chip into the salsa, cupped her hand beneath it in case it dripped, and ate it.

Better stop gobbling these things, she thought, and licked a smear of red sauce off her fingers.

Evan came back with the glasses refilled.

Alison was already feeling somewhat light-headed from the first margarita. Drink this one more slowly, she cautioned herself. Keep at it with the booze and chips, you’ll be bloated and drunk by dinnertime.