Anne Billson - Suckers

'Don't go.'

It wasn't an entreaty. It was a command. She closed the door and double-locked it right in front of me, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. She slipped an arm around my waist, like an old chum, and walked me back into the living room.

And then, quite unexpectedly, I realized everything was going to be all right. Suddenly, she was no longer the ice princess, but warm and inviting, and all the tension between us had melted. It was as though we'd known each other for years. She slipped out of her coat, dropped a fur or two on the floor, and arranged herself on the sofa.

'Come, sit next to me,' she said, patting the seat with her tiny gloved hand. I had expected her to talk with a sinister accent, like Rosa Klebb in From Russia With Love , but her voice carried not a hint of Eastern Europe.

I sat down next to her. Duncan was left standing awkwardly in front of us. 'Violet,' he said, 'this is Dora.'

'Of course it is,' she purred, and smiled at me as though we were sharing a joke he couldn't possibly understand. Then she stretched out her hand and tapped the teapot. 'Duncan, darling, why don't you run along and brew us some fresh tea?'

Duncan shrugged helplessly as if to say, 'Well, what can you do?', and obediently trotted out to the kitchen with the half-empty pot. Violet adjusted her position so that her arm rested along the back of the sofa. 'Good,' she said. 'Now we can talk.'

'We can? '

'Don't look so serious. Please. I'm not going to eat you.' Her expression was so rueful that I burst out laughing. Being eaten was exactly what I'd been afraid of, but now those fears seemed ridiculous. I had been thinking of her in the abstract, as a mindless thirst that required regular quenching. It had-never occurred to me that she might be someone I could talk to. It had never occurred to me I might actually like her.

'You have many questions to ask,' she said, and there was an intensity in her gaze which made me feel I could have told her anything, anything at all, and she would have understood. I was suddenly convinced we were destined to become the most intimate of friends. I wanted to tell her that, but I couldn't find the right words. Her eyes were bright, brighter than anything else in the room. I could easily have looked away if I'd wanted — it was just that I didn't want to. The past weeks — the blood, the killings, the mausoleum — were a bad dream. And, even if they hadn't been a dream, even if they'd really happened, it was becoming clear to me now that, like everyone else, she had her reasons.

'All a matter of perspective,' she said softly, and for a few tantalizing seconds she allowed me into her mind. The vision there was vast and boundless. I felt certain that, if only I did the right thing, she would allow me to be a part of it. I felt a surge of excitement. If only I played this right, I could live for ever .

'So,' she said at last. I wondered if I'd been asleep. Something had just happened and I'd missed it. I was conscious that her arm was now draped across my shoulders — I could feel the weight of it there, and I knew instinctively that I didn't have the strength to remove it. I became aware of the almost absent-minded way in which her velvet-gloved fingers were caressing the back of my neck, and I didn't dare move, it was such a soothing sensation, and I didn't want it to stop, I wanted it to go on and on. Just before I closed my eyes, I saw she had leant forward so her face was inches away from my own, and her lips were very red and slightly parted, she was whispering something but I couldn't quite make out the words as she continued to stroke the back of my neck with one of her hands while the other tugged at my collar, and I wanted to help so I tilted my head back, and listened to the sound of my own breathing, in and out, in and out, and there, was no point in resisting, it would have been too much effort, and all for nothing, because it didn't matter, nothing mattered, nothing would ever matter again.

I was just about to drift off into a terminal reverie when there was an ear-splitting crash. I felt a rush of disappointment such as I had never felt before in my life. Everything had been perfect, and now it was spoiled. Reluctantly, I forced my eyes open.

It was Duncan. I'd forgotten all about him. He was yelling. 'What the fuck are you doing? ' The carpet was steaming, pieces of teapot fanning out around his feet like petals. His face was paper-white, even whiter than it had been in the cafe. He kept yelling. I didn't like him yelling like that. I'd had enough of it. It really was time for me to go.

I started to get up. Violet, with a casual flick of her wrist, slammed me back down. The impact knocked the breath out of me. I reached out, rather unsteadily, to push myself up again. Perhaps she saw the movement as a threat, or perhaps she was just being playful. My arm was suddenly grabbed, and squeezed, and wrenched so hard I thought it might pop out of its socket.

There was a flash of dazzling white incisor, and a grinding, followed by a crisp snapping sound, like a ginger biscuit being broken in half.

I managed to pull away, or she let me go — I'm not sure which. For a fraction of a second, it didn't hurt at all. I opened my mouth to say something, and then the pain reared up and hit me. For a moment, there was so much pain, I didn't know who I was, or where I was coming from, or what I'd been doing there. It came from my shoulder, my elbow, my hand, all down my left side, all at the same time. The first wave ebbed, but my gasp of relief was cut short when it came roaring back, worse than ever.

I looked at my hand, then away. Then back again. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The little fingernail had gone. My little fingernail had gone. All that was left was a raw stub, and a flappy bit of skin, and something knobbly and white which I didn't want to examine too closely. But it wasn't white for long because while I watched, the whole area filled up with red which spilled over and began to trickle down my wrist. I stared and stared, not wanting to admit that the reason the nail was missing was because the entire top joint of the finger had been bitten off.

It looked painful, but I couldn't quite connect it to the pain I was feeling. After what seemed like an age, I managed to croak, 'My finger.' I tried to glare accusingly at Violet, who was chewing daintily.

Through the pain, I thought I could hear Duncan wailing, 'But it was going to be me .' I couldn't work out whether he was wailing at me, or at her. Surely he didn't want his finger chewed off. Either way, it didn't matter — I knew I was going to bleed to death, or die from shock, or both. Blood was now dribbling through my fingers, down my arm, and dripping on to the sofa. I knew I had to keep the hand pointing upwards — that way it wouldn't bleed so much — and I had to find something to staunch the flow. With my other hand, I fished around in my bag, only to find I'd used up all my Kleenex on the crying jag.

'Uh, the bathroom,' I mumbled. 'Gotta get some-thing.' It was an effort to form words, and I wasn't sure I was saying them loud enough for anyone to hear, but I managed to totter to my feet.

Violet was twice as quick, and standing in front of me again. 'You are going nowhere ,' she said. She was still smiling, but she'd given up pretending to be nice. 'You know too much, but you know nothing .' She stretched her arms out wide, like a miniature basketball player blocking my route to goal. If I'd been quicker off the mark, I could have dodged around her, but I was thinking and moving in slow motion.

'Here you all are,' she said, 'and you might as well not be there. You are just objects and shadows.' Now she was ranting. She said something else in a language I couldn't even identify, let alone translate. I was in too much pain to care.