Love Lies Sleeping

I wake. Hannah's back is toward me, the serpent tattoo nestling between her shoulder blades. I run my fingertips down her spine. Her skin is chill. My fingers tremble at the memory of yesterday. I pull the heavy coverlet up to warm her. My darling.

An icy blast tickles my neck. I drop the cover. Leap naked from the bed and go over to the window. It stands open, the net curtain blowing in the breeze although it is below zero. Did she leave it open, or did I? I lean forward, naked, touch the ledge beneath me, gritty with frost. I trace the ice flowers that have bloomed there overnight. Stare down at the view of Russell Square. Bushes, like florets of broccoli, poke through the mist. Somewhere under a bush must lie a used condom, evidence of a night of drunken revelry in which Hannah and I finished our night of excess by screwing on the dark ice crusted earth. I slam down the window.

My brain feels like the worm at the bottom of a bottle of tequila, sated, bloated. I am bloated with lust for her. The memory of our lovemaking warms me a little, but not enough. I rub my bluish arms as I tip toe to the bathroom, blast on the hot taps.

In the mirror I note my neck is studded with bite marks. Yesterday. Sunday. My wife Sophia and I had just finished our lunch. The twins, Paul and Pandora, had gulped down the lamb and raced off somewhere. Lucky buggers. Sophia delicately spooned up her sorbet, let it slide down her elegant throat. Her neck is her best feature, although I must admit I have in recent weeks wondered how it would feel beneath my desperate grip, as I choke the life out of her. I never used to feel like this. But since I met Hannah, the high timbre of Sophia's voice, the impeccable cut of her clothes and the perfection of her Sunday roasts has become unbearable.

I immerse myself in the bath. I even pour in some rose scented bath oil, my thoughts returning to yesterday. All morning feeling jittery as a heroin addict without his fix. Twenty trips to the toilet, to phone Hannah. I hadn't heard from her for three weeks. She'd said not to call unless it was an emergency. Always the answer phone. The last time, I had just hissed a desperate message, when I heard Sophia's polite cough outside the bathroom door.

"Lunch is ready darling. Something wrong with your stomach? You've been on the toilet all morning." No, damn you, nothing's wrong, only I wish you were dead.

I smashed into Hannah's motorbike six months ago. After the screech of breaks, the slam of my chest on the steering wheel, I saw a devilish face, brilliant violet eyes rimmed with kohl, a heavily lipsticked mouth smearing its way across my window. I was afraid. She screamed, "What have you done to my bike, you cunt!" Then she stood up so my face was level with her crotch, but separated by the glass. A desperate urge gripped me, to press my face into it. How would it smell, what would it feel like, would the leather be cold from the street air or warmed by her skin? I barely noticed that she was banging on the top of the car.

I wrestled with the door handle, collided with nearly six feet of black leather, my cheek brushing her crotch. It felt hot and gave off a scent of gasoline and burnt coals, mixed with the deep musk of her cunt. I drew myself up tall until I stood beside her, looking up into a furious face, long black hair that looked as if it had survived a hacking with blunt scissors. A long screaming argument ensued. When we were both exhausted we went to a nearby pub. Several hours later she invited me back to her place, a filthy hole in Ladbroke Grove. We took a cab, since both our vehicles were write offs. Somehow, the accident having happened on a Friday night, I managed to fob Sophia off with some work related bullshit and ended up screwing Hannah all night Friday, through Saturday.

That Saturday night she informed me, quite casually that while it had been fun she was reluctant to take things further … unless. Yes? I said. Unless I was prepared to be her toy, her plaything, to do with just as she pleased. Something in my brain exploded and I readily agreed. She told me I should always be ready for her summons. I knew the whole thing was crazy but she was in my veins, like a poison ingested which has not yet attacked the vital organs. I couldn't give her up, even if I'd wanted to.

She would handcuff me to the bed face down and I was happy for her to use my body in whichever way she pleased. She liked to soak my arse with fiery trails of brandy, drink from it with lip smacking pleasure, stick her tongue in and prise me open, then insert her fingers, candles, who knows what else. My body was so finely tuned to her every movement, that when she blew on the hairs at the base of my spine I trembled like a freed prisoner whose cell door has just been thrown open.

Yes, it was fun, but … soon I no longer cared about my job as a merchant banker, about Sophia, or even, God help me, the twins. All I cared about was that phone call from Hannah that would summon me to our meetings. I remember … eating her out on a subway platform. In a nightclub toilet she ground her heels into the tender flesh of my naked chest as I writhed in a slush of spilled drink, urine and cigarette butts before squatting over me and pissing in my face. Even though my cock was still in my trousers I came, stars swimming in my head as I looked up helplessly into the eyes of my Amazon goddess.

Yesterday. At the tail end of Sunday lunch my phone screamed from my trouser pocket. Sophia glanced at me with ice cold eyes. Her spoon clanged into her porcelain bowl. Hannah told me to meet her at Russell Square Tube. "OK," I blurted. To Sophia I said, "Crisis at the office." As I got up to rush out the door Sophia said, "You've got to go to the office. Now?"

Rising from the bath I towel myself down. I am ready to embrace her, to cover her body in kisses, to feel her nails scrape along the backs of my thighs. I go over to the bed, lift the heavy coverlet to embrace her, recoil at the blood seeping from under her hip, but nevertheless peel the cover stickily from her skin. Rolling her over I see her skull has been bashed in. Violet eyes closed. Her cheekbone is visible beneath her pulverised skin, like the stone at the heart of a mango. Blood clumps the wound, has pooled and dried between her breasts, has formed a sickly goo under her. I want to scream, then remember I am in a hotel room. I have to get out of here.

The phone rings. At the same time someone starts to bang on the door. I didn't do it I didn't do it. I didn't. My hand is covered in blood. I turn to face the door. If I didn't do it, then who? The phone still rings, jangling my thoughts.