Black Lipstick Kisses (3 page)

‘Are you all right?'

‘Fine. Thanks.'

I'd tried to sound cold and formal, but it had just come out as pitiable. It was not a good start, and worse for the unexpected effect the brief touch of surprisingly hard muscle beneath his suit had had on my already keyed-up nerves. I struggled to get a grip on myself anyway, remembering that was exactly what he was, a suit, and everything that went with it. As I met his eyes I realised that the effect of rollerblading all the way from the church in about a minute flat was beginning to tell on my mascara, but I spoke anyway.

‘Have I missed the meeting about All Angels Church in Coburg Road, or has it been postponed?'

‘Neither. This is it.'

‘It is?'

‘There is a core of people here, but yes, I had anticipated more interest.'

So had I. I looked around the half-empty hall. He went on.

‘You know who I am, I suspect?'

‘Yes. Stephen Byrne MP. I wanted to talk to you about the project for All Angels.'

‘I would be delighted, of course. May I ask your name?'

‘Angela McKie.'

‘Well, Angela, as you no doubt know, I am a strong supporter of regeneration in the local community, with a specific focus on those most in need. In the case of All Angels, we intend to provide an important multicultural, multi-able facility, something I'm sure you appreciate as a young woman living in the borough, and which . . .'

‘No. I don't.'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘I don't. I don't appreciate what you're trying to do with All Angels. It's all bollocks and you know it is. All you want are votes, really, and to get them you're prepared to sacrifice a unique interior, which is listed, and to replace it with . . . with this!'

I swung an arm out to take in the plain, square hall, with its flat surfaces and right-angles, ranks of identical plastic chairs and stark fluorescent light. My intentions of remaining unemotional had given way in seconds, far too weak for the feelings inside me. For a moment he looked genuinely surprised, then he went on, his tone no different than before.

‘I see. As a young person I would have hoped for your support in this matter, but yes, I can see that
there are valid objections from the perspective of architecture and heritage. Still, these are really matters we should be discussing as a group . . .'

He stopped. I'd leant forward to massage my ankle, which hurt from my fall, and it took me a moment to realise that when I'd snatched a top from my pile of clean washing I had made a bad choice. He could see right down the front. I straightened up quickly, blushing again and feeling a bigger idiot than at first. He had gone ever so slightly pink, but managed to carry on.

‘Here, let me help you to a seat.'

I let him take my arm and steer me to a seat in the front row of the chairs set out in front of the stage. The efficient looking secretarial type had finished talking to the caretaker and was arranging notes on a lectern, which the other people there took as a cue, seating themselves in twos and threes in the first few rows of seats. Stephen Byrne took the stand and gave a brief but unctuous self-introduction before beginning on his speech.

It was complete bollocks-speak, full of phrases like ‘maximisation of utility resource', ‘holistic urban progress' and ‘zero tolerance of the brown-field wastage cycle'. For a while they just let him speak, presumably either because they agreed with him or because they couldn't understand a word he was saying, but finally a man in a buff-coloured suit and a lilac tie managed to get a word in.

‘Do you feel that the site is appropriate with respect to local transport infrastructure, particularly in consideration of differently abled access buses?'

They spoke the same language. Stephen Byrne
considered a moment, consulted the efficient-looking woman, then answered.

‘The intention is to take due consideration of the needs of all sectors of the community while prioritising those designated in the council's priority target consultation paper. Indeed, the scheme is designed around those specific prioritisation issues. However, as this is an area of high urban density we are obliged to optimise . . .'

I'd had enough. I interrupted, struggling to exert whatever authority I could muster after more or less flashing him.

‘No, you're not obliged to optimise, or prioritise, or anything! In ten years time it won't make any difference at all, much less a hundred. We'll all be dead, but All Angels would still be there. Can't you just leave it, for once!'

He began to speak again, some new piece of drivel, more meaningless even than before. I struggled to make sense of it, but before I could get a sensible answer together somebody else began and the discussion went off on a tangent. Twice more I attempted to put my objections across, and twice more he gave me a piece of spiel before neatly avoiding the real issue. The third time I tried somebody else spoke over me, and inevitably it was his question that got answered. I could see how they thought of me, as some pushy kid full of ideals that didn't work in the real world, their real world. I gave up at that, but determined to speak to Stephen Byrne alone after the meeting. Then at least I would have a chance to say my piece, even if it obviously wasn't going to do me any good at all.

For another half-hour they droned on, not one single
other person questioning the scheme from any but a practical viewpoint. When they finally did finish, the secretary tried to hustle him away, but I had already rolled up to the lectern and short of cutting me dead he had to acknowledge me. I got a bland smile from him, and the secretary was about to make an excuse when the caretaker tapped her on the shoulder. She turned and I had my moment.

‘Look, can't you see that what you're doing is . . . is just pointless. You can have your community hall anywhere, but All Angels is unique. Foyle's rood screen alone is worth more than a thousand faceless community centres, and the pew ends, and . . .'

‘Nevertheless, we must consider these things in the light of modern community needs, particularly with respect to vulnerable minorities such as the differently abled. As I was saying earlier, the All Angels project allows us the possibility of installing state of the art accessibility . . .'

‘Oh please! What, do you think you're going to make me feel guilty? If you want your “state of the art accessibility”, build new, and you can do just as you like!'

‘Unfortunately the prioritisation for brown-field sites does not allow for special projects. The ministry directive . . .'

‘So you're going to tear the heart out of All Angels because of some here-today-gone-tomorrow government directive? Hang on, does “state of the art accessibility” mean you're going to tear the floor up? You are, aren't you?'

‘Well, yes, but surely the floor is of no particular importance?'

‘Of no importance? Don't you realise you'll be
committing desecration? The first priest of All Angels, Father James O'Donnell . . . he had his heart buried somewhere beneath that floor!'

‘Er . . . how unusual.'

‘Yes, very unusual, unique even, like the rest of it, and you want to turn it into some soulless box. Isn't there anything I can say that will make you see common sense, just for once?'

He began to reply, another torrent of bollocks-speak, then caught himself. For a moment his eyes flicked to my chest, and lower, then back to my face. When he spoke again his tone was very different, more human.

‘Well, I can see you feel very strongly on this issue, Angela.'

‘I do.'

‘In the circumstances then I'd be happy to talk it over in detail, at the very least explain the good points of the project. You can make your own points, and who knows, you might just convince me. Perhaps I could buy you dinner?'

He was making a move on me, and it took a moment for the sheer cheek of it to sink in. It was outrageous, but I had to go. More likely than not he was just going to string me along in the hope of getting into my pants, but two can play at that game.

‘I'd love to, thank you.'

I gave him a little coy glance, sure that he would have an image of me as vulnerable, naïve and more than a little ditsy building up in his head. That was just how I wanted it, for the time being. Later on he would learn otherwise. I took the card he was offering me and gave him a shy smile as he helped me up from the chair.

‘Write your number on the back.'

‘I don't have a phone. I'll call.'

Rather than wait for the obvious question as to why I was the only person in the known universe, or East London anyway, not to have a mobile phone, I skated off, spinning as I reached the door. It was just fast enough to make my skirt lift and give him the briefest flash of stocking tops and sheer black knickers, and he was staring openly as I gave him a little wave, and left.

He thought he had me, or was going to, but I already had him, well and good. That was if I wanted him, but it was my choice, no question. It was impossible to keep the smile from my face as I skated back to All Angels, my mind full of the possibilities raised by the last few hours. It had been quite an afternoon. I'd shown two men my breasts, one intentionally, one not. Both were good looking even if one was a suit, and both wanted to see me again.

I could play it any way I wanted, have one, have both, have neither. Stephen I wasn't sure about. I liked the game, which had an edge of danger, but he was just about old enough to be my dad. Michael I wanted, if only to break his cool and have him begging me for release. If he was still at All Angels I was going to do it too, because I was right in the mood.

He wasn't; there was only Lilitu dozing in the shade of the sycamores, which made me more determined than ever. I'd run off, sure, but it was outrageous that he hadn't bothered to wait. The idea of him lurking among the tombs, crazed with lust, really appealed, but I knew he wasn't or Lilitu would have known. It was a nice idea anyway, and it stuck in my head as I went inside to take my blades off.

I could have come to him, cool and in control, just as he had been in the church. He would have lost his
patience, deciding to masturbate over what might have been, in among the yews and sycamores behind the church, his cock thick and hard in his hand. I wouldn't have spoken, but watched from close by, as silent as the wraith he had seen in me when I posed. He'd have been aching with frustrated lust, his eyes closed, picturing me in his mind, naked for him. I would have come forward, to take him in my hand, quite silent, never speaking as I eased him down to the dank earth, my mind heavy with the touch of the souls around me, mounted him, slid him into me . . .

It was going to be me taking out my own frustrated lust on myself if I wasn't careful, and there was a wry smile on my face as I fixed sweet coffee and toast, the first thing I'd had since the morning. I had turned Michael on, obviously, for all his cool, and Stephen too. Both would be thinking of me, I was sure, imagining what might have been, and what might still be. Stephen's fantasies I was sure would be quite plain, straight sex with him on top, maybe a little bondage or something else mildly kinky. Michael had imagination, and would want something dark, maybe with me in restraint, or something ritual, even a little vampirism, inspired by the fanged image on the rood screen.

The thought of expressing myself as Isaac Foyle's lust to Michael was just too much. Foyle would be shocked, but I could commune later for atonement. For now I needed my head filled with thoughts of a live, hot-blooded man, and to come as he burned in my mind. By the time my coffee mug was empty I knew I had to do it. Nobody was going to catch me, not with Lilitu on guard, and I pulled my skirt up as I sank to the floor, kneeling, my knees wide apart, imagining myself on top of Michael, beneath the rood screen,
about to feed him inside me. I lifted my top, freeing my breasts to the air, my necklaces suddenly cool against my skin, my nipples hard and sensitive as my fingers found them.

I closed my eyes as I began to masturbate, stroking myself as my mind wandered. We'd come so close to sex, maybe right there on the floor of the church, surrounded by the spirits of the dead as we fucked, joined together in life. Or we could have done it on a tomb, taunting one of the Victorian worthies buried within the church, their anger and lust and envy bringing us up to ecstasy. Michael would feel it, I was sure. He'd seen me as a wraith, an ethereal being, rising from death; he had to understand.

To come over the way he had seen me was what I truly needed, and I pictured myself, as I could have been, pulling out from the face of lust, to greet his fear with an insubstantial kiss. I'd grow firmer, feeding on his energy, my sharp little teeth on his skin, pricking it as I gained substance. He'd be lost, helpless in my arms, as we sank to the floor, his body beneath mine, me drawing up his power, preparing to draw out his seed also as I slipped his penis free and into my now substantial body.

My panties came aside and I pushed my fingers into myself easily, imagining them as his cock. They went to my mouth, and back, the fantasy now burning in my head. It felt good, wonderful, just right for me, mounted on him, the salt taste of his skin in my mouth, him inside me, me draining him. I began to rub harder, squirming my hips against my hand, wishing he was really inside me, his body given over to my pleasure completely, mine to take.

I came, my body tightening as I cried out in ecstasy,
and at the last moment it wasn't Michael Merrick in my head, but Stephen Byrne beneath me, terrified yet utterly enraptured as I fed on his neck and drew his come into my body.

TWO MEN, AND
very different. The question was, which first? Michael fascinated me, but he seemed the type to lose interest if I was too eager. With Stephen it was all a bit embarrassing because he was so much older, but there was no use denying my own interest, not after the way he had popped into my head just as I was enjoying my orgasm. Stephen's plans for All Angels decided me.