Forward Slash (21 page)

I spend a good hour browsing, replying to messages, sending more out. I feel different when I’m on Casexual, in control and powerful. I’m not offering myself to just anybody, I’m choosing the source of my pleasure. Perhaps the risk element inherent in arranging to sleep with a stranger enhances the thrill of it. Although I would never take any risks myself. I am always totally careful. And if they are crude, or terrible spellers, I discount them immediately. It makes me smile that I could have sex with a stranger, but not one who misuses apostrophes.

Just as I’m perusing the Casexual profile of a guy who calls himself TooledUp, there’s a knock at my door. I hastily close my laptop lid and check my appearance in the mirror over the fireplace – I hope it’s not that Damian from downstairs, he’s always hassling me about the sodding recycling, or dropping round to ‘talk about my security’, or whatever. He’s all right, I suppose. Means well.

It’s not Damian, it’s Gary from next door. I’m so relieved I invite him in, opening the door wide and smiling at him. He’s leaning on the side of the doorframe with a goofy grin on his face. He’s pretty cute, actually. Shame I don’t fancy him.

‘Good evening, Miss Coltman,’ he says, inclining his head. ‘And how are we tonight?’

I fan my face with my hand. ‘We are rather warm, thank you, and knackered after a truly awful day at school, but a glass of cold vino and a shower have gone a long way to putting things—’

‘Right,’ he finishes. ‘Any more of that cold vino? Cheeky of me to ask, I know, since I only came round to see if I could get my
Breaking Bad
box set back again – I’ve still got a couple of episodes to go.’

‘Sure thing, I’ve watched it all.’ I usher him in and go to the fridge to pour him a glass of wine. Having company is helping snap me out of my funk, and also pushing back down my increasingly persistent fantasies about threesomes and anonymous sex …

‘How was your day?’

As I hand him the wine, he scowls slightly. ‘Also pretty shit,’ he says. ‘I have to get a new job. My boss is such a twat.’

‘Oh, dear,’ I sympathize, and he spends the next five minutes bitching about her. I find my thoughts drifting back to TooledUp. He looked a bit rough, but Kath would like that. Big muscles, nice smile, lots of tats. A good speller, too, unless he got someone to check his profile for him. And – I find myself growing even hotter – he’s after a threesome. I imagine Kath’s reaction if I set it all up. She’d be like a kid in a sweet shop! What would it be like? Six legs entwined, being kissed by a woman whilst being fucked by a man … four hands running over my body instead of two … Kath’s smooth creamy skin and red hair in my face, watching TooledUp pounding into her right next to me … I’m not gay, but I can’t deny it’s a huge turn-on. I could definitely kiss Kath, if it was a one-off and there was a man there as well …

‘Are you all right, Becky?’ asks Gary, and my eyes open wide.

‘Oh, yes – sorry, Gary, I’m just a bit … tired and emotional. One of my Year Nines topped himself today.’

I feel bad at using Simon as an excuse for being distracted, but Gary is mortified. ‘Becky, I’m so sorry! That’s terrible! Can I do anything to help cheer you up?’

Is it my imagination or did a lustful expression flash across his face? For a moment, I’m tempted, feeling as I am already turned on. But this is Gary-from-next-door. It would be a very bad idea.

‘We could go out for a drink, if you like?’ he suggests shyly.

I smile at him and drain my wineglass. ‘Thanks, Gary, it’s really kind of you, but I think I just need an early night.’

He takes the hint and stands up, awkwardly running his hand through his hair and not making eye contact. ‘OK then. I’m really sorry about your, um, pupil.’

‘Thanks. Sorry I’m being a bit antisocial.’

‘No, don’t worry, that’s fine, sorry for disturbing you.’

Bless him. We seem to have run out of things to apologize to one another for, so I show him back to the door and he leaves. It’s only when I sit back down at the laptop, I notice that the
Breaking Bad
box set is still sitting under my TV. I think about taking it across the hall to Gary’s, then decide against it. Not tonight. Instead, I write TooledUp a little email: ‘Hi! My friend and I think you look great. Fancy meeting up with us?’ My heart in my mouth, I hit Send before I change my mind.

How did I feel when I heard that that slut, Katherine, was indeed dead; that my perfectly executed – if you’ll excuse the pun – plan had worked? Oh, I wasn’t surprised. I rarely make mistakes. I’ve only ever made one, a long time ago, and I got away with that. I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist that delicious bag of drugs. I was pleased, though, satisfied that she was out of the way. Another problem dealt with satisfactorily. It’s one of the things I’m brilliant at, problem-solving.

I was in a good mood that day anyway, so waking up and seeing on the BBC website that the body of a young woman had been found in a house in Herne Hill, apparently from a drugs overdose, was merely the sugary icing on the freshly baked cake.

It was funny, because within a couple of days there was a tribute page to her on Facebook, one of those ghastly displays of fake emotion, all these cretins posting photos of her and leaving ‘heartfelt’ messages about what an amazing person she was and how much she’ll be missed. There were loads of her pupils on there, kids from her school, gushing away about what a wonderful teacher she was, so cool and not like the other boring teachers. Some of the girls who left posts on the page were cute, all these fifteen- and sixteen-year-old girls who wouldn’t know a privacy setting if it bit them on their pert little bottoms. I passed an enjoyable hour looking through their photos. I have an app that searches through Facebook pages looking for pictures of girls in bikinis. It’s very clever – it searches for flesh. It’s amazing how many young girls post provocative pictures of themselves on social networks. They don’t realize that half of them end up on porn sites, or being used as fake profile pictures by phone-sex operators and mail-order brides in Eastern Europe.

Of course, masturbation is only one way of letting off steam online. If I’m in a foul mood, or looking for some light fun, if I want a laugh, I like going onto the pages of cancer kids and leaving comments. You see those pages all the time: ‘My 10-year-old daughter is dying of cancer and her wish is to trend on Twitter. Please RT.’ They all have links to Facebook and Just Giving pages, or sometimes they have blogs on which they record their fight against sickness. I enjoy going on those pages and leaving comments about how ugly they are, or saying things like, ‘Jesus hates you,’ or, ‘You must have sinned in a past life and now you’re paying for it.’ I use one of my many fake profiles to do this. I like going onto forums and starting fights too. Poking liberals and goading them into fury.

Looking through the Facebook photos of young girls in bikinis got me thinking about The One again. Those teens were too young for me. I’m not a Jimmy Savile. I like more mature women. The perfect woman is aged somewhere between 28 and 32. That’s when a woman reaches her sexual peak, when she knows what she’s doing and has the strongest desire. It’s all to do with her oestrogen levels. There’s a myth that men reach their peak at 18, but let me tell you, I am at my best now.

Peaking and primed for The One.

Anyway, news of Katherine’s demise put me into a great mood. I went into the room I needed to prepare for my beloved and got to work. I had moved an iPod dock into the room and I slipped my iPhone into it and put my favourite song on. I sat on the bed and closed my eyes, letting the words and melody envelop me. Do you know that song? Sad Café.
Every day I’m without you hurts a little bit more.
Yes, beautiful, isn’t it? It was Her favourite record; she used to play it all the time. Now, whenever I hear it, it’s like a million tiny baby spiders crawling up my spine.

The room had no windows, so there was no sunlight to spoil the mood, no drapes to close. I set the lights low to create a crepuscular mood, then set about making the bed. I had ordered new linen: lilac silk sheets and an oyster-pink ruffled quilt cover, plump pillows and expensive cushions. Most men have no idea how to put a duvet cover on and it can be like watching someone attempt to stuff a flaccid cock into a condom. But I was well trained and am excellent at it.

I had bought some art for the walls, some tasteful nudes by Helmut Newton and I stopped to admire them. My favourite,
The Legend of Virginity
, was a fabulous shot of a woman being swallowed by a crocodile, her naked legs protruding from the beast’s mouth. Often, that’s what I like to imagine myself doing: swallowing a woman whole, taking her all the way inside me, absorbing her. Two becoming one. It’s a beautiful image.

Dire Straits’ ‘Romeo and Juliet’ came on and I sang along softly as I continued to prepare the room. To make sure the room would look right when the time came, I set up a trestle table in the corner (it took me ages to find the perfect position), then covered it with a red-and-white-checked tablecloth. I set out a pair of wineglasses, then went off to fetch a vase and fill it with water. Into the vase went a single red rose. I pressed my fingertips against a thorn, just enough to draw blood, which I licked from my fingers.

Yes, it was perfect.

Next, I laid some lingerie on the bed – Myla, this time. A white bodysuit, complete with stockings and suspenders. I had a feeling my love would want to dress up for me, would want to be naughty. I had toyed with the idea of buying her a vibrator, but decided I would be enough. I
had
bought a crystal butt plug, however, and had spent hours online searching for the perfect plug, one that would thrill my love and fit her perfectly. This one had cost £250, but it was worth every penny.

I took some handcuffs out of my bag and attached them to the bedstead, one pair on each corner. These were designer items too. Only the best for The One, you know.

Finally, I laid plastic sheeting on the floor.

I stepped back and looked at my handiwork. Perfect. I couldn’t wait to bring her back to my place. We could, I was certain, be so happy together, have such a good time. As long as she showed herself to be the woman I thought she was …

I was tingling all over, sweating with excitement. I was sure that she was going to pass with flying colours. I could feel it beneath my skin, deep in my bones. More than any other before. After all these years of searching, of rejecting and eliminating, I was finally so close to the woman of my dreams.

I went to the computer and sat down. I had bookmarked her website, the one she runs. It’s impressive. A decent little site. How clever she is. Not a tenth as clever as me, but not many people are. And I wasn’t after her for her mind, after all.

What kind of site was it? Oh, a little shopping site for people who are into crafts and all that shit.

It was called Upcycle.com.

Amy took off her helmet as she came through the front door, feeling a crackle of static electricity from her hair. She went straight into the living room, trying and failing to keep the tremor of shock out of her voice as she told Gary:

‘Katherine’s dead. Clive found her lying on the bathroom floor inside their cottage. Massive drugs overdose, they think.’

She knew she had to stay calm, or she would be lost entirely. ‘I’m going to go and try and talk to him, see if I can persuade him to let me look at Katherine’s computer. I just need to sit down and gather my thoughts for a bit first. I’ll make us some coffee.’

Gary looked shocked too: queasy, and white as a sheet. He was sitting on Amy’s sofa in his boxer shorts and nothing else, his hands dangling uselessly between his legs. On her ride back from the police station, Amy had almost forgotten he was still here. Boris sat on the floor at his feet, a doleful expression on his sweet face.

‘This is terrible,’ Gary said in a bemused voice. ‘
Terrible
. Do you think Becky was doing drugs too?’

Amy took a deep breath. ‘No, not for a moment. She hated drugs. But I think what you’re really saying is, do I think Becky’s dead somewhere too?’ She took another breath, gathering her courage. ‘Well, yes, maybe I do. I told the police about Fraser and they’re going to talk to him. In fact, they knew about him already. They wouldn’t tell me explicitly but it seems clear they think it was him who gave or sold Katherine the drugs that killed her.’

Strangely, after her panic attack in the cab the previous night and even in her current state of shock, there was a part of Amy that felt stronger than before. The news of Katherine’s death had horrified her, but perhaps it might yet help find Becky.

Amy paced the room. ‘I can’t believe that Fraser, obnoxious though he is, had anything to do with Becky’s disappearance. His reaction when he saw Becky’s photo and talked about her – either it was an incredibly sophisticated double-bluff, the kind he didn’t seem capable of, or his only contact with her was, well, the contact he told us about.’

‘I don’t know,’ Gary said. ‘He seemed like a nasty piece of work to me.’

Amy shook her head emphatically. ‘No. I just can’t see it. I’m sure whoever faked Becky’s disappearance is still out there.’

An image came to her: Becky, aged five, playing hide-and-seek so thoroughly that nobody found her for almost two hours. Their mum had eventually discovered her, sobbing quietly at the back of the cobwebby greenhouse, thinking that she wasn’t allowed to come back unless she was found. Amy’s heart clenched.

‘I feel like it’s got to be someone else Becky met through that hook-up site – probably someone Kath met too. That’s why I need to talk to Clive.’

‘I’ll come with you to see him,’ Gary said, gnawing his thumbnail down to the quick. ‘I’ve taken the day off already. I had some time in lieu owed, and—’

‘No, it’s fine, thanks, Gary,’ Amy said, more forcefully than she’d intended. ‘It’s really kind of you, but—’

‘
It’s really kind of you, but
—’ he mimicked bitterly.