Cuckoo

  CONTENTS

  Title

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Stalking

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Dedication and Acknowledgements

  The Flesh Market

  Craven Place

  Thy Fearful Symmetry

  Cuckoo

  By Richard Wright

  Previously published 1999 by Hard Shell Word Factory, and 2002 by Razorblade Press.

  Copyright © Richard Wright 2015

  Cover design by snowangels.org

  All Rights Reserved.

  CHAPTER ONE

  PERSPICACITY

  Black clouds of nothing slowly evaporate. His mind is clearing. Bright, stabbing lights of consciousness pierce and illuminate. There is awareness. With awareness comes hell.

  Burning? He cannot feel his skin. It is there, he knows, yet he has no experience of it. Awareness and nothing more, not yet. This is very much worse than pain, for now there is anticipation. He knows what his body is suffering, knows too that before very long he will have to step without this place where his mind hides, this haven of absent sensation. Content in his protective shell, he wishes only that the awareness would go away.

  Awareness of stripping, searing and scalding. Awareness of pain without physical confirmation. An abstract section of his mind decides that this is good, for if he truly felt the pain he would be mad, dead even. Is this not the preferable position to be in? Not mad? Not dead?

  But now he can appreciate in an abstract fashion the agonies being heaped upon his body. First the burning. Unsure at which point during the process he has awakened, he is still dimly aware that he is in a much worse condition than the first stage. So perhaps the initial burning has been and gone, and he is beyond the point where his skin reddens.

  Lobsters. He remembers a restaurant where there had been lobsters. Picking one, blue and living, from a tank, he had joked in bad taste, praying that she was not a vegetarian. She had laughed. She had laughed again when it came back red. Scalded. Had his mind fled back to when he was six, when he too had been scalded? Just his arm, a spilt cup of coffee, but it had hurt. It had hurt for a long time.

  He wonders now what it will be like to be scalded until he is dead.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SCALDED LOBSTER

  She gave an inane giggle and he knew he finally had her. A panicked thought had cavorted through his head when he selected his lobster, making the I’ve-got-the-hots-for-you comedy gambit as he did. After all, she had yet to order. Perhaps she was vegetarian. Or vegan. Or whatever the hell you were that forbade you to eat lobster. He held such Templars of Virtue in utter contempt. When asked his own views on vegetarianism he fell back on the Omnivorous Justification.

  “Aren’t we descended from a line of omnivores? Even chimpanzees hunt for meat every now and then. Need it to supplement their vegetarian intake or they wither and die. Now either God or Evolution, depending on your outlook on universal design, organised things that way. I can’t see why we should thwart the grand plan.”

  In truth he simply had a sneaking suspicion that vegetarians were weaker than he was. Something suffered and bled to fill your plate? So be it. He was a modern man, and fine with that.

  Fortunately she had laughed. A little too hard, in fact. Those pre-dinner drinks (and she certainly could drink) had not been wasted. Now she was attempting to look deeply into his eyes from across the smooth oak table, valiantly battling an alcohol inspired stupor to do so. Awarding her full marks for effort, he swivelled round to see if his meal was any closer to arriving. A sudden contact with his groin caused him to jerk back with a sharp intake of breath. Her foot had made a too solid and unsubtle connection with his crotch, and while he appreciated the sentiment her bodily coordination left something to be desired.

  A pity, but she would still serve.

  If she managed to get through dinner. Perhaps he had been a little too generous with the pre-dinner refreshments. Now he had to get her from the restaurant to the hotel while she still clung to the last useful relics of consciousness, which meant denying her further alcohol without wrecking her ego. Tricky, for the third bottle of wine was still half full.

  Fortunately he had a plan. He would beat her to it, and feel better about the whole infidelity issue into the bargain.

  He had, of course, spent many hours rationalising his affair away. Often elaborate and unlikely, these justifications did little to ease his guilt, existing only to give him a mental framework in which to operate, a series of patterns he could follow that felt less random than the callous truth. For example, it was not that he had no love for his wife, but that he happened to love Georgina as well. What gave society the right to choose which was the more valid of the two? Was he not doing the better thing by both of them? After all, his wife remained blissfully unaware of the situation, therefore had no cause to suffer. Georgina seemed perfectly content with her role as mistress, so must be happy with her own position in the scheme of things. It was simple and fair.

  There were others reasonings as well. Amongst his favourites was the supposition that he was actually doing this for the sake of his marriage. Depression had recently scored serious marks in the serenity of his home. Office problems, most notably the complete inability of his employer to recognise his contribution to the smooth running of the operation, had taken a heavy toll on his relationship. It preoccupied him continually. Was it his fault that no one appreciated his efforts?

  No, said his wife, of course not. Jennifer was a good woman, but in the end she had proven ineffectual. She had made efforts, there could be no question of that. Affection, a shoulder to cry on, an ear to rant in.

  It had not been enough.

  Since the outset of the affair however, things had taken a marked swing for the better. His confidence returned and his home life grew more tolerable. You see, he would say to himself, I knew what I was doing all along.

  Baited by this self-satisfaction, his cynicism often pointed out that he had been involved in a one-night stand that had grown out of control with unpredictable speed. Dismissal was his usual response to this, though he knew it to be the utter truth. Depressed by the hard facts of his life, he had been flattered by Georgina’s evident interest. It was as cold and simple as that.

  So when she made that first pass at him three months ago his ego said yes. The real Gregory had naturally baulked at the idea. The real Gregory had gone back to his nice semi-detached home in Wimbledon, sat down for dinner with his adoring wife, then taken her upstairs to make loving love to her in their pastel blue bedroom. His ego, on the other hand, had taken Georgina out to a parking lot and fucked her hard against a wall. Approving of this second scenario, his body had stayed to join in.<
br />
  So while the real Gregory had been hypothetically nuzzling his wife in the comfort of his home, his ego and body had occupied themselves elsewhere. Was that his fault? No, answered his conscience, of course not. Nor will it be so the next time. Or the time after that. Or the many times after that when you flatter your ego in quiet car parks.

  In an elaborate effort to salvage a moral position his conscience had opted to fall in love with his slut. This was, to his rational mind, patently ridiculous. He hardly knew her (unless he were allowed to include practical attributes such as the five points on the back of her shoulder and neck that made her gasp and cry). Questions relating to her favourite colour, or songs which made her nostalgic, or even whether she had ever felt a wild urge to run in the rain, would all have drawn a blank.

  Of his wife Jennifer he could answer all of these questions. Red, Sympathy For The Devil, and yes, respectively. He was definitely in love with Jennifer. He must be, because he was married to her.

  Puzzling this state of affairs, his conscience had decided that things were amiss. If he were not in love with Georgina then the affair defined him as a fundamentally bad person. Yet how could he claim to be in love with a woman who he knew so little about? Hence this Friday evening, this restaurant, and that lobster. The occasion had been a long time coming; nearly a full three months filled with London car parks, drives to the country, and hurried encounters at her flat. But he was finally doing it. Sort of.

  Enthusiasm was hardly the problem. He had leaped at the opportunity to establish a retrospective justification for three months of lustful infidelity. For her part, Georgina had been delighted at the idea of dinner at a nice restaurant. Viewed from her perspective she had now become more than an outlet for his sex drive. She had become a romantic outlet for his sex drive. It was, to her, love’s young dream.

  Would that he were so young, he thought, glancing desperately at one of the Italian waiters. Thirty-two to her twenty-one. Superficially, this did not seem a big gap, but he had allowed himself to dwell on it too long. She would have been seven when he was eighteen, schoolyard skipping while he was having clumsy sex in the back of cars. It made him feel like a paedophile.

  No relief was due from the waiter, who seemed happy allowing his customers to endure the discomfort of forced conversation. Greg would have to continue battling his way through the problems that had manifested as he and George talked. Differing interests. He tried to recall when he had stopped paying attention to music. She had discussed too many bands as he nodded away his ignorance with attempted interest. Her favourite colour had been black, her favourite song was something from some TV talent contest, and she had already run wildly through the rain. Naked. At a festival. He was out of his depth.

  Fortunately she had wasted no time in getting drunk, knocking some of the rough edges from the shape of the evening ahead. Smile lots, enjoy the food, go back to the hotel, and finally talk in a language they both understood.

  But, pricked his conscience, only because you are in love with her. It is terribly important to remember that you are in love with her.

  Deciding to have stern words with his subconscious later on, he put the traitor thought to the back of his head. Casting his eyes over the vision sitting opposite him was enough to divert him from all such cynicism. Her own eyes flicked drunkenly over his shoulder as the red-shirted waiter arrived with the lobster.

  Which had been blue.

  Which had been living.

  Things began to go wrong then, without warning. Unfamiliar pressures took root beneath his ribs, building like a breath held too long. His chest jerked in shallow, spasmodic little bursts as it tried to alleviate the phantom forces accumulating there. Shunting his efforts aside, the pain refused to ease. An urge to howl built in him as the swollen nothing shot upwards from torso to head, gagging him as it slammed past his larynx.

  Then his mind jumped, and the world followed.

  Staring up at the table, little Greg listened to the voice of his mother drift in from the hallway as she answered the telephone. She sounded upset.

  The mind of a six-year-old is not the most sophisticated machine on the planet. Many things were happening that Greg had no way of understanding. He had yet to grasp the concept of death, so would not have understood that his mother was being told of the tragic demise of her sister. In fact, being an only child, he had only the most cursory understanding of what a sister actually was.

  What the unsophisticated six-year-old mind has no difficulty understanding is the concept of upset. Greg was often upset. When he fell and grazed his knee he got upset. When he got separated from his mother at the park, he got upset. When he was not allowed to stay up late he got especially upset. His mother had always tried to make things better for him at those times. He wanted to make her feel better too.

  Gregory did not know that caffeine is an addictive, mood-altering drug. All he knew was that whenever his mother was upset, even if only a little bit, she drank a cup of hot coffee. Like the one sitting on the table. It was a black, sour-tasting substance, which he knew because his mother had once let him try some from the bottom of her cup. Though secretly revolted by the flavour he had pretended to like it because he understood that this was a grown-up drink, and he had desperately wanted to be a grown-up. He was trying to be grown-up then, by making his mother feel better.

  Reaching up, he curled his tiny fingers around the handle of the cup, pulling it towards him. It offered no resistance.

  A howl went up, terror and surprise splitting the air as freshly boiled coffee burned into his skin. He would never know the fear that hammered through his mother at that moment. He would never understand how scared she was, death being so close to her thoughts. All he knew was that on the day his mother had been upset he had hurt himself trying to help. In return she had bent him over and slapped him for fifteen minutes, releasing tears to match his own with every blow delivered. Perhaps his head would someday understand why this had happened so, but his heart never would.

  And his mind jumped back. Georgina was laughing, and he knew he looked awful. Lasting no more than thirty seconds, his daydream had left him clammy and white. The waiter’s face confirmed how decidedly unwell he looked. The bright red lobster, which he had been staring down at, gazed back at him with mournful eyes. Sitting there, wondering whether vegetarianism might not be underrated after all, he heard Georgina’s voice float through her giggles.

  “I’m glad we did this, babe. I think we’re really starting to get to know each other, you know?”

  To Greg’s relief, his plan proceeded smoothly after that. Georgina had been given the opportunity to drink less than a glass of the remaining wine, and he had got himself good and drunk. Putting the episode in the restaurant down to a cocktail of nerves and the alcohol already consumed, he had succeeded in keeping his mistress entertained throughout the meal, even managing to eat most of the damned lobster. On calling for the bill he was delighted to find the cost of the evening to be very reasonable.

  Leaving his car outside the restaurant - in two days he would be furious to find a parking ticket awaiting his return - he had hailed a cab to take them to the hotel. Very sensible. Very mid-thirties. Was this the man who had once driven from Cardiff to London under the influence of a bottle of Jim Beam? Why did he feel so old with her? Middle age was a long way from turning its shrivelled gaze in his direction. When she wasn’t around he felt barely grown-up.

  He instantly regretted his choice of words, for they heralded the Return of the Scalded Lobster and the Childhood Burn. It sounded like some cheap B-movie, the type he and Jennifer so enjoyed curling up in front of together.

  Deciding not to think of his childhood, lobsters, and especially not Jennifer, Greg searched for something else to occupy him. Glancing at Georgina, he saw that the vibrations of the taxi had sent her to sleep. Not a problem, he would correct that at the hotel. A good thought. Relaxing slightly, he wallowed in the prospect of the evening before him. Golden
curls reaching down to her waist. Muscular legs. Small and delicate breasts. An almost constant pout. Georgina was a striking woman. Better, she was his striking woman, at least until morning.

  Upon reaching the Ramkin Hotel he bestowed a generous tip on the driver, who drove away happier than he had arrived. Greg felt fine, having done a worthy thing. Some of his good fortune had been shared and life was dandy.

  Opening the building’s glass doors for Georgina, he paid close attention to her reactions. The hotel was not, in the strictest sense, extravagant. Being forced to pay in cash, for Jennifer was a stickler for checking over credit card and bank statements, he had been unable to afford the luxury he wanted. It was still a nice place though, and he hoped that Georgina would be suitably impressed.

  His hopes were consolidated. She was delighted in an inebriated sort of way. Her mouth hung open, her eyes telling stories of fairy princesses whisked away by shining knights. Liking himself in that role, he marched over the smart red of the carpet. Drunk as he was, he fancied himself an impressive figure as he approached the reception. Despite his unimposing height he was far from unfit, and Jennifer was always reassuring him that he possessed a convincing charisma. Directing a powerful gaze at the receptionist, he declared his arrival.

  “Johnson. Mr and Mrs.” An alias for the evening, paranoia being ever at his heels. He was quite proud of the clarity of speech he managed. Gregory Summers was a man who could hold his liquor.

  “I’m sorry sir, but we don’t have a booking under that name.”

  Greg’s mind took some moments to catch up with this announcement. Things had begun to go wrong again. “But…but I booked it this afternoon. In person.”

  From the look plastered across the face of the young man, Greg’s clarity of speech had all but vanished. Salvaging what remained of his dignity, he tried again. The response he received was curt and to the point.