A Dark Beginning: A China Dark Novel

A Dark Beginning

By Paula Hawkes

Copyright © 2015 by Paula Hawkes

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the author

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

First Printing, 2015

www.paula-hawkes.com

15:01: HornEnvy : are we still on??

15:01: Tarb4u : you tell me

15:04: Tarb4u : well???

15:05: HornEnvy : yes

15:05: Tarb4u : what time will she finish

15:05: HornEnvy : should be about 5

15:06: Tarb4u : let me know what she'll be wearing

15:07: HornEnvy : ok

15:07: Tarb4u : you *are* up for this aren't you??

15:10: Tarb4u : ????

15:11: HornEnvy : yes.... of course

15:11: Tarb4u : and she has no idea?

15:11: HornEnvy : lol... no

15:11: Tarb4u : don't worry, if anyone can get her I can

15:15: HornEnvy : I hope so ;)

The pretty young woman ran down the street as fast as her tight denim mini skirt would allow, an elated smile on her face, clutching the portfolio to her trim body. She broke into spontaneous laughter, feeling like a teenager again in the warm, early afternoon sun. When she got to the café she was in such a dreamy state that she barely heard the waiter ask her what she wanted to order. After he asked for a second time, or it could have been a third, she shook her shoulder-length blonde bangs and managed to pull herself together just long enough to request a black coffee. She very cautiously placed the portfolio on the table, first checking to make sure that the surface was scrupulously clean, with no sticky cup circles, no sugary residue, no biscuit or sandwich crumbs, or any sign of grease on the clear glass surface. She didn’t want to blemish even the surface of the folder, let alone the contents. It was so precious, her very first modelling portfolio.

The photographer had captured her perfectly, her very essence sang out of the black and white prints. For the first time in her life, for those glorious moments when she looked at the resulting images, it was possible to believe that she just might be beautiful. She used her fingertips only on the edges of the prints as she studied them, treating them like the most precious of antique manuscripts. She didn’t know much about photography, or art, but was quite capable of recognizing the beauty of the images before her. Undoubtedly it was the fact that she was the subject matter captured so elegantly in a stunning abstract chiaroscuro of greys, blacks and whites, which served to make these images even more wondrous to her. Her fingers hovered over the top image in front of her, almost but not quite stroking the matte smooth surface of the high quality photographic paper.

She had never seen her body this way before, artistic sweeps and curves, shallow valleys of shadow and smooth transitions to highlighted peaks of silky light flesh. He had not used any flashguns during the session, utilising just the light from the window behind the bed upon which she had posed, with the harsh noonday sun softened by net curtains and reflected around the room by the plain white walls. She wondered for a moment if this was how the punters saw her when she was gyrating on stage, wrapped around the chrome pole. She hoped so. It would be so much nicer, she thought, if they discovered some ethereal beauty alongside the sordid voyeuristic pleasures they actually came for.

“You like them then, Zilda?” The sudden intrusion of his deep voice made her jump. She looked up, delighted to see him.

“They are wonderful. You have made me look beautiful,” she said.

“That wasn’t very hard,” he said. It was a corny thing to say, she knew, but it still broadened her smile. He sat down next to her. “They didn’t even need any touching up before I printed them. Have you ordered?”

“Yes. I think so,” she laughed, and looked over to try and catch the eye of the waiter who was now behind the counter preparing her coffee.

“It doesn’t matter. I just wanted to make sure you were happy with the pictures. You left so quickly.”

“I didn’t know what to say. You might think me silly, but I thought I might cry when I saw them.” She felt the sudden pressure of tears again as she experienced the sheer joy of seeing herself as an object of art.

“Not at all. That’s the greatest compliment you could ever pay me.” He reached out and laid his hand over hers. She loved the warmth of his touch. Absent-mindedly she used her thumb to spin her wedding and engagement rings around her finger. She looked up and saw that the waiter was looking over now, watching them closely. She motioned towards her friend and held two fingers up, hoping the waiter would interpret that correctly as her needing two coffees instead of just one.

“I can’t wait for Alexandru to see them.”

“Are you sure he won’t mind?”

“Of course not. Let’s face it, hundreds of men see a lot more of me than this,” she said gesturing towards the picture in front of her.

“Maybe, but I have seen rather more of you than he might be comfortable with.”

She blushed, thinking back to their torrid encounter before the pictures were taken. That unscheduled activity had definitely put her in the right mood, and was probably contributory to the comfortable way in which she had posed for him. “He doesn’t need to know about that now, does he? These pictures are a present for him, so he’d better be grateful.” Her laugh was bright and loud.

The two coffees were placed in front of them and she realized that the waiter had returned to the table. She looked up embarrassed hoping that he hadn’t heard what they had been talking about. Not that he knew either her or her husband, so there was no real worry of exposure, just a distant twinge of guilt. She didn’t want anyone to know what her and Mark had been up to that lunchtime. That was her sweetly awkward secret and a special moment just for her own mind’s scrapbook.

Mark continued to touch her hand with his, gently stroking her soft skin, even as he raised his other to drink the coffee. It felt good but she pulled her hand away anyway, knowing that she didn’t want to tempt fate any further. Their sex was an exquisite one-off, and she didn’t want to sink in any deeper emotionally. It would be a nice memory, but that’s all that it would remain. She certainly didn’t want to have an extended affair, lovely though Mark was. She loved her husband too much for that. This afternoon she would go home to Alexandru, show him his birthday present, and then she would get ready for an evening of work. Business as usual. Her life was good at the moment, much better than it had been back in Romania. Money was plentiful, it was why they had come over, and in a few years time they would be able to afford to return home and buy a small flat somewhere nice. They had always wanted children and her work was going a long way towards helping that dream come true sooner rather than later.

They chatted for a while, exchanging pleasantries and both skilfully avoiding any further reference to their earlier transgression. She found that she was actually quite relieved when Mark finally stood up to leave, although she affectionately kissed him on the cheek and gave him a brief but hard hug. He looked a little disappointed, which she was rather pleased about. After all, she didn’t want to be that easy to move on from, but overall she was happy that this was over and she had successfully organised her husband’s birthday present.

After Mark left she stayed at the café and finished her coffee, happily browsing the prints in the folder. Without thinking, she rotated the rings on her hand around again, straightening them carefully, to perfectly position the small diamond on the top of her finger.

***

The first body was found too late that day to make the evening papers, but would provide much ghoulish delight for readers on their commute the following morning.

As the tube train rattled noisily along, China Dark reread the first paragraph of her book several times before she realized that she would get no peace. Rather than submit too easily to Philip’s ramblings she continued to stare fixedly at her Kindle, a thin smile of resignation developing. Her husband’s all too familiar voice continued, punctuated by snorts of laughter as he found one aspect or another of his own story particularly amusing.

She zoned out, a useful habit when living with Philip. It was becoming increasingly irritating that she still could not draw her focus back to her book. There was something else distracting her besides her husband’s stories, something she couldn’t quite grasp, a subliminal disturbance that wouldn’t shift. A tiny shiver ran down the back of her neck. Her mother would have told her that a ‘Goose was crossing her grave’, but then her mother said a lot of things that didn’t make sense. She looked up. Philip didn’t notice her wandering attention, as he was too keen on seeing if he had a wider audience for his narration. She glanced quickly around the crowded carriage, scanning for any possible source for this discomfort.

The first, and in fact only thing she noticed about him were his eyes. Silver flints in bright green glinted intensely from beneath long dark lashes. At first she glanced away, embarrassed at this forthright and unabashed stare, but then she felt an almost physical heat from his constant gaze, a tingle on the side of her neck that crawled like a thousand insect legs up across her face and scalp as she started to blush. She looked back, knowing he was still locked onto her, and then she was truly lost. Head slightly dipped, she returned his look from behind the wisps of her fringe, her mind racing. Her thoughts could not escape such sharp intensity, and in her confusion she felt a thrill, a hot excitement that made her whole body hot and tense with nervous energy.

Philip continued to talk about his day at work, oblivious to the turmoil of emotions and passion coursing through his wife beside him. The usual episodes of office politics and mindless practical jokes played upon his colleagues were recounted with well-rehearsed wit. He hadn’t noticed her lack of attention, not surprising as his performance to anyone within earshot on the crowded Northern Line underground train was in full flow. His voice droned on, a background hum in her ears, distantly lost in muddy confusion and thick fog.

His silver and jade eyes, unblinking, held her in suspense, freezing time and creating an insulated pocket in the world inhabited only by the two of them. She couldn’t think, she could only experience sinking into those emerald seas.

She was only distantly aware of being pulled to her feet, and suddenly the spell was broken. “Our stop, dreamy!” her husband announced, grinning as he tugged at her elbow. She felt as if she was just waking up from a deep sleep, a warm blanket of dreams, and was struggling to fully grasp harsh, cold reality.

They pushed through the packed passengers towards the exit of the train. Her concentration was split between desperately trying to pay attention to what her husband was saying, and the hypnotic grasp of the stranger’s eyes. This struggle was intensified as she realised with increasing panic that they were moving slowly towards where he was standing. As they pushed passed him she felt an electric shock of pleasure from the sudden contact. This close up, she could see the silver, blue and hazel flecks that splashed each emerald cornea, and the deep blackness of the iris, the perfect whites. His eyelashes were dark and luxuriant, almost feminine, adding a beauty to the jewels they framed. She felt his hand on her side, near her jacket pocket, and that fulcrum of contact centred her world for a brief but blissful moment.

Then she was out. Out of the train and swept along by the crowd, herded by her husband towards the exit. Funnels of hot air blasted along the platform as the tube train left the station. She felt a strange loss unlike anything she had ever experienced before. Her heart was hammering in her chest so hard it felt as if her whole body might shatter.

Later that evening when China was home all she could think about was those eyes. She had drifted through the evening like a boat unmoored in a storm, tossed about on slow, heavy waves. The evening meal had been prepared and eaten on autopilot, but her husband hadn’t noticed anything wrong. When she had retired to the bedroom just a moment ago, he hadn’t even looked away from the television, just murmured, “I’ll be up after this film.” She had no idea what that film was, despite having been sat in front of the television set beside Philip for the last hour, and she had said nothing in reply.

She sat on the bed in the near dark, and shook her head, trying to clear the murky confusion from her mind. She was annoyed with herself for acting like an infatuated schoolgirl. She couldn’t remember what he had really looked like, she wasn’t even sure if she had seen any of his features other than his eyes. She knew he was tall as she remembered she had to look up at him as she was dragged past. But was he dark or blonde? She thought dark, from his coal black lashes. Handsome or ugly? She suspected she knew which of these but frustratingly could recall no real detail. All she could remember was the intensity of his stare and the cold, bejewelled beauty of his eyes. When they had touched as she had moved past him, she had felt as if a jolt of electric current had travelled from the point of their contact and through her whole body. And when he had placed a hand on her side, near her waist, she wanted more than anything for that hand to slip around her back and pull her hard into him. Startled out of her reverie by the embarrassment of this last thought, she stood up abruptly.

She moved over to the wardrobe and sought out the Burgundy jacket she had been wearing. Why hadn’t she checked before? She had been in a dream. He could have easily taken the spare house keys that she always kept in her jacket pocket. She pushed her hand deep into the pocket, and felt relief when her fingers made contact with the cold metal of the key ring. But then the backs of her fingers scraped against something thin and sharp. Pulling the offending object out, she saw that it was a small card. A business card. Her heartbeat accelerated and she felt a sudden surge of pleasure and a dark stab of fear.  She couldn’t read the card in the dim light from the hallway spilling into the bedroom, so she walked quickly over to the bedside table and switched on the lamp.

She almost couldn’t bear to look at the writing on the card. She dreaded the disappointment that it might just be an old business card she had forgotten was in her pocket. And yet, she would also be relieved if it was. Then she would be able to shake these stupid feelings and get on with her life. Forget his eyes. But she knew she could never forget. Those rich malachite eyes would be lodged in her mind forever. Her brain was caught in a whirlwind of paradoxical urges.

The card was almost bare, simply designed with minimal information. On virginal white cardboard it identified its owner as Mark, no surname, a ‘Freelance Photographer’. More importantly, and the thing she most feared, it also held his mobile phone number and an e-mail address. She knew that she mustn’t use either of these contact details.

Her mind railed at the unfaithfulness of even thinking about contact with this man who in the last few hours had so dominated her thoughts. But her body was actually shaking, and she could not ignore its demands. Her breath was tight in her chest and she felt light-headed, almost faint. She sat on the edge of the bed and turned the card over with her fingers without looking at it. The soft skin on the side of her thumb ran over the face of the card, feeling the delicate tracery of the card fibres, the raised edges of the simple embossed sans-serif text. She knew she should throw the card away, but it seemed magnetised to her fingers. As she softly traced its contours, her other hand moved unconsciously up to her left breast and held it, before slowly and delicately dragging her sharp nails across the surface of her blouse where her nipple pressed through. Her breath caught in her throat and came out as a whimper. Very lightly, almost not touching, she teased her nipple through the silky material of her blouse and bra, using just the very tip of her nails. Each feather light touch ran like lightening from her nipple down her body to the increasing dampness between her legs. All she could see were his forest green eyes, all she could hear was her own haphazard breathing, and all she could feel were tiny lightening strikes joining her nipple to the warm tingling low down in her abdomen. Her body was so sensitive she knew that even the act of undressing, clothes brushing against her taut skin, would bring her to a premature peak of ecstasy. So she sat there, head tilted back, one hand absent-mindedly stroking the card, the other tracing her left nipple, until mere seconds later she shuddered uncontrollably. She sobbed and lay back on the bed holding the card tightly and with an overwhelming feeling of shame, red-hot tears coursing down her face.

By the time her husband came up she was curled into a tight foetal ball, far over on her side of the bed, pretending to be asleep. Her mind was racing, arguing with her heart over what to do. The card was safely tucked away in her purse, as tempting and frightening as an illegal drug.

When her husband slipped in beside her and made his usual clumsy attempts at sexual advances she continued to fake sleep. They had been together nearly ten years, and in the last year or so sex had lost a lot of its magic and she had found that feigned sleep was the most diplomatic and least hurtful rejection method. Their once-a-month sessions, which she rationed secretly, were not unpleasant but she didn’t look forward to them either. The loss of her sex drive had resulted in some embarrassing moments but had not yet caused actual confrontation between them. This made that day’s feelings even more strange and confusing to her. But then maybe it was exactly that recent lack of fundamental sexual impulse, that self-imposed abstinence, which had focused today’s emotions so sharply. Maybe her body was just releasing pent up feelings and had chosen any convenient target. This man’s eyes, beautiful as they were, just provided a trigger for a much needed biological venting. That being true, she could now get on with the rest of her life as if nothing had happened.

She fell into a disturbed sleep, and dreamt uncomfortably of eyes, and strength, and relinquishing control. She woke numerous times sweating but cold, extraordinary frustration pressing her wrist hard between her legs, while her husband snored beside her.

China woke in the muted colours of dawn with a need so urgent that she immediately leapt out of bed. Philip slumbered undisturbed, as it was still an hour before their alarm would go off. Nothing much short of nuclear catastrophe could wake Philip before his allotted time. As the hot needles of the shower scourged her body of guilt and washed away the previous night’s deadly sin, she started to calm down ready to drift into the day.