The Immaculate (34 page)

“You'll what?” she purred.

“I'll make you leave.”

She laughed. “Oh, I'm sure you don't want that. Do you? Not really?”

“Yes,” said Jack, “I do. You've no right to come here and behave like this.”

“But I love you, Jack,” she crooned, still smiling, still moving slowly toward him.

The dining table shuddered as Jack backed into it. “No, you don't. You're just making fun of me, playing games. I don't have to take this.”

“I'm
not
playing games, Jack. I love you.” She halted in the middle of the floor, sighed, seemed to come to a decision. Then to Jack's horror—and shameful desire—she began to unbutton her blouse.

“Stop that!”
he shouted. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“I'm all yours, Jack. I want you to know that. I want to give myself to you, to prove my love.”

She took off her blouse and dropped it on the floor. Jack was sweating heavily now, wondering whether he should grab her, propel her bodily from the house. But although his libido had turned traitor, was sending blood rushing to his penis, he felt loath to actually touch her flesh.

He held up both hands, showing her his palms in a halting gesture. “Put that back on,” he said firmly. “This has gone too far. You're making a fool of yourself.”

Her only response was to lift up each leg in turn in order to remove her high-heeled boots, then to unbutton and unzip her jeans. “Oh shit,” he said as she peeled her jeans down her long legs and kicked them off. She was standing now in white bra, white ankle socks and a skimpy pair of white panties with tiny orange spots.

Jack couldn't think what to do. Should he leave the room, call someone? It wasn't as if he could force her to get dressed again; she wasn't a child. He cleared his throat, a staccato sound in the warm room. “Look,” he said in the calmest tone he could muster, “this is getting out of hand. I think you should put your clothes on and go.”

She smiled, reached behind her and took off her bra.

“No!”
Jack cried and stepped toward her, holding out his hand. He halted, confused. What could he do? What
could
he do? The girl's nakedness should have made her vulnerable, reduced her power, but conversely it seemed to have put her into a position of strength. Jack didn't know where to look. Tracey was so stunning, so desirable, that he wanted to feast his eyes on her, but to have done that would have been to pander to her wishes, to fall under her spell. He looked desperately into her eyes, trying not to allow his gaze to fall to her breasts, but even that threatened to be too much. All her love, her adoration—authentic or not—was there. She smiled at him in an almost soporific way, parted her lips, revealing small white teeth, and prodded a tongue that was delicate and pink and gleaming with spittle between them.

Jack was at the door now, but he did not want to leave the room, to leave her alone. She stepped forward, pulled a chair from beneath the dining table, removed her panties and sat down.

“Oh God,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. This was agony. She spoke for the first time in what seemed like minutes, her soft purr lapping his ears, filling the room.

“Why resist me, Jack? I'm beautiful, aren't I?”

“Yes.” He felt choked by his own self-denial. “Yes, you're beautiful, but . . . this isn't right.”

“But I love you,” she said with inexorable logic.

Jack swiped sweat from his face. “But
I
don't love
you,
” he said. “I love someone else.”

“Your other girlfriend?”

“My
only
girlfriend. Yes.”

“But you've got me now. You don't need her anymore. There's no need to feel guilty about that. We'll tell her together if you like.”

“What?” Jack felt as though this entire argument was slipping away from him. “What do you mean? Tell her what?”

“That we're together now, that she's no longer needed.”

Jack glanced at her sharply and then wished he hadn't. His libido flared.

“Look,” he said quietly, firmly, “we're not together. You know that and I know that. We both know also that this is just a game, it isn't real. I have a girlfriend who I love very much and who I'm going to marry. Now what I want you to do is put your clothes on and leave my house. Whatever you're doing this for, it won't work. Do you understand?”

There was no immediate answer, no sound of any kind, and for one absurd moment Jack thought Tracey had seen sense and taken his advice, had got dressed and left, all in the twinkling of an eye. He risked a look to his right, to where he knew she'd been sitting. The twin forks of passion and alarm jabbed hard at him again when he saw that she was still sitting there, still naked but for her white ankle socks. Now, however, there was a peculiar expression on her face, an expression that Jack did not like at all. It made him think of an approaching storm, of black clouds massing on the horizon. Her eyes were hooded, jaw tight, lips pursed. At last, in an icy voice, she said, “Getting married.”

A big red danger signal began flashing in Jack's head. “What?” he said, trying to make his voice strong, authoritative.

She glanced at him so sharply that her breasts wobbled, causing Jack a further pang of longing. “Getting married,” she repeated. “You said you were getting married.”

“That's right,” Jack said, “to my girlfriend.” He didn't point out that he hadn't actually
asked
Gail yet. Maybe the information would be enough to bring Tracey to her senses, make her realise how foolish she had been. His optimism was short-lived. Tracey curled her lips into a snarl and shouted:

“No!”

Jack was so taken aback that he stepped straight into the half-open door, bumping his head. “Pardon?” he exclaimed.

“You can't marry that bitch. You
can't!
” She rose from the chair, the muscles of her body taut now, standing out like an athlete's. Jack would not have believed it possible, but her fury was making her ugly.

“Tell me you won't!”
she screamed. Before Jack could even begin to reply, she repeated, shrieking,
“Tell me!”

“Shit,” Jack muttered. He held up his hands as if pushing a car. “Look,” he said soothingly, “just calm down, okay? You're getting overexcited.”

He wasn't sure if it was his tone that placated her, but Tracey stopped yelling. However, her voice, when she next spoke, was low and dangerous, which wasn't much better.

“Just tell me,” she said. “You can't marry that woman, Jack. Tell me you won't.”

She was glaring at him, her expression a horrifying paradox of intensity and emptiness. It was the look of a fanatic, of one whose mind careered along a single track, out of control.

Jack had no idea how to respond. Weakly he said, “Why?”

She jerked her head, flashed her teeth, as if tearing at the word as it emerged.
“Why?”
she repeated scornfully. “What do you mean,
why?
Why do you think? Are you fucking stupid or something?”

“No, I don't think so,” said Jack.

“Then why ask why? It's fucking obvious, isn't it? It's bloody fucking obvious. Because I
love
you, Jack. If you marry that other woman you'll be making a big mistake. We were made to be together. You don't think I get naked for just anybody, do you?”

He flapped a hand. “But I don't
want
this. Don't you understand. I don't . . .” His throat closed over his voice, choked it. What was the use? The girl would not understand. Her mind discarded logic. It refused to stick to conventional rules of thought and conduct.

“
We'll
get married, Jack,” she told him, her voice suddenly, shockingly, gentle once more. She spoke as if this would reassure him, as if it were the blindingly obvious answer to all their problems. “I'll love you and I'll make you happy and I'll do anything you want me to.”

She padded towards him, balletic, cat-like. Jack slid along the wall, away from her.

“No,” he ordered. “Listen to me, Tracey. I don't love you. I'm not going to marry you. I'm going to marry my girlfriend, Gail. I want you to put on your clothes and leave this house and don't come back. If you do that, we'll forget everything that's happened. Okay?”

Abruptly her face changed, and it was terrifying. Jack suddenly understood that Tracey's behaviour thus far had been restrained, her anger no more than the tip of the iceberg. He floundered backwards as she howled like an animal, sprinted the few steps between them, and leaped at him.

“No!”
he heard her screech.
“It's not okay!”
The rest of her words, of which there were many, were swamped by the incoherence of her rage, by Jack's own cries, by the chaos of their struggle.

Jack caught a glimpse of hooked talons tipped with red swooping at him and he twisted away. Searing pain raked the side of his face, whilst more pain—like a deflected punch—smeared across his nose and lip. Tracey's naked body hit him hard, slamming the breath from him, sending him staggering back until he became the sandwich filling between girl and wall. Immediately her limbs began to flail at him, her nails to scratch, her teeth to bite. Jack spun and bucked in an effort to shake her from him, groped for her wrists to prevent her clawing out his eyes. He bent low, hunched his shoulders to protect himself, cupped a hand over his genitals, as something—probably her knee—whacked into his thigh, too close for comfort. He was receiving a beating from this slip of a girl, the violence coming so fast that he could do little to prevent it. His free hand groped at empty air, only occasionally encountering smooth hot flesh that slithered from his grasp like a snake before he could fasten onto it. He was shouting at her to stop, but he knew it was futile. She was like a wild animal; she might as well have been one for all the notice she took. The room spun around him, interspersed with glimpses of white flesh, the whirl of golden hair, a screeching, gnashing face. All at once his heel caught on something that was not fastened down. It skidded from under his foot, toppling him onto his back. His head hit something that was hard but padded, most likely an item of furniture. The threat of unconsciousness—white sparks dying in blackness—fizzed in his mind's eye. Jack tried to breathe and a weight landed heavily on his stomach, knocking the wind from him. When his vision cleared he saw Tracey sitting on his midriff, her back to him. Panic clutched him when he realised she was pawing at his genitals, trying to undo his trousers.

“Hey!” he shouted and began to struggle. “Hey! What are you doing? Get off me!”

She clenched her knees tight against his hips, pressing painfully on the bone. At the same time, she leaned forward to spread her weight, raising her buttocks in the air, giving him a candid view of her anus and vagina.

“Get off me!” he yelled again. “Get off me!” He pushed at the backs of her thighs, trying to heave her off him, but she was lithe and incredibly strong. He felt looseness around his hips as his jeans slackened, heard the metallic rip of his fly. His erection—to his undying shame, aching and full—sprang upright as it was released from his boxer shorts, which were being pushed roughly down to his knees. I'm being raped, Jack thought with a sense of wonderment, I'm being raped by a girl half my age and size.

It was a ridiculous, unbelievable situation, and yet it was happening. Jack cried out, not entirely without pleasure, as something warm and wet closed over his penis. Gripping both of Tracey's thighs hard just beneath her buttocks, he braced himself, then heaved again with all his might, trying to raise himself into a sitting position.

She struggled but Jack shoved relentlessly, and gradually began to gain the upper hand. His temples ached with the effort; sweat pimpled his body. He shouted in pain, but only increased his grip, when he felt her teeth biting down, scraping over his penis. But suddenly his penis came free, sliding from her mouth and springing back against his belly.

“You fucking bastard,” he heard her snarl. She swung an arm round, clubbing the side of his head, making his ear ring and sparks leap across his vision. Jack lunged forward and bit her hard on the right buttock. She yelped, the shock causing her to lose some of her strength, enabling him to push her up and to one side like a heavy rock.

As she sprawled across the floor, limbs splayed, Jack leaped to his feet, dragging up his jeans and boxer shorts. One of the dining chairs had been knocked over in their struggle, the settee barged out of position, presumably by his falling body. He was now beginning to feel the results of his battering. His left shin, left bicep and ribs seemed to have taken the brunt of her violence. He was panting hard. As she struggled to her feet he swung the settee between them like a shield, castors squealing. She glared at him, hair hanging in front of her face. She looked more animal than human.

“That's enough,” Jack gasped. Considering the circumstances, the comment was almost risible. Tracey's panties were lying on the floor less than two feet away from him. He bent down quickly, scooped them up and tossed them to her. “Get dressed,” he ordered. The panties landed on her left foot. Tracey did not acknowledge them, merely continued to glare at him. Jack almost leaped out of his skin when the telephone began to ring. That'll be Gail, he thought, but he made no move to answer the phone and eventually it stopped.

The stalemate lasted for perhaps thirty seconds. Just when Jack was beginning to wonder what the next move would be, Tracey spoke. Her voice was low, her tone vicious. She said, “You won't get away with this, you bastard.”

Despite himself, he was again taken aback by the comment. He didn't realise how dry his throat was until he croaked, “Get away with
what?
”