The Zombie Adventures of Sarah Bellum (76 page)

Her
trembling is driving me crazy. I can't resist putting my hand on her
arm again, guiding her out of the door and into the corridor. She
practically scampers ahead, snatching her coat back from Debbie.

Run
– run – I want to part your cranium and taste your
terrified braaaiiins…

"
Thank
you for your time, Mr. Dry,
"
she
says, back in the near-safety of the lobby. There is no sign of
Heather the receptionist, and I can't wait to get a new one.
Sarah
Bellummm would be – most serviceable
.
"
It
has been very educational.
"

"
I’m
sure it will be,
"
I
agree, with a courteous nod.
"
Au
revoir
,
Miss
Belllummm
.
"

She
runs to the Hummer in her pointy Pigalle pumps, and locks herself in,
while the gulls continue flocking to the spot on the beach outside my
office, on the far side of the building.

I
watch her mournfully.

Braaaiiins,
baby…

I
reach for my cellphone, and dial the house.

"
Mrs
Fritatta,
"
I
greet the housekeeper.
"
You
will not be required to cook tonight. I wish to order in a pizza.
"

GREY
MATTER: CHAPTER TWO

I
hear the
Pizza
Heaven
scooter
protesting as it approaches up the mile-long driveway to my enormous
stately home, and my equally huge anticipation is turgid, almost
vibrating. I've never called out for pizza before. Chinese, Korean,
sushi, fish-and-chips, shish kebab - many times. The little
two-stroke engine is making those annoying noises, only slightly more
annoying than the noises that Mrs Fritatta makes when I ask her to
change the sheets for me - on the occasions that I've had a few too
many
braaaiiins
,
or a Jägerbomb cocktail more than three inches deep.

Good Lord, the
suspense is killing me…
Fuck. I can already smell her
braaaiins.

My black stretch Cadillac
limo is parked at the foot of the steps, the engine and exhaust still
ticking quietly as it cools, as I have only recently arrived home.
She will have to pull in behind. My eardrums pucker tightly,
straining to hear every detail.

Footfalls
scale the enormous marble steps. I wonder what shoes she is sporting
now.
Boooots?

In
spite of the clear view of the morsel on my stoop from the security
camera, my hitherto apathetic prostate leaps to attention at the
press of the buzzer.
Thank
God, the damnest thing - it still has life in it!
Ignoring the
intercom, I loosen the resulting wedgie and attempt a nonchalant
saunter across the grand entrance hall, hoping to build up my
visitor’s own sense of anticipation.

She evidently gets a
shock when the door is opened silently between us. She looks as
though the world has just dropped out of her bottom. Or mine, for
that matter.

Standing in front of her,
my matt-black tie undone and just-dead hair hypnotically dishevelled,
is me, Crispin Dry - vending machine magnate, entrepreneur, and the
sexiest corpse she’s recently seen - at least, since 4.23p.m.
last Thursday, in a wheelie bin under the silver birch tree at the
Body Farm, or so the reports tell me...

What does she see in
him? A mere Forensic Anthropology donor subject? Bastard…

"Mr. Dry!" she
squeaks, terrified - and immediately thrusts the pizza box under my
nose. It does not avert the even more delightful smell of nervous
pizza-delivery girl.

Mmmm. Yum.

"Miss...
Belllummm
..."
I slur, and feign innocence. "What a pleasant surprise. Do come
inside. The kitchen is just this way."

I
turn in the doorway and shamble into the opulent entrance hall,
beckoning for her to follow.
Come
hither, baby.

She
has
no
choice. Sarah Bellum pulls the gigantic door closed behind her. I
wonder if she now knows how
Gretel
felt, upon entering
the gingerbread house...

My kitchen is vast - like
a bowling alley. When I open the great refrigerator, and start
selecting my condiments, I know she half expects to see the bottles
deposited mechanically onto the shelf, like a set of ten-pins.

My
spine tingles, sensing her tentative approach.
Fuck.
I never felt this alive in the presence of a woman - even when I
was
alive…

"I'll just leave it
right here, shall I?" she suggests, sliding the box onto the
glassy-smooth granite counter-top. I picture her sliding across it
herself, in turn.

I know what I’d
rather eat.

Braaaiiins…

"Join
me, Sarah
Bellummm
,"
I say, surprising her. "I believe you might be famished, after
your long day..."

She
looks doubtful, and a flicker of jealousy flares unbidden, in my left
gonad, while its master remains cold and unaffected.
Bugger.
It had better not fall off.

Dinner
with me will scupper her usual Friday plans, of waiting outside
Bumgang &
Sons' Breaker's Yard
with
a Chinese Meat Feast. Ace Bumgang always pretends to be surprised,
which actively encourages her for some reason, and sometimes he even
takes it with him. He's usually in a big hurry to meet up with his
friends at the boys' club,
Gentlemen
Prefer Poledancers
-
which I am privy to, as I own the place. It means he's telling her in
his own special way that he's not settled for anyone important yet...
Why is he
stringing her along? Isn’t it perfectly clear they’re not
suited?

"Well - I think the
last thing I ate, was a sip of chicken soup, from the vending machine
at your office earlier..." she admits, timidly.

"Toooo long," I
agree, and give her a devastatingly wonky nod. "Take a seat. And
close your eyes. I have a surprise for you."

A
big surprise, baby.
I
consult my downstairs menswear department hopefully, but still an
armed response from there is pending. My other appetite, however, is
already open for business, at full throttle.
Braaaiins.

She
slips off her
George
and Mildred
and
tries to make the most of her helmet-hair as she arranges herself on
the seat at the counter. I dart her a meaningful look, still foraging
in the refrigerator, and obligingly she closes her eyes.

I wonder if she expects a
big tip.

You
won't be disappointed, my love. Haha.
My
inside leg measurement remains obstinately unchanged.
Bugger.

"Is that your
Cadillac outside?" she asks, passing the time with small-talk,
while I’m putting dishes on the counter in front of her.

"It is just a
courtesy car," I say, dismissively. "The Bugatti and the
Maserati are away for servicing, and I only use the Diablo on holiday
weekends, when I go hot-air ballooning."

"Hmm," she
murmurs, disbelieving. Probably picturing more guys like Ace Bumgang,
who have a couple of sports cars, a racing bike and a speedboat
scattered around, as petrolhead mechanics always do... but she has no
idea of what lights a businessman’s candle in the motoring
department. A fleet of 1.2L commuter compacts, if anything...

"I hope you are
hungry," I say, rather darkly, interrupting any of her fantasies
intruding on us about Ace Bumgang. "I have an idea of your
tastes already. Open wide."

She promptly rearranges
herself on the seat.

Braaaiiins! Oh dear
Lord - I wish I had something to put there! Perhaps I will have to
get a clockwork one…

"I meant your
mouth," I croon, hiding my regret, and she slams her knees
together again, like a barn door in a tornado.

Nervously, she lets her
mouth fall open, in a textbook Q.

"Put
your tongue in,
pleeeaase
,"
I moan softly.

Her
tongue is like an inviting ramp.
Lead
me to your braaaiiins…
I
can almost peer right into her skull. It's so beautiful. A man could
get lost in that empty space for days…

The Q becomes an O, as
requested.

Her stomach rumbles
immediately in response as I feed her the first tidbit, and she chews
enthusiastically.

She's eating!

"You approve?"
I ask, hopeful.

"Yum," she
nods. "Is there more?"

I will not admit to her
that it is my own recipe.
Not yet.
I have been trying to
perfect these Korean Fried Fingers all week.

"Nine
more, I believe," I confirm, as
she
runs her tongue
around her teeth to dislodge any gristly bits. She coughs on
something dry, and removes a crispy fingernail from her cheek, which
I quickly brush aside. "I think we have found your acquired
taste exactly."

"Do you have
anything to drink?" she asks. Her eyes are still rapturously
closed, all thoughts of the tanned, toned and droolworthy Ace Bumgang
evidently forgotten.

So
keen!
Her
thirst makes my own liver turgid with agreement.

"Be
patient, Sarah
Bellummm
,"
I whisper. "I am sure I have a cocktail worthy of you."

I shock her with my
intimate tone.

"It's as if you were
expecting me," she gasps, blushing.

"But of course,"
I say, so close to her ear, she nearly swoons off the chair. I inhale
surreptitiously, savouring her heady, pulsating aroma. My stomach
acids pump, in a most gratifying response. "I even made sure to
re-stock the vending machine in my bedroom, right before you
arrived..."