While both she and Lucille Kells were admirable in their physical attraction, Lucille was by far the more beautiful. Gemma had a delightful, waif-like allure. Her demeanour was that of a subjugated child. In a previous incarnation, the product of neglect, she would have epitomised the embodiment of both Ignorance and Want. Had she been dark, she would have made an excellent December.
Lucille, on the other hand, was not possessed of a boy-like figure. Dressed in black jeans, Danish sandals and a white, sleeved top, with the natural mahogany streaks in her ebony hair curling in around her breasts, Lucille comported herself in a rather impertinent fashion, yet, in more pensive mood, exuded a confidence and grace which no preparatory school could instil.
On one occasion, while I was seated on a park bench, I watched her giggling at some girlish pun. She was affecting a kind of roll-walk, reminiscent of bicycle pedals smoothly rolling round and round, exemplifying some choreography or other to Gemma. She was so full of life. With her hair flowing down over the narcissus, she would portray December perfectly. I was determined, at the earliest opportunity, to apprise her of my intentions.
However, having visited Gemma, I had departed in the belief that Lucille Kells would identify me to the police. I thought my career had ended. She would turn me in. Unless I could take appropriate measures. Alas, my Transit was no match for the speed of her Fiesta.
But then it occurred to me that the direction in which she was travelling indicated that she was intent on visiting a location close to the village of Clonkeelin. A hunch, as it were. And one which proved fruitful. For I had already followed her there and knew exactly which short cut to take to arrive before she did. I welcomed her in my usual fashion.
The following morning, having arranged for her to awaken to the same considerations as Lisa Shine and Jackie Hay, I found myself in a mood of some elation. Not only had I acquired December, I had also heard, on the radio, that the police had arrested another man in my place, one Greg Swags, as I had connived; though I was surprised to learn that they had mentioned him by name so soon after the event. This Swags was innocent. Clearly the police did not think so. He would go in my stead, as it were, and Lucille would model for me. I should then have to decide on my future career: retirement or enjoying models in the comfort of my rooms and having them regarded as ‘missing persons’. Undoubtedly, if the authorities ever caught up with me, the truth would out. Strange the way things transpire, don’t you think?
No one was more surprised than me to find myself still at liberty, I must tell you. Swags had seen me. He was a vital witness. Ah well, ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or … no, I don’t think so.
Unfortunately, as luck would have it, my sense of elation was short-lived. But only momentarily. A further bulletin reported that perhaps I had been seen. Second-hand news, as only I knew, because I had been present at the scene. They were clearly referring to Lucille. Which brought the question: whom had she informed? And how, since she was with me? I realised that I was becoming concerned over conjecture. The word ‘perhaps’ brought relief. No doubt you too spotted the uncertain connotation of its usage. ‘Perhaps?’ I had been seen or I had not. How does one ‘perhaps’ see one?
A further bulletin furnished enlightenment:
‘A woman rang the front desk of the Top Towers Hotel saying Gemma Small was being killed in room 720. The caller had actually named the deceased. She knew her name.’
How, I wondered. What woman caller? And how could she know what was going on in 720? I decided to ask my guest.
LUCILLE
When I regained consciousness, I was in a cell with no windows. A big black rat was in the corner eating a dead one. Behind the cell door was a crate. A length of timber, nails and a small hammer lay next to it. It had already been shored off with another piece. Another, gnawed through and matted with black hair and blood, stood next to it. Rats’ hair. There were rats in the crate, trying to gnaw their way out.
He had put a live one in to feed on a dead one, to let me know what would happen if the others ate their way through. I’d be all they’d have to feed on.
‘Hello, Lucille.’
It was him. He had been spying on me through a hole in the door. It opened, he said, ‘May I?’ and stepped into the threshold, filled it: he was enormous. I felt nauseated just looking at him.
‘Would you care to see where I work?’
I was too terrified to even move, let alone answer him.
A dog snarled. Then others started barking.
‘Follow me. Come on, no need to be concerned.’
No need to be concerned? He had murdered my best friend and now he was talking to me as casually as if we were sitting in a bar over a quiet drink.
The dog – ‘Stay there, Shirley,’ he said to her – a big, wire-haired mongrel, was squatting at the bottom of a flight of stairs as I went out behind him, into a corridor with four cells, including mine. The last one contained the rest of the dogs. Five. All as big as the one guarding the exit. He opened their door.
‘Stay close to me, Lucille. They’re only Shirley’s pups.’
Oh, God. There were bones
