Never: an erotic retelling of Peter Pan (54 page)

Pietre wondered if he was becoming paranoid.  The Indian's actions could be motivated by nothing more sinister than obedience to his master's needs. 

Could be...

The door opened and Pietre stepped out.  He had much to do.  And much to think about.

"Hey man, watcha got for me?"

Long Shadow watched the Greek boy approach, his shiny black boots striking loudly on the cobblestones.  Swaggering.  Long Shadow hated Nick's swagger.

"A body to dispose of," he said, indicating the cell door with a tilt of his head.  "In there."

Nick smirked.  "Anyone I know?"

Long Shadow stared at him, thought, Wendee has lain with this one.  Several times.  And she liked it.  "Belle."  He bit off the word.

"Belladonna...?  The bosses' broad?"

"That's right."

"Little pixie Belle?  With the fake hair and - "             

"That's the one."

Nick was incredulous.  "Fuck me.  Does the boss know?"

"He ordered it."

There was silence.  Then, "Fuck me," Nick said again, with feeling.  He shook his head, then seemed to gather himself and slapped a palm on the door.  "Open it up, man.  I gotta see this."

Long Shadow slotted his card in the lock and the door slid open.  The smell was bad.  He wanted to leave Nick to it but he hesitated, unsure why. 

Nick strode past him.  "Neat entry hole," he complimented, looking down at the corpse.  "I had a broad in Calcutta once.  She had a mark..."  He pointed to the centre of his forehead.

"Ticka," Long Shadow said tonelessly.

Nick waved a hand in agreement.  "Yeah.  Religious thing."  He hunkered down beside the body.  "Man, you'd swear she was just asleep."  He reached across and laid a hand on her shoulder.  "Still warm."

Long Shadow felt a wave of revulsion despite the fact that Nick meant nothing by the comment.  Belle's spirit was perverting everything and for a horrible moment he felt as if it was reaching for him with invisible tendrils, trying to envelope his body, to capture his manhood.  With a jerky movement he stepped backwards, bumping into the doorframe.   Nick turned back from inspecting the corpse to frown at him but he had to get away so he turned to walk blindly down the stone passageways.  The next thing he was aware of was being on his knees in the surf, vomiting. 

Spasm after spasm of nausea rolled over him as he sought to expel the evil from his body.  It went on and on, draining him of strength until he felt weak.  Shocky.  The same way he had the time his testicles had been injured in a fight.  Had she hurt him somehow?  Had her spirit reached out and crushed his manhood between those claw-like fingers.

Limply, he stripped off his clothing, threw it up onto the dry sand and inspected his penis and testicles.  They were unharmed but tingled strangely, as though coated with a substance that would eventually burn. 

Waves broke over him as he lay in the shallow water rinsing himself, trying to wash away the memory of those invisible fingers and the effect they'd had on him, but it was still strong, even though he knew Nick would have burnt the body by now.

Frustration gripped Long Shadow and grabbed a handful of wet sand and scoured his penis with it.  The burning sensation grew with the size of his erection and then it was too late to stop the ejaculation - quick, unsatisfying.  Almost immediately the burning sensation was back.

His hand fell limply to his side.  Another wave rolled over him and he noticed a subtle temperature change.  The air that touched his skin was cooling.  It was getting late so he forced himself up onto his elbows and shook the hair out of his eyes to look across the waves.  Within half an hour, the sun would set - it's life-force bleeding into the thin clouds that hung below it like a dancer's tulle skirt.

He had seen many such sunsets in the last few weeks - picture post-card images - but they failed to inspire him.  Without Wendee, the part of him that responded to beauty had shut down.  She was his lens.  His focus.  He was half-alive without her.  

Yet he forced that half-life on, dragging himself out of the surf and dressing in the fading light before heading back to his camp.  There were other responsibilities to keep him busy while he waited for DeMartande to rescue his love, and he hurried his steps to return before the deeper dark fell. 

On reaching his camp, he called across the compound, "It's me, Long Shadow," remembering the time he'd surprised Skye in his teepee and she'd tried to stab him with a knife. 

DeMartande had given her into Long Shadow's care a fortnight earlier, but Skye was still traumatized by the ordeal she’d put herself through.  Leaves rustling made her skin crawl and when the wind howled at night she huddled under her furs, inconsolable.

Long Shadow knew he couldn't hold her, couldn't comfort her that way.  She was over-sensitized now and would never willingly let a man touch her again.  But his non-threatening presence had gone some way to restoring her self-confidence and the herbal creams he'd given her had healed her torn and bruised flesh. 

In her own words, she was, 'A toilet.  A receptacle for the filth of men's bodies.'  The innocent beauty of her genitals - the guava-pink flower Wendee had admired and so playful aroused, no longer existed for Skye.  It was dark down there.  Dark and dirty and she didn't want anything more to do with it, hated herself for what she’d willingly done out of love. 

Long Shadow understood, and it saddened him.  Skye was a victim of sexual obsession, just as his Wendee was, and he if he had the opportunity, he would save them both.  But realistically, he knew love must come first.

"It's me, Long Shadow," he said again as he stepped through the opening and closed the door-flap behind him. 

Skye knelt by the fire, her stark blonde hair plaited down her back the way his sometimes was, her body – the body she hated - wrapped loosely in a sheet.  She looked up.  "Hello," she said shortly, then went back to tending the simmering pot. 

Cooking smells filled his lodge, pleasant meaty aromas.  The simple domesticity of the scene calmed the remnants of his earlier agitation.  He found he was hungry. 

Skye's first attempts at cooking had been less than palatable, but he understood her need to keep busy, felt the need himself.  Teaching her had filled a void for both of them and he was proud of the fact that she'd become a creditable cook.  Skye was probably proud too, but she'd never admit it.

"Smells delicious," he commented as he sat across the fire from her.

She glanced up again, a barely-perceptible light of appreciation in her eyes.  "I dug up those plants you showed me.  The yellow ones.  And I caught a bird.  A noisy bird.   Koo-koo-koo Kah-kah-kah," she imitated.

He smiled.  "Kookaburra."  At times Skye made him feel like a new husband with a trainee bride.  Except that there would be no consummation between them.  Skye would never allow it, and Long Shadow had no desire for anyone but Wendee.

As though picking up his thoughts, Skye asked, "Any word of Wendee?"

Long Shadow's smile faded.  "Belle said nothing."  He picked up the wooden bowl at his side and began ladling out the thick stew, trying to disguise the unrest that stirred in him, the remnants of her evil that still clung to his body.

"Did DeMartande torture her?  Did he give her to the big negro?"  Skye was unrepentantly eager.  Her lust for vengeance was as strong as his own.

He handed her the filled bowl and picked up another for himself.  "She's dead," he said, surprised at how devastating that admission was - how much he'd been relying on information from Belle.  The crack of the door through which he'd hoped to follow Wendee's trail was closed and despite DeMartande's optimism, they might never find her now. 

"Dead?" Skye echoed and Long Shadow was reminded of Wendee's habit of echoing his words.  

A mixture of memory-emotions surged inside him -  feelings of sadness and longing - he saw clearly a picture of Wendee lying beneath him, her languid eyes making him hard, making him want to love her like no man had loved her before, slowly, expertly, until she begged for his possession.  But equally wanting to stab straight into her, jack-hammering that velvet pool until the explosion of sensations lifted the top off his head.

"How did she die?" Skye asked, her voice avid. 

Long Shadow put down his bowl and cleared his throat.  "I shot her."  His body was stirring, his chaotic emotions encouraging an erection he knew would only frighten Skye.  He must control himself, but the trauma of killing Belle and the memory of Wendee's lovemaking confused him.  A thought of what Skye had been through crept in and he pushed it away.

"
You
killed her?" Skye asked, and her incredulous tone caught his attention.  He looked up, but the sight of her large breasts covered only in the thin sheet that had once wrapped Wendee's body confused him more and encouraged his defiant erection.  A memory flash came back to him of Nick reminiscing about their 'juicy firmness' and he felt sickened and excited at the same time.

He looked down.  Into the fire.  "Yes, I killed her with my gun.  I shot her.  She's dead.  She won't tell us anything now."