Sneak Peek: Chiaroscuro (Patreon)

Sorry for the delay in getting this one out. This sneak peek is from the beginning of chapter five, and brings the reader back to the so-called "funeral". This (should) bring that story arc to its conclusion, exit Julia from the story (kinda), and bring us into the final sweep of chapters leading to the conclusion.

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            We lapse back into a sullen silence. Like heavy shadows, the events of the past months seethe and lurk about us, dance and mock us from the corners of the room. My head aches and my throat’s dry from too much drink, and Julia must be feeling even worse.

            “This sucks,” she says. Julia turns to me with a lopsided grin. “Your funeral sucks.”

            I frown. “You suck.”

            “How mature.”

            I pick up one of the bottles of wine and hold it up to the light. Pale light shines through thick glass. There’s nothing left. What does out little celebration look like from the outside? There can’t be too many lights on in the building at this time of night. Our singular little rectangle of yellow light beckoning from a dark monolith against a night sky—and the shadow play of our passage, silhouettes acting out the recriminations of fourteen years—who could possibly imagine the quality and quantity of our pain and suffering and loss and cruelty contained within that single window?

            She reaches for the bottle and set sit to one side. “I’m tired,” she says. “I feel sick, and I’m tired.” Julia holds both my hands between both of hers. Then, she smooths down my hair, pushing it back over my shoulder so that it falls in a gentle golden wave. I mirror her, drawing my nails across her brow to touch a stray bang behind her ear, and follow the line of her jaw to gently caress the nape of her neck. Her hair is short now and doesn’t reach her shoulders. She sighs. I miss her long hair, but she looks fantastic like this, too.

            We face each other, sat on my cheap sofa, mustard-yellow fake leather; it sticks to bare skin in hot weather. It feels as though we’re trapped in some old Dutch painting, chiaroscuro framing of two women: one young, the other older; long blonde hair and short black bob, and such intensely serious expressions.

            “Let’s finish this,” Julia says, and she takes a deep breath to speak.

            I’ve buried this moment, deeper than the night with Liam. We’ve unearthed a lot of memories I’ve suppressed over the past three months: the constant simmering shame of revealing outfits and secretarial duties; stomach-churning submission to pinches, grabs and comments at work; being tarted out and flirting at Noir; that first blowjob kneeling between Jonas’s legs; the realization of how easy it’d become now, to take a man into my mouth; and even the intensely pleasurable humiliation of schoolgirl spanking bent over my boss’s desk.

            But what comes next nearly undid me, and as much as I want to hear her apology and see her beg for forgiveness, I also realize that now the moment has come I don’t want her to continue. A wholly unexpected reluctance comes over me, sweat beading my brow as she goes to speak. I’m afraid, I realize, of what she’s about to say and how this must end.

            “How could you do it?” I speak quickly, before she can begin.

            She closes her mouth, frowns. “It’s no worse than what you did to me.”

            “No,” I say. “Not the same. Worse. Especially because—you knew. How could you do that to me when you knew how much it hurts?”

            Her eyes glitter and she says nothing.

            “What I did to you, back then? I did it in ignorance. You might not believe me but I didn’t mean to hurt you. It wasn’t even about you. I was—fucked up. And you suffered. And I’m sorry, Julia. I am—I really am, and if I could go back and somehow change what happened, I would. All along you’ve wanted an apology from me, for me to say I’m sorry—for me to be sorry. And I am, now, I really am. For what I did to you. I hurt you and I understand that now but you have to believe that I had no idea of what my ignorance could do to you.”

            She’s still silent. Her face impassive, lips slightly parted, one beautiful eyebrow sightly arched.

            “But what you did, Julia? You acted in spite, in the full knowledge of what it would do to me. You acted in anger, because you didn’t get the promotion you wanted. You took everything you despise about men and weaponized it and took all your frustration out on me, on this man you’ve made into a caricature of everything you despise about femininity.

            “You wanted to hurt me—him—the thing you made?” My laugh was dry and humourless. “You did. No.” I shook my head. “You didn’t hurt him; you killed him, Julia. You killed David Saunders. He was already on his last leg and you delivered the killing blow.”
            Her silence continues. We still hold each others hands, facing each other on the sofa. A sudden instinct to check my makeup seizes me and I shake my head.

            I take a deep breath. “That night,” I begin. “That final night, when you—”

            Julia cuts me off. She pulls her hand free and lays a single finger against my mouth to silence me. She tilts her head to one side, as though examining me, and sighs.

            Julia says, “You said this was my story.” She shakes her head, as though disappointed. “But all night, you’ve done all the talking. How can it be my story if you tell it?

            “So. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly. It’s your turn to shut up, Cindy. And to listen. You say I killed David Saunders? Sure, why not? Then let the accused speak.

            “How does it work in all those murder mysteries? Motive, means and opportunity? I’ve had plenty of opportunity over the past few months, haven’t I? You willingly gave yourself over to me. The weapon?” Her smile is thin and humorless. “Lingerie and heels, makeup and dresses—are these weapons? Maybe. But so are guilt and need, hate and love. Fear, too. I had the full arsenal at my disposal, didn’t I?”

            She pauses.

            When I say, “Motive,” my voice is soft and distant.

            She nods.

            “God, yes,” she says.

            “Go on, then,” I say. “Tell me.”

            “Fine,” she says, and even thought it’s the story of David Saunder’s death, it’s really Julia’s story. Perhaps it always was.