Asking For Trouble Read online

  We reached the end of the street and turned down towards the shops again.

  ‘Ahh,’ said Jenny, drawing me over to some little chess-board-top table. ‘Tom and Clare’ve been after one of these. I told them to come down here.’

  Please linger, I thought. Give me a chance to decide what to do. I recalled Ilya’s anger the time I’d followed him. He’d accused me of being a weirdo obsessive. I didn’t want any of that shit again.

  Jenny stroked the table. ‘It’s not in very good nick though, is it?’ she said.

  ‘Jen,’ I said. ‘I’m just gonna bob back to one of those places we passed. Won’t be long. Will you be hanging round here?’

  ‘I’ll come with you in a sec,’ she said, bending low to inspect the table legs.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s OK. Don’t. I just . . . I saw something.’ I struggled for a reason to deter her in case I had to do something odd like a sudden about-turn. Inspiration hit me.

  ‘It’s a certain somebody’s birthday soon,’ I said, putting on a mystery voice. ‘And I spotted something she might like. So you can just stay right where you are.’

  Jenny beamed. ‘Well, if that’s the case, you take all the time you need. Still got some of that money left from Shaun, have you?’

  I made a mocking retort then retraced my steps. Was I doing the right thing?

  As I neared the warehouse, I decided my best bet would be to play it lightly. I wouldn’t risk trying to be sneaky in case he spotted me and thought I was spying on him. I’d be open about seeing him and I’d just make it seem like a little tease, a jokey dig at him for always being so cagey.

  Hopefully, he wouldn’t fly off the handle like the first time. But I didn’t think he would; we knew each other better now.

  Ilya was no longer standing in the big square doorway. Had he seen me and disappeared inside? No one seemed to be around, so, tentatively, I walked in.

  The floor was cobbled stone and, either side of me, furniture was stacked on top of furniture, making the room feel more like a corridor. There was a fair amount of junk: a floral armchair with foam spilling out, a broken bookcase, some lumpy shapes covered in green canvas, an enormous mirror dulled with dust.

  The corridor opened out into a broader space, which was heaped with wooden furniture, and bright with sunlight because the roof was corrugated plastic. A pair of stone lions stared impassively at me.

  High on the far wall, near a fringe of brown, withered ivy, was a sign saying: SORRY – STRICTLY TRADE AND EXPORT.

  I felt uneasy. Did that mean Joe Public browsers weren’t welcome in here? Maybe ‘strictly trade and export’ was a code for ‘strictly small-time crooks’. Or was I getting carried away with the mythology of the antiques trade as being full of wheeler-dealers, stolen goods and fakes?

  But no. The more I gazed around, the more lifelike that myth became. A lot of the furniture was quality stuff: sturdy, well-polished, delicately carved – the kind of thing you’d expect to find in a posh antiques shop. That didn’t sit too well with the child-size billiard table or the West Ham fixtures list taped to the wall.

  The place just smacked of people who wanted to make grubby money, rather than people who cared about antiques. They wouldn’t say, ‘Fine example of Neoclassical design’; they’d say, ‘Yeah, nice bit of wood that, darlin’.’

  I ran my finger over a marble-topped table. Somewhere down the line, I thought, if you could trace it back, there are some seriously miffed toffs who used to own all this stuff.

  Was Ilya really part of this scene?

  I wandered through to an adjoining room. The roof there was made of rafters, pointing upward like a barn, and it smelt musty and damp. In the midst of the tall furniture were several rows of stripy chairs, all facing the same way – like a congregation of ghosts. Fluorescent striplights buzzed quietly above.

  Where was he?

  And, more to the point, what was he? Honourable rogue? Vicious criminal? A friend just passing who’d stopped for a coffee?

  I feigned interest in a glass chandelier until a noise in the far corner caught my ear. A door opened and three men emerged, laughing and chatting. One of them was Ilya.

  Now what?

  He glanced my way. When he saw me, his smile faded a touch before he forced it back. He walked a few paces with the two men, slapped one on the shoulder, then turned towards me. I wove my way through the clutter to meet him.

  ‘Well? he demanded, his tone hushed. ‘Aren’t you even going to fake surprise and pretend you’re looking for furniture?’

  We were standing between a tall chest of drawers and a round table with a travelling trunk on top. Once again, Ilya was not pleased to have me on his tail.

  I smiled, attempting lightness. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I was looking for you. Do you have contacts here? Because, if you do, I quite fancy a cheapish pine –’

  Ilya seized my wrist.

  ‘Come into the office,’ he hissed, giving my arm a sharp tug.

  He strode away and I followed. Maybe we were getting somewhere at last.

  Ilya led me along another junk-lined corridor with another garage-style doorway at the end. It looked out on to the street and for a moment I thought he was showing me the exit. But instead he opened a side door, urging me inside with a brisk nod.

  The office was pretty small, with a huge, leather-topped desk dominating one half. There was hardly anything on the desk except some pens in a pot, a phone and a notepad. Its sole function was obviously to make whoever sat behind it feel important.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ said Ilya as he rattled the door shut.

  ‘I might ask you the same question,’ I replied coolly, folding my arms.

  ‘No,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve had enough of your fucking questions so why don’t you just give it a rest because I’m fast getting sick of it? It’s none of your fucking business where I go, what I do, blah, blah, blah. It doesn’t affect you. It doesn’t fucking –’

  I was about to protest that all I’d ever been was mildly curious and that he was exaggerating wildly, but Ilya just moved closer and carried on with his rant, jabbing a finger at the air. He had that mad, angry glint in his eyes again and it made me wonder what he was capable of.

  ‘Christ,’ he said through set teeth. ‘Can’t you just keep your distance? Wasn’t that the deal we had? A game. A stupid, meaningless fucking little game. And we – you, you – you thought you could handle it and you can’t. You’re always crowding me. You think I owe you something and I don’t. I fucking don’t. Just like you don’t owe me. It’s –’

  ‘But at least I give something,’ I argued, nervously backing away. ‘I don’t put up some great big barrier. I tell you stuff about me, about what I do . . . what I think of –’

  ‘Well maybe you shouldn’t,’ he snarled, fury etching a groove between his dark brows. ‘Because maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe I’m not that interested. Can you get your head round that? That I’m not interested in you – in who you are deep down inside and what goes on in that pretty little head. I’m interested in your cunt. Nothing else. It’s a game. It’s about fucking each other. That’s all we are. That’s all we amount to – just a few cheap fucks. Got that?’

  ‘Jesus,’ I murmured in shock. ‘You are one vicious bastard.’

  Ilya stood still, glowering at me. I struggled to stay calm under the fire of his stare but inside I was a riot of emotions: fear, anger, but more than anything a hurt so sore it made my eyes brim with tears. Surely I meant more to him than that? Surely he could not think that what we had together was so callously hollow and worthless?

  Ilya swept a hand back over his shorn head then, in a poisonous little whisper, he said: ‘You stupid bitch.’

  Hot resentment bristled up inside me, overtaking all my pain.

  ‘Oh, fuck you,’ I spat, and I made a move to leave.

  Ilya took a step to block the door. I drew up short.

  We stood several feet apart, motionless, like two an
gry cats trying to psych each other out.

  Then with a quick jerk of his elbow, Ilya began unfastening his belt.

  I made a noise of incredulity as the leather hissed through the loops. Was he going to try and thrash me?

  But no. Ilya slung the belt to the floor.

  ‘Get your jeans down, Beth,’ he said steadily. He turned to unroll a blind over the half-windowed door, unbuttoning his flies at the same time.

  ‘No fucking way,’ I replied.

  ‘Do it, Beth,’ he barked, turning back to me.

  His jeans were open and his fingers were curled round his semi-erect cock. He moved towards me, pulling gently on his length to make himself harder. Of course he wasn’t going to thrash me: not his style. He wanted to fuck. That was ten times as disturbing, especially since he was having to get the blood flow going to do it.

  ‘C’mon,’ he urged.

  ‘No way,’ I repeated, inching backward, my hands groping in search of the desk behind.

  Ilya scared me. I didn’t like his sour cruelty or his simmering rage; I didn’t like the scornful spark in his eyes. I wanted out.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ he taunted, his fist still sliding on his now-swollen cock. ‘It’s not like you to turn your nose up when a guy’s got his dick out. Look at me, Beth. I’m rock hard. Isn’t your cunt dripping at the sight? Aren’t your knickers getting hot and wet?’

  ‘No,’ I said, my voice all quivery. I fumbled for the desk-edge, needing support. Ilya came closer, a malicious little sneer turning up one corner of his mouth.

  ‘Get your jeans down and lean over that desk,’ he ordered.

  I drew a tremulous breath. ‘Or else?’ I said quietly.

  ‘Or else I’ll fucking well force you,’ he said, flashing a triumphant smile.

  I shook my head, my heart beating crazily. ‘I’m serious, Ilya,’ I said. ‘I want to leave now. I’m not faking. I’m not playing –’

  ‘But we’re always playing,’ he smirked. ‘That’s all we’ll ever do, right until the end, the final curtain. Play, play, play.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not now. This isn’t playing. You’re for real because you’re sick. You’re a cold, twisted bastard and you’re scaring me. And I’m for real because I’m scared. I want to leave.’

  He carried on pumping his cock. ‘Are you saying no?’ he asked. ‘Are you saying, no, you don’t want me to fuck you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I breathed. ‘I am.’

  ‘And are you saying no, you don’t want me to force you?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And how do you spell this no of yours?’ he gibed. ‘Does it begin with the letter C? Followed by U and a couple of Ts and so on?’

  I gazed at him in silent horror. All I was saying was no because emotions were running high and anyone could walk in on us. Surely he could appreciate that. But maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was too far gone with his strange, mad fury.

  ‘Well then,’ he said, when I didn’t reply. ‘This is all shaping up to be a pretty decent rape fantasy, isn’t it?’

  My blood ran cold.

  He was truly warped.

  My hands, working of their own volition, crawled blindly over the desk, searching for a weapon. I wasn’t going to allow Ilya to pervert my refusal. He was damn well going to accept it. In the movies there would have been a great big ashtray on the desk, or a knife for slitting envelopes that could also slit throats. My right hand found the pot of pens.

  ‘Back off, will you?’ I said, aiming a bunch of biros and pencils at him.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ jeered Ilya. ‘Draw on me?’

  ‘No. I’m going to poke your fucking eyes out,’ I bit back.

  Ilya laughed – a cruel, mocking laugh. I suddenly didn’t know if he was playing nasty or feeling nasty. But either way it didn’t matter because I had no taste for it.

  Ilya didn’t come closer. It felt as if he were waiting for me to make a move, then he could pounce and overpower me. I wished I had the muscles that he had.

  I struggled for a way out of the situation, wondering if the best thing would be to just drop my jeans and let him get on with it.

  Plenty of people had done that before – obliging their lover when they’re not in the mood. I wouldn’t struggle; I wouldn’t show my genuine resistance because that would make it seem like some rape-fantasy scenario. I’d feign indifference, maybe pleasure, and invalidate it.

  But no. I had a point to make. And the point was: it takes two to play out fantasies and right now I’m not playing, so that makes this one too damn real.

  But then reality didn’t count for much in our cuttlefish game. The word no didn’t count. I couldn’t make my point – except maybe by quitting. And isn’t that what they call cutting off your nose to spite your face?

  And supposing he threatened me with cuttlefish if I refused to drop my jeans, to struggle or whatever?

  Oh God. My brain was scrambled. Maybe I should just knee him in the balls and run for it?

  Ilya started to move in on me. I tensed, rigid with indecision and a fair amount of fear.

  Then he grinned, suddenly throwing me into confusion by bobbing left and right, feinting like a boxer, until he pounced and hurled his full weight at me.

  My pens clacked and tumbled and I screamed, staggering backward under the force of his launch. Ilya clamped a hand to my mouth.

  ‘Shut up,’ he hissed. ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up.’

  The wall slammed up behind me and my head hit with a bump. I wriggled and flailed, protesting into his hot, damp hand, air huffing in and out of my nostrils, my nose stud hurting.

  Ilya just crushed me hard against the wall, leaning into me with the whole of his body. I could feel his bared erect prick pressing a ridge near my belly. His fingers were yanking open my button-flies.

  The most terrifying thing was the hand over my mouth, half covering my nostrils. I felt panicky because I couldn’t breathe properly. I wanted to suck in lungfuls of air. I wanted to breathe like a sprinter would breathe at the end of a race. I wanted to breathe like a drowning men splashing at the surface. I couldn’t get enough air.

  I just wanted to breathe. And the more I battled against him, the more desperate I was for that air.

  The overwhelming need threatened to turn me stupid. I couldn’t think straight, but there was some part of my brain screaming for me to pay attention to it. ‘This isn’t fair,’ it kept saying. ‘Listen to me, Beth. This isn’t fair.’

  Ilya was pulling wildly at my jeans, battling to get them down with one hand. He was struggling to do it because I was writhing against his body, clawing at his arm, frantic to prise that hand from my mouth.

  ‘Come on, Beth,’ he growled, panting slightly. ‘Dirty bitch. You know you want it.’

  I felt his scrabbling fingers above my knickers, trying to push their way down.

  My neck ached. My head couldn’t move except to swivel a bit against the wall behind. My muffled cries made the hand covering my mouth hotter and wetter.

  Then it hit me: that smothering hand prevented me from speaking. Supposing I’d wanted to him to stop – so badly that I was prepared to say cuttlefish? Impossible. He was robbing me of my only means of escape. I was powerless – not because he was stronger, but because he wouldn’t let me speak.

  The cheating bastard had taken me out of the game.

  So I did what was only fair: I bit him. I managed to latch my teeth on to a finger and I clamped down, so hard and so strong that I felt his skin puncture and I tasted blood.

  I heard him roar in pain; I felt him trying to wrench the flesh and boniness of his finger from my vicelike jaw. But I held on and, only when he stepped back, stopped crushing me with his weight, did I release him and spit out the blood.

  He looked at me in amazement. ‘You fucking bitch,’ he rasped, clutching his injured hand in his good one. ‘You fucking . . . ah, shit . . .’ He waggled his hand. ‘You vicious little tiger.’

  He made a move to r
etaliate but I was quick to dodge him. Gasping and heaving, I rushed for the door, but before I could reach it, someone burst into the room.

  ‘What the fuck is . . .’

  A guy stood in the doorway. It was Pete – crude, boorish, lecherous Pete.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ He grinned. ‘If it isn’t the star of Anal Virgin. We meet again, eh, Beth?’

  I fumbled to button up my flies, but my hands were shaking and all I could do was hold the flaps of denim together and stretch my T-shirt down.

  ‘Get out of my way,’ I said, heading for the door.

  Pete moved to block my exit. ‘You don’t fancy staying?’ he mocked, nodding at my groin. ‘If Illie’s out of juice, I wouldn’t mind giving you another –’

  I was about to lunge at him, fists flying, but Ilya’s voice – as cold and clear as ice water – slapped my rage into numbness.

  ‘Let her go, Pete,’ he said. ‘This is between me and Beth. She wants to leave, so let her.’

  With a smile and a shrug, Pete stepped aside, and I bowled past him, rearranging my dishevelled clothes as I strode towards the big sunlit exit.

  Jenny was leaning against the blue building at the end of the street and smoking in a pissed-off kind of way.

  In the afternoon brightness, I felt slightly woozy and very hot. But it was a strange hot – not a sunshine hot; more a hot that felt as if my insides were melting and trying to ooze through my skin in their new liquid form.

  ‘Sorry, Jen,’ I said, trying to smile. ‘I got a bit side-tracked.’

  Jenny huffed a sigh of acceptance, her scowl fading, then she looked at me quizzically.

  ‘You OK?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I lied.

  ‘You sure?’ she said, tapping her cigarette. ‘You look a bit hectic, that’s all. And you’re the wrong colour. Kind of greeny white. Doesn’t suit you.’

  I felt the wrong colour. I felt as if vampires were at my feet and my blood was being sucked downward. Something was catching up with me – fear, outrage, shock? – I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was all those things.

  I leant against the wall.

  ‘You’re not OK, are you?’ said Jenny, gazing at me with a face full of concern and compassion and many years of friendship.