ART OF THE DARK - PART 7
Dean enters the smoky pub, shaking off the rain again. He looks around, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. In the very back, he sees a dark-haired man sitting against the wall, drinking alone. Dean squints, unable to see clearly… but his gut tells him that's the man he's here to meet. So he turns toward the bar, holding up one finger to the bartender. The bartender nods, grabs a glass and pours him a pint. Dean takes the beer and leaves money on the bar, before he walks toward the back of the pub. The dark-haired man looks up as Dean walks up to him, stopping a few feet away. The dark-haired man sits back, looking him up and down.
"Got somethin' to say, do ya?" he asks, in a deep, heavily accented voice. Dean takes a sip of his beer, nodding.
"Yeah...this country of yours really sucks."
The man stares at him blankly for a moment then he cracks up, getting to his feet to shake his guest's hand. "Well, why doncha sod off back to America then?" he says. Dean laughs quietly and the two men share a short hug, slapping each other on the back. They both sit down, giving each other a good once-over. The dark-haired man sits back, settling into the hardwood bench.
"So...how're ya? Been a long time."
Dean takes another long sip. "Oh, y'know, hangin' in there. Hating all this fuckin' rain. How 'bout you, man?"
The dark-haired man tips his head slightly, shrugging. "Surviving. I'll tell ya, though...I was glad to get this gig. I really need the cash."
Dean nods again. "Yeah. Listen, man...thanks for calling me in. You didn't have to do that."
"Well, if they wanna get this done right, they gotta pay for the right people, ya know. I'm not about to do this with some bloody kid who doesn't know his arse from a hole in the ground."
"Yeah, but you gotta know… I'm still hot from that fiasco back home. You coulda found someone a little less… high-profile."
The dark-haired man leans in toward him. "Quite a mess, wasn't it?"
Dean leans in as well, running a finger along the rim of his glass, his mind suddenly far away. "Yeah. Me and my bright ideas."
"Gotta admit, it's not like you to fuck up like that. What happened?"
Dean looks up, then shakes his head, sighing. "What can I say. Seemed easy enough. Thought I had it all covered, y'know? But then it just got totally outta control, the whole thing… and to be honest, I still don't know how it happened."
The dark-haired man nods, slowly. "Mmmmm...well… underestimating the situation'll do it every time."
Dean quirks, and adds, "I don't think it was the situation so much...as the people."
"Ah, well, there you go, then. Doesn't matter how long you been at this game, you can never tell what people are gonna do. NEVER. I wouldn't beat myself up over that."
Dean stares at him, with a seriousness that makes the dark-haired man take notice. "Yeah, well, worst part is that somebody got hurt because of me. Somebody who shouldn't have been… hurt… and I DO beat myself up over THAT."
The dark-haired man studies him again, getting a little concerned now. "You sure you're up for this, lad? I mean, no offense, but if you're gonna help me, you gotta be on your game. Otherwise… a LOT of people might get hurt… and YOU might get us both killed."
He watches carefully, as Dean looks away, taking a moment to think about it. Then Dean returns his friend's gaze. "Sorry," he says, "I don't mean to make you nervous. I'm up for it and I'm not gonna space on you. Don't worry...my game's still on."
The dark-haired man lingers on his eyes, deciding for himself, then nods, banging his empty glass on the table. Across the room, the bartender looks up at him, acknowledging the signal for another drink. The dark-haired man leans in toward Dean again, closer this time, resting on his elbows.
"Alright then but let's get something straight right now," he says, his voice low. "If I even START to think you're not pulling your weight, I'm cuttin' ya loose. We clear?"
"Clear."
"Excellent," the dark-haired man replies, as the bartender brings over two more pints. He pays the bartender, waiting for him to walk off before speaking again. "Now… you got the email, right?"
Dean sits back, starting on his new beer. "Yeah."
"Good. I'll be sending you another by tomorrow morning, after I find out what's what. Then I'll meet you for tea later on. We'll go over the whole thing then."
Dean cracks up at that. "You guys and your fuckin' tea. What's up with that? Is it like a law or something? Even the dudes have to have tea everyday?"
The dark-haired man grins at him. "Ah, come on now. It'll be fun. Besides, I know how much you love wearin' dresses. You can even wear your little lace gloves and carry that new handbag."
"Mmmm… only if you're all gussied up, too," Dean quips back. Both of them share a laugh. Then it dies down and both of them work on their beers for a moment. Dean glances around, then looks back at the dark-haired man. "Listen, man," he starts, slouching in his seat. "How long, do you figure… before we hit it?"
The dark-haired man makes a face, thinking. "Dunno. If I had to guess, I'd probably say...three more days, four at the most. Why?"
Dean takes another sip, then a deep breath. "I got a small favor to ask." The dark-haired man cocks an eyebrow, as Dean leans in toward him, lowering his voice. "I need to get some people over here."
"What people? What for?"
Dean takes another deep breath. "I have this...friend...back in the States, and-"
The dark-haired man cuts him off. "Have you lost your fuckin' mind? I can't do that."
"Wait...just hear me out, okay?" Dean asks. "She's been through a lotta bad shit lately. I mean REALLY bad shit. She just had twins, and her old man's a head case… violent, abusive, know what I mean?"
The dark-haired man rolls his eyes, hearing the word 'she.' "Well, I'm very sorry about all that. But like I said, I CAN'T DO what you're askin'."
"You can if you take it out of my cut."
The dark-haired man does a take at that… then he half-laughs. "You're not fuckin' around here, are ya? You REALLY want to ship your girlfriend AND her bloody kids all the way here."
"She's not my girlfriend."
"Whatever. You have any idea what kind of money you're talkin' about?"
Dean sits back, nodding. The dark-haired man sits back as well, looking at him in amazement. "So...you're willing to give up at least HALF of your bloody cut for this woman and her pups."
Dean raises his eyebrows at that, then shrugs a little. "I got no choice, man. I owe her... owe her big… and this is probably the last chance I'll have to do anything for her. I mean, once the job's done, I gotta disappear." He starts, his eyes focusing on the dim candlelight, dancing on his glass. "And I can't do that without knowing she's gonna be alright. Now I can do this without you… but since I don't have any connections over here, it'd take too long. She's gotta get outta there NOW."
The dark-haired man sighs heavily… and Dean looks up at him, waiting a few seconds before speaking again. "Look, man, I know this isn't just something you can take care of with a phone call. I know how much work we're talking about. But it's IMPORTANT… and like I said, I'll give up whatever I gotta give up to get it done," he says, leaning in again. "So will you help me, or what?"
The dark-haired man stares at him for a moment...then shakes his head. "You're outta your fuckin' mind, Shelton, I'm tellin' ya. Even IF I help you, you think that husband of hers is just gonna sit back and LET you take his family from him? Especially if he's as nuts as you say he is? Y'know what she's gonna be then? Baggage...baggage around YOUR fuckin' neck. That really what you want?"
Dean takes that in then shrugs again. "Like I said, I got no choice."
"Fuck that. You always have a choice… and you're makin' a bad one," the dark-haired man fires back.
Dean checks his watch then looks back at him. "I hear what you're saying and normally, I would agree with you. But the fact is that I won't be able to focus on the job until this is done."
"That so? Then y'know what? Instead of playing travel agent to your fuckin' girlfriend, I should just cut ya loose, right now."
"Well, that's your call, man."
The dark-haired man looks away again. Dean watches him chew on his lip, thinking hard for a good, long time… then he looks back at him. "She got a passport?" he finally asks.
"Dunno. I'll check."
The dark-haired man nods, finishing off his beer. "Go back to the flat, then," he says, getting up. "You'll hear from me."
Dean nods back, then offers a hand as he starts to walk past him. "Thanks, man."
The dark-haired man hesitates for a moment, then shakes it, then grips Dean's hand tighter, pulling him in close. "You better not make me sorry I did this," he says before letting go.
Dean watches him stroll out of the pub, back out in the rain. Then he sighs and sits there for a few minutes, just staring at the empty glass, thinking as he rubs his nearly-bald head, hair shorn to the nub. He smooths his goatee. Then he checks his watch again and grabs his coat, heading back out into the rain himself.
The prison walls of the women's section in Statesville boasted years of oppression, generations of inmates having left their auras and thoughts in the form of crude graffiti and a stubborn stench of mildew. In fact, the pall is so great that when Roseanne thinks about it, she grows convinced the damp brick will suffocate her in her sleep, that she will literally dissolve into oblivion beneath crumbling grey and that there would be no record of her other than as a prison number and a bad memory. Because of all that, her sleep is often interrupted and she thinks maybe her dark arts will suffer under the weight of so much self-pity.
Opening her eyes to late afternoon boredom, her nap ruined, she looks across the way at Oba who is shaking her head as she stands tall against the metal bars, smoking a cigarette with enviable assuredness.
"Why don't you tell me what da trouble is?" The tall woman asks. "I can see da' chaos around you. Upset energy."
"You could say that."
"Tell me."
"I know the children's names- I can focus better- but I don't know if what I'm doing is even working."
"Have you asked da right people?"
The tenor of Oba's voice has a way of inspiring concentration, enthusiasm. Roseanne gets up off her cot and leans against the bars of her own cell, studying her new friend's stance. She mimics it.
"Can I have one?" she asks, pointing to the cigarette lying seductively between Oba's long fingers. The woman nods, leaning over and picking up her pack of cigarettes from the bed. After patting one stick out, she tosses it to Roseanne who quickly lights it. Sucks in the smoke deeply and smiles as if she'd taken a long sip of water after being in a desert for such a very long time.
"Thanks ... and to answer your question, I tried to get some information, but it wasn't enough."
"You t'ink d'ere is a weak link? Is d'ere a spirit who might be intruding?"
"A spirit?"
"Yes. Sometimes d'ere is interference, a sheer in da way of light coming t'rough glass ... smoke blocking a picture. Do you get me?"
"I think so."
"Love sometimes does it." Roseanne takes another long draw off the cigarette and thinks about it. Who could protect Téa with such ... love? Who would be her cover? Sniffling, she twists her mouth in disgust, stretching out her neck muscles, and spits out the name:
"Todd. Her devoted husband. A monster, but someone Téa seems to ... idolize. Whatever that shit is about."
"Hmmm ... yes ... you could be right." Oba gazes at Roseanne thoughtfully, licking her lips at one point, scratching her throat with cat-like care. "You are afraid of him."
"No, not at all."
"Now you lie to me. Don't lie to your teacher." Oba smiles. Letting out an aggravated grunt.
Roseanne answers, "Fine. Yes, he scares me. I told you, he's a rotten bastard who has a record longer than my arm yet I'm in here and he's out there."
"So maybe you need to disrupt his loyalty. Maybe, he needs a little push."
"You mean work the art on him?"
"Yes. T'ink about it, t'ink about his weakness, 'bout his fears. T'ink, cher, hard."
Roseanne looks downwards and breathes in deeply, breathes in the dank smells, the dense air. Tries to let go of the closed-in feelings by concentrating on her new-found work. Yes, the more she reflects, the more she believes that Téa is too protected by Todd's fierce loyalty and love. He himself is probably a powerful spirit whose energy is equally as dark as Roseanne's, as any person's venturing into this world of mystical control.
Think ... of his fears ... of his weaknesses ...
And it comes to her ... so simple ... so clear …
Love is your weakness, your fear. It's the viper that creeps and crawls within you, and without. Love is your mystery ... it's your solution. And what form of love frightens you the most yet also stirs you more than any other? What kind of love has led you to paths of condemnation? What kind of love torments you ... what kind of love can destroy you? What kind of love do you place on a pedestal ... what kind of love do you see as your salvation? Simple ... easy ... it's love in the form of a woman ...
"I can see it," Roseanne mutters.
"Can you, girl?"
"Yes ... I think so."
"Mold it ... play wit' it ... t'ink about it. T'ink of him."
"Yes ..." Roseanne closes her eyes and brings to shape in her mind Todd's eyes, his mouth, his face. His physical body then follows, coming into clear focus, his slender muscles, his strength. His history comes forth as well, his own chaotic energy that spins around him. It was a woman, she thinks, who made him crazy enough to rape; it was a woman who made him crazy enough to cause untold amounts of damage on Llanview. From what Téa had revealed about him, it has always been a woman who motivates him to be better, who paralyzes him, who brings out his worst, and his best.
Yes, and surely, with his being a rapist, sex is always involved ...
"Concentrate on his existence and you will find yourself free of da walls around you. You will be lifted to where you want to be. You will cause da air to move and rumble ... and you will control everyt'ing ..." Oba says, her voice floating around Roseanne like a breeze.
"Everything ..."
"T'ink it ... and it will be real ..."
The whisky stings his throat as it slides down, the glass bottle against his lips cool and comforting. Swallowing, Todd leans back against the marble mausoleum wall ... yeah ... the final resting place of that sonofabitch Victor Lord, creator of half the curse that graces Todd's whole being right now. He tips back the bottle again, finishing the last drops. Sniffs at the burn and shakes his head unconsciously in response.
Christ, he thinks, how could he have done what he did to Starr? God ... what the hell was that?
"She said those words," he groans, trying to explain to the fates, the air, the gods, "my baby girl said the most vile words in the whole goddamn world, filth on her precious lips ... on her mouth ... filth ... filth ..."
He sits inside the darkened crypt, strings of light breaking in through openings along the tops of the walls surrounding him. Dust dances about in the rays and he follows them with his eyes. He slurs when he speaks because he's drunk himself into some kind of place where he thinks he can understand what happened, where he thinks he can justify it, reason through it, excuse himself for the inexcusable.
But it's not working. There is no such place, there is only further self-condemnation.
"Awwww ... shit ..."
He tosses the bottle aside. Rubs his face roughly and represses a sudden need to cry this out. The memory of Starr's terrified voice calling for Blair was unbearable. The memory of her body in his hands ... the ease of causing her so much pain was ... sickening. Why? WHY? Because she said it, she read the words and they had come slithering out of her mouth: Todd Manning raped.
Somewhere inside her brain, she learned the truth about her father, about the man she believes in, learned her father is a rapist. And he showed her, didn't he?! Boy, he showed her.
Stay outta my things ... yeah. Stay outta my life.
"I'm sorry ... I'm so sorry," he cries, at last. Through blurred vision, he looks at his outstretched legs, tasting those salty tears, looks down at his mussed clothes and wonders how he's ever going to make up for his loss of control with Starr? Téa ... she'd been horrified. Yelled at him to stop. And when he looked at her, there was no mistaking the fear on her face, real fuckin' fear, real goddamn concern. Téa ...
God, he'd been wanting her because he missed her so much and he remembers how she wasn't responding to him last night, not in the way he needed her to, and now ... she was going to hate him even more.
"Will she hate me? Nahhh ... she been hatin' me ... and today jus' ... wrapped it all up, nice n'neat with a bow ... a pretty ... fuckin' bow. Why would she respond to a rapist, Manning? Ha! She went through something, you jerk, and ... I'm here, reminding her of what happened every damn minute. Every goddamn minute. She don't need me, boys don't need me… my girl ... my ... girl, she REALLY don't need me."
He sniffles and feels so young ... and so old ... and so thoroughly deprived of love, undeserving of love. "Like me this way, Pop... Pops? Both of you. Awwww don't I deserve this, ain't it jus' perfect? The curses of the Mean Old ... Daddies."
Shaking his head, he laughs pitifully, "Ohhhh yeah, finally did it ... finally showed that little thing who's boss ... right? Just like Peter used to ..."
He slides down even further along the wall, until he's staring up at that light coming through the ceiling, those dust particles floating, mesmerizing. So free ... dancing ... unthinking, unfeeling, un-being. Nonentities. As he watches the symphonic movement of the bits of nothing, out of nowhere, in that moment of quiet misery, the scent of magnolias drifts over him. He hums along with the swirling aroma, remembering a kiss of soft lips on his, a whispered admission of love ... ohhhh it felt good ... it was wrong and it was right. He touches his chest, rubbing it lightly, right where his heart was. Was it beating, he wondered?
Yes, it is.
"Beating long enough to kill someone," he mumbles.
Beating long enough to love someone.
The scent intensifies and Todd sits up, the pain inside of him lulled by the alcohol, by his thoughts of being loved in return. In the faint light, he sees a figure, feminine and ethereal. She's faceless ... but there's no doubt of her womanliness nor of her inherent beauty. He smiles at the image.
"Who 're you?" he asks drunkenly.
I'm here to love you, I'm here to ease your pain, the way you want.
"How'z 'at possible? If you knew me, you'd run ... run like a bitch."
Let me kiss you, let me touch you. You're so hurt, so lonely. And you're so beautiful. A beautiful man, a real man. The kind who makes a woman ... feel. The kind who brings the most hidden parts of a woman out into the open. A man who shouldn't be forgotten or left behind.
"You been drinkin'? Wha's wrong with you?"
I'm your dream, I'm your reality. Let me come to you, let me love you.
In the murky air of the tomb, the ghostly female image moves closer to him, gliding slowly, weightless. Long black hair flutters in a strange breeze and she lights up the space around her with a light he hasn't ever seen before. She's heavenly, magical, and he wants to touch her. He doesn't understand why he feels this way ...
… but he definitely wants it.
Once she's near him, he closes his eyes and sighs, dreaming of her, dreaming of being with her. It would feel good to be embraced by a woman now, to be kissed and held. And if it couldn't be Téa ... well ... why not his own invented angel ... ?
Yes, I'm here for you. You are a man who deserves love, who deserves admiration, who deserves complete loyalty. You ... you ... nobody else should be the center of her world.
"Yeah ... yeah, you're right. Should be me. Been too long alone ... 'cept she don't want me, she don't need me."
He slumps at the painful truth that Téa no longer wants him. Maybe she will never want him again.
Your woman ... she's not good enough for you. I am, though. I won't ever turn you away. Tell me your darkest desires and I will do it; tell me you deepest fear and I will abate it. Tell me ... tell me what you want.
"You ... I want you."
The woman smiles and moves still closer to him, rubbing up against him, stirring him in the way he wants, her whole shadowy self all over him in that way he needs. He is achingly hard now, and he rubs himself, his eyes rolling backwards at the sensation. He inches back because she is gently urging him so and he follows her direction, lying all the way back. She climbs on top of him and he lets her run her hands up and down his body, touching him everywhere and nowhere ... it's real, and it's not... it's a dream, and it isn't. Breathy kisses wet his lips and his tongue reaches for hers, his hands reach for her.
"Love me," he growls.
Her voice, strong and syrupy, answers, "I will love you ..." She has come out of his dream right into his reality.
"I might hurt you," he says.
"You can hurt me, you can love me. It's all the same. You are MY light, you are MY power ... your strength is mine."
Todd shudders with sexual tension and rolls over on top of the phantom-like woman, holding her hands high above her head. Not recognizing her facial features, embracing her anonymity, he violently presses his mouth to hers, his tongue like a sword, deep and penetrating. He's fighting his hunger while fully taking what she's offering. Her legs wrap around him and he can feel her pull, her drawing out of him his will to stand on his own, to believe in himself - to forgive.
But god, he can't. Forgiveness is fucking impossible in any direction.
He's turned on, hard as hell, ready to do anything, not caring, just wanting to feel some kind of human connection, to be reminded that he is a man, that he can be loved, and that he is potent as a living, thinking, breathing human, above all. He wants so badly NOT to be the monster, the out-of-control bastard...
Except ... with thoughts of love, with his deepest insecurities coursing through him, other thoughts come forth as well. Much… darker… thoughts.
He grabs her thigh and jerks her to him, his other hand tightening on her wrists above her head, pulling on them, stretching her arms further upwards. He grinds his hips in between her legs, forcefully. The female creature gasps at his intense grip of her, at the fact she cannot move, and he can see her react to something she's obviously seeing on his face ...
"Wha's the matter?" he rumbles, the barest of grins playing at the corners of his mouth. "Don't like it this way? Didn't I say if you knew me, you'd run?"
Her mouth opens to speak but nothing comes out, giving an appearance of trepidation and Todd suddenly knows he's in control of this interplay. And that sets him on fire as it always has.
"You're scared," he huffs, eyes following the lines of her body beneath his.
"No, no, you misread me."
"I misread nothing." He looks directly at her, into her. "You're a pathetic bitch who thinks she can overpower me, who thinks she can become stronger if she tames the beast. I know you. I've fucked your kind before. I've wrecked your kind before."
He jerks her to him again and she grunts at the pain his fingers are causing on her thigh. He then thrusts so fiercely against her that she yelps like a stepped-on puppy and he moans in response. He looks at her while rubbing his strained erection in slow purposeful strokes.
"Trust me," he rasps, "the 'tamer' always loses." The slur in his words surprisingly lessens, his voice deep and rumbling deep, the threat unambiguous.
She struggles in his hold of her, not denying that he is skillfully striking her where it counts, forcing her to widen her legs, to use his movements for her own pleasure. "As I said," she huffs, "you misread me. I am here for YOU."
While her words are submissive, her intent is not. Her eyes narrow and with the skill of an experienced hunter, her spirit tears right into him, reaches into his core to seek out his most vulnerable of emotions. At that, his head knocks back and it's his turn to take a hard breath at her ripping past his tough exterior. He releases her wrists at it to hold himself up and away from her.
"You're nothing but a boy," she says softly, taking his long hair into her hands, urging him to look at her again. "A hurt, ruined, cursed boy. Your woman sees it and she runs. She wants protection but you can't give it to her. She wants to be free of her pain, but you can't release her because you are too broken. So she looks elsewhere for that protection now and in doing so she betrays you. She ... is not worthy of you, of your endless suffering. She's only worthy of your punishment."
He weakens, weighing the feminine shadow. He figures he's dreaming, still, ... and this is his heart talking about the only woman he loves on this earth. It's his anger, he assumes, his pitiful, pathetic, selfish-as-all-get-out anger.
She betrays you.
He's losing, he knows. Yeah ... okay, he'd been very hurt by Téa. He had made love with her and she ended up in tears and he knew it had to do with what had happened to her when she was in captivity with that Shelton guy… and he kinda thinks he wasn't that, y'know, sensitive to her body or her feelings or some shit like that and... and no matter the explanation and psychological truth, it still hurt like hell to have her reject him the way she did, to see her crying like he was the worst person in earth.
It wasn't fair ... it wasn't fair. And he took all that injustice out on his girl, his precious angel, Starr. It wasn't ... fair.
She betrays you.
The vision then raises herself to meet his lips with hers and he lets the hallucination continue. Her kiss invites more of him, demands more. However ... there is something ... something infinitely curious ...
"And what makes you less worthy of my punishment?" Todd asks.
"Because you rule over me. I am at your mercy. I am everything you dream of, everything you hope for."
"Except one thing ... you aren't real." He chuckles, smoothing out the whisper of cloth covering her body, brushing along her breast. He moves his fingers under the sheer to pull at her nipple, to palm it and delight in its responsiveness. He presses his whole body on hers …
"Aren't I?" She buries her head into his neck and suckles on his skin until he has to pull away, feeling the bite, turned on by it. Grinning, the specter sighs at his frenzied expression. "I'm everything you desire. I will never cry out in pain unless you want me to. I will never cry at your touch unless you want me to. You ... are in control with me. I am predictable, I will never ... surprise you."
Her legs hold onto him and her arms envelop him and he feels so relieved and so excited and eager to do more...
He lets a low moan escape and he smiles, the barest of smiles. Then he finds himself laughing and the woman flickers like in a movie, the picture interrupted.
"Every man's fantasy ... even I have them. And how funny that my fantasy reminds me ... strangely ... of a ... Delgado." The woman stills, her dancing movements slow, as his fingers trace the outline of her features. He senses a weakness on her part.
"Hmmm," he murmurs, "How strange."
The tentative tone returns to the ghost's voice. "Share with me your thoughts, my lover."
Furrowing his brows, his face shows pain, but it isn't genuine. Then he pouts pitifully, exaggeratedly, "I don't understand why she would turn on me. How could she do that? It hurts ... so much."
"Because her spirit is damaged, her spirit is tainted." The voice seems to gain strength.
"Yeah," Todd sniffs, "she's bad ... she's ... so ... bad."
He closes his eyes and moves his hand to the angel's throat, his fingers resting there. The thumps of a pulse beat against his skin and her breath seems to strain. "What's wrong?" he asks gently, his eyes steely and firmly looking into hers. "You still afraid? Don't be. It'll be easy to love me, to be mine..."
"Easy ..." she whispers.
"Yeah ... come on ... love me."
To be continued...
