SHINE
Chapter 25
Hey Let Me Show You
Neil sat in his small office watching the clock idly whittle away the hour. His screen blinked momentarily and his narrow fingers manipulated the mouse, to view the woman he'd been monitoring. He watched her withdraw some cash and stuff it awkwardly into her purse, fighting the heavy clasp closed. He pressed his Bluetooth headset and handed her over to the units on the ground. He saved the surveillance to the hard drive and closed the image down.
Satisfied, he sat back in the soft, cushioned, chair, toying with the downy hair under his lip that he had been growing, for what seemed, most of his forty-three years.
'Bumfluff!' He heard his Mother's voice splinter through the monotonous hum of the room and he was drawn back a year to the flowery sitting room, the blank stare of the porcelain dolls, the collective smell of perfumed old ladies and the cackle of their rancorous laughter.
"It takes a real man to grow a moustache," his mother remarked to her fellow church going crones.
They hooted with amusement like a group of horny Colobus monkeys, the impetus of their combined body weight enough to sink a large row boat.
"Oh, but he does make excellent cakes," Mrs Philpotts exclaimed, stuffing another piece of honey cake in her over indulged mouth, her ill fitting teeth falling slightly with the action.
His mother gave a disparaging snort, pushing her own plate away. "Neil, make another pot of tea and bring some of those iced-buns out, this cake is far too sweet for my liking. Really, you know how sugary things bring on my heart burn."
'Then stop eating them you overweight pig,' he thought but instead he smiled meekly and picking up the teapot went into the kitchen.
"Oh, and some more of that cherry slice would be nice," Mrs McLinden called after him. He stopped by the door and returned her excessive, red, smile that had seeped into her smoker's pout.
His mother turned to view him from over the back of the chair, she creaked with the effort. "And when you come back, I'll need some socks put on, my feet are getting cold again. Did you turn up the heating?"
"Yes mother."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes mother." He felt his grip tighten on the teapot.
"Well, bring the blue socks down, the Marks and Sparks ones Hetty bought me for Christmas. The yellow ones you bought are far too tight. I expect you got them from that Asian fellow's stall on the market." She shook her head and turned back to her friends who gave her sympathetic looks. "Some summer," she remarked, "when we have to have the heating on…"
Neil walked into the kitchen and filled the kettle with water, putting it onto the gas. He opened the nearest drawer and pulled out a box of matches, striking one against its side. He watched the flame creep to his finger until it chard his nail, hypnotised by its erotic dance, delighting in the small sting of pain.
"Is something burning?" His mother's shrilled voice slapped him from his reverie.
He blew out the glow. "No mother," he returned.
He watched the curl of the smoke rise and breathed in the burnt aroma of its enchanting shadow. It took him back to Canary Wharf.
Fire and bodies, escape and freedom.
He smiled, he could still hear the others pounding on the door and the advancing metal footfalls echoing down the corridor. He had stayed for a moment, listening to their cries, pleading, beseeching him to open the door. It was within his power, within his control, their life, their death so he chose the latter. What were a few more bodies if it slowed the Cybermen down and meant his own survival? Leaving the door locked, he had turned towards the daylight with no regrets.
He pulled out a serrated knife and set to work cutting into the cherry cake. Eight even slices in all, putting the ends to one side to place out on the bird table, later. He then reached for the packet of iced buns noticing that they had already been opened. His fingers brushed over the plastic, counting the contents. Five. It was meant to be a packet of six. She had eaten one, leaving five. Neil looked down at the display of cherry cake. He carefully pulled out four buns and arranged them on the plate also, his hand shaking slightly as he positioned them. He then turned his attention to the remaining bun. Picking up the knife he began to cut into it, dragging the blade savagely through its soft texture. "Bitch," he whispered as he sawed, "couldn't wait, had to stuff your face."
"Don't forget to warm the pot!" His mother's oppressive voice reverberated from the fusty confines of the living room.
"I won't," he called back, submissively, removing the knife and placing it on the breadboard.
He looked down at his hands, as if they were detached from his being, watching as they began to gouge and rip at the dough, squashing it in their fury until it was reduced to mound of compressed crumbs. He exhaled, closing his eyes, letting his irritation fizzle back under the surface, placing on his mask of congeniality. He put the crumbs with the ends of cake and then crossed to the sink to wash the knife. As the water bounced from the blade he decided that now he would have to kill her.
Neil checked the time again, it was still early. He walked over to a small alcove away from the main hub of his domain and spooned a level teaspoon of coffee into the delicate china of his mug. He flicked the switch on the travel kettle and waited for it to burst into life. He had gotten a taste for coffee at Canary Wharf, instant though, not filtered, couldn't stand filtered, too strong, too American. His mother would never allow any in the house; it was all too foreign for her palate. He smiled and toyed with his ID, pulling at the coloured Lanyard around his neck.
He heard the door go and the sound of measured heels walking to his desk. "Neil?" A polished voiced entreated above the quite drone of the computers.
He tucked his card into his shirt pocket and went back out; an ambiguous smile vaulting his lips.
"Were you hiding from me?" The young woman teased as he came into view.
"Um, no Miss Cole, I was just making a drink." He nervously indicated with his thumb and quickly sat down at the desk, pushing his shoulders back. He cleared his throat and pulled nervously at his moustache.
She ran a bright, red, fingertip around the wooden edge of his bureau. "Oh, come on, Neil, I don't call you Mr Down, surely then you could call me Lucy." Her lips pursed playfully around the sound of her name.
He gave her a shaky smile as he positioned his pad and picked up his pen, gripping its barrel a little too tightly while holding it close to the paper. The ink from the nib rapidly spread against the fibres of the ivory sheet. He pulled the tip away, diverting his stare from the brutal stain.
He looked up at her. "What can I do for you Miss, um, Lucy?" He asked crisply.
She rested her hands on his desk and leaned forward, the low neck of her blouse revealing the raspberry bra on the arc of her breasts.
He swallowed, wondering how the same article of clothing would look on him, curious to how the delicate lace would feel next to his skin or how the bud of his nipple would look bowing against the crush of the semi-sheer brocade.
He licked his lips, his mouth as arid as the desert.
He had tried on his mother's lingerie, after her demise, but hers had been solid, no-nonsense affairs with thick, ugly, straps for total support. Lucy's underwear hinted at the carefree with no controlling wires or rigid cups.
"Are you looking down my top Neil?" Came the purr of her soft voice.
He quickly averted his eyes to the swell of ink marring the virginal page. "No, no I was just…"
She smiled slyly. "It's okay, I mean, we're friends aren't we?"
She moved around behind him, setting her small hands to work on the knots in his shoulders. He stretched into her soothing caress, the lure of her Ambery perfume intoxicating his mind.
She moved her lips close to his ear. "I need your help Neil." Her breath was refreshing against his skin, unlike the ragged, stale, gasp of his mother's as she slipped into death.
"W-what do you need?" He stammered, turning towards her mouth.
She smiled, the fading shade of cardinal on her lips contrasting against her colourless skin, white as milk, pale as…
'And I looked, and beheld a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.'
…Death
She inclined her head. "I need some information," she began.
He laughed despite the growing unease he felt. "Well, you've come to the right place." He picked up his pen. "What do you need?"
She reached across and grabbed the Parker from his hand, the heavy ring on her finger splitting the light. "This is an unofficial enquiry, if you know what I mean." She ran a fingertip over his cheek.
"Classified and for my eyes only," she illuminated. "I need secrets Neil, those dark little things we suppress and hope no one else will discover for fear that they will destroy us. We all have them, some more than others and some are murder to keep."
Her stare crystallised, reaching into the glass of his being. She nuzzled his cheek and sang into the shell of his ear. '"Yesterday I got so old, I felt like I could die. Yesterday I got so old, it made me want to cry. Go on go on, just walk away. Go on go on, your choice is made. Go on go on and disappear. Go on go on, away from here..."'
Neil froze, watching the light recoil from her ring as if it was afraid to be confined upon its jewels. The lyrics danced in his mind, tearing his thoughts back to that cold November night.
She had fallen out of bed; one too many gins could do that, especially doubles. Neil watched her struggle with the bulk of her weight like an upturned beetle unable to right itself. She called his name until the slur of her voice became horse. He walked over to her and smiled, touching her face.
"What took you so long?" She admonished.
He stood up. "Well come on, help me back into bed, I could die of cold led here."
"Yes," he replied, smiling to the gods of fate.
He stepped over her incapacitated form to the window and pulled back the curtain. The night was veiled in ice. He smiled again and opened the casement wide, letting the raw ghost of winter expel the ardent spirits from the room.
He then turned the radiator off and pulled the bed clothes away from her grasp.
"Neil, what are you doing, come back, come back this instant!"
He didn't look back as he shut the bedroom door. He went to his own room, sat in front of the mirror and carefully applied his mother's lipstick, the solid colour worn down through its frequent Sunday use. He then lay on his bed and listened to Inbetween Days, by the Cure, on repeat until morning.
"She didn't die straight away," Neil's voice drifted around the office in monotone, his gaze never leaving the mesmerising effect of the ring.
"Yes," Lucy replied with apathy, yawning into her hand. "Never get tired of hearing you tell it." Her face lit up with a crazed grin although her eyes remained focused. "Some are meant to suffer that's how it is, others, like us are, well, we're here to party."
"Party, yes." The ring seemed to pulsate with rainbows.
"Can't let anyone stand in the way of a good party, now, can we?" Her voice swamped his mind as she caressed his cheek. "There's nothing purer and more unsullied, than the desire for revenge." She smiled, looking beyond him. "So that's why I need your help."
Lucy snapped her fingers, Neil blinked. "I'm sorry what were you saying."
"Torchwood three, I need information on their employees." She walked round to the front of the desk.
Neil looked up, unable to contain his glee. "But not just what's on their records." He added.
"We understand each other perfectly," she replied, reaching into her jacket pocket for a compact.
"And Captain Harkness?" He spat out the name.
She flipped open the small case and viewed herself in its mirror, letting a fingertip brush against her lip. "Hmm," she said in deliberation, assessing their wilting colour. "Of course, you have history, he passed you over for a job there, didn't he?" Her gaze remained on her reflection.
She pulled a lipstick from the same pocket and scanned its label. "Juicy Bubblegum," she mused twisting the base.
"He told me I was over qualified," Neil griped, covetously watching as she deftly spread the fuchsia hue over the crescent of her lips.
"Yes and he took on a boy half your age, that must have hurt." She pursed the colour together, observing the action in the circular glass. "Hmm, a little too pink for my taste, never really liked you in pink…"
"He's a liability," Neil carped.
Lucy rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to him. "I'm sorry, you were saying?" She snapped the top back on the wand of colour.
"Harkness, he's a liability," he repeated.
She laughed; the light dancing from the watery lustre of the succulent pink hue. "He's a freak," she chuckled. "But don't worry; he'll get what's coming to him." A sinister smile dripped from her freshly painted lips and Neil yearned to drown in the mesmerising colour.
"With your help of course," she directed sweetly; he shivered.
"Here," Lucy threw him the wand.
He turned it in his hand. "Your lipstick?"
"You keep it." She winked and turned back to her reflection. "I always preferred her in red."