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about this, or any other fucking play.
His trousers fell down.
I ll show you what I care about.
She reached into his briefs, and clasped him. Her cold hand
somehow made the touch sexier. He laughed, closing his eyes as
she pulled his briefs down to the middle of his thigh and knelt at his
feet.
She was as expert as ever, her throat open like a drain. Her
mouth was somewhat drier than usual, her tongue scouring him,
but the sensations drove him wild. It was so good, he scarcely
noticed the ease with which she devoured him, taking him deeper
than she d ever managed previously, using every trick she knew to
goad him higher and higher. Slow and deep, then picking up speed
until he almost came, then slowing again until the need passed. He
was completely at her mercy.
He opened his eyes to watch her at work. She was skewering
herself upon him, face in rapture.
God, he gasped, that is so good. Oh yes, oh yes.
Her face didn t even flicker in response to his words, she just
continued to work at him soundlessly. She wasn t making her usual
noises, the small grunts of satisfaction, the heavy breathing
through the nose. She just ate his flesh in absolute silence.
He held his breath a moment, while an idea was born in his
belly. The bobbing head bobbed on, eyes closed, lips clamped
around his member, utterly engrossed. Half a minute passed; a
minute; a minute and a half. And now his belly was full of terrors.
She wasn t breathing. She was giving this matchless blow-job
because she wasn t stopping, even for a moment, to inhale or
exhale.
Calloway felt his body go rigid, while his erection wilted in her
throat. She didn t falter in her labour; the relentless pumping
continued at his groin even as his mind formed the unthinkable
thought:
She s dead.
She has me in her mouth, in her cold mouth, and she s dead.
That s why she d come back, got up off her mortuary slab and
come back. She was eager to finish what she d started, no longer
caring about the p or her usurper. It was this act she valued,
lay,
this act alone. She d chosen to perform it for eternity.
Galloway could do nothing with the realization but stare down
like a damn fool while this corpse gave him head.
Then it seemed she sensed his horror. She opened her eyes
and looked up at him. How could he ever have mistaken that dead
stare for life? Gently, she withdrew his shrunken manhood from
between her lips.
What is it? she asked, her fluting voice still affecting life.
You. . . you re not. . . breathing.
Her face fell. She let him go.
Oh darling, she said, letting all pretence to life disappear, I m
not so good at playing the part, am I?
Her voice was a ghost s voice: thin, forlorn. Her skin, which he
had thought so flatteringly pale was, on second view, a waxen
white.
You are dead? he said.
I m afraid so. Two hours ago: in my sleep. But I had to come,
Terry; so much unfinished business. I made my choice. You should
be flattered. You are flattered, aren t you?
She stood up and reached into her handbag, which she d
left beside the mirror. Galloway looked at the door, trying to make
his limbs work, but they were inert. Besides, he had his trousers
round his ankles. Two steps and he d fall flat on his face.
She turned back on him, with something silver and sharp in
her hand. Try as he might, he couldn t get a focus on it. But
whatever it was, she meant it for him.
Since the building of the new Crematorium in 1934, one
humiliation had come after another for the cemetery. The tombs
had been raided for lead coffin-linings, the stones overturned and
smashed; it was fouled by dogs and graffiti. Very few mourners
now came to tend the graves. The generations had dwindled, and
the small number of people who might still have had a loved one
buried there were too infirm to risk the throttled walkways, or too
tender to bear looking at such vandalism.
It had not always been so. There were illustrious and influential
families interred behind the marble façades of the Victorian
mausoleums. Founder fathers, local industrialists and dignitaries,
any and all who had done the town proud by their efforts. The body
of the actress Constantia Lichfield had been buried here ( Until the
Day Break and the Shadows Flee Away ), though her grave was
almost unique in the attention some secret admirer still paid to it.
Nobody was watching that night, it was too bitter for lovers.
Nobody saw Charlotte Hancock open the door of her sepulchre,
with the beating wings of pigeons applauding her vigour as she
shambled out to meet the moon. Her husband Gerard was with
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