19

Café Montmartre was new and gleaming with fresh paint, fixtures and fittings. An attempt had been made to recreate the feel of the genuine French article. But with its lilac walls, dinky gilt mirrors and brass lights, it was a cheap parody, totally lacking in any kind of atmosphere. They had got all sorts of other details wrong too, Tom thought, spreading a large dollop of marmalade on his croissant. For starters, the French didn’t eat marmalade, from what he could remember. Instead they made something unpleasantly sweet and gloopy out of oranges that had none of the tangy bitterness and bite of a decent English marmalade. At least this one came in its own small pot, safe from contamination by someone else’s buttery knife or, worse still, toast crumbs. Grudgingly, he was forced to admit that it didn’t taste too bad, although it couldn’t hold a candle to his grandmother’s. She cut her peel nice and thick and sometimes put brandy in it. Hers was the best he had ever tasted, made with Seville oranges when they came into season once a year just before Christmas. He remembered the pleasure of being allowed to lick the pan and spoon, if he had been good. Luckily, the old bat had made a new batch just before he’d throttled the life out of her and he had enough to last him a long while.

He took a bite of croissant. The butter was salted, of course, unlike real French butter, but although a bit chewy, the croissant was acceptable. Which was more than could be said for the coffee, which he’d had to send back twice. The waitress looked pretty pissed off, failing totally to understand what he was talking about and, when he’d insisted on hot milk, instead of cold, she seemed to think he was being difficult. From what he could tell, she was Russian or from some unsophisticated, Central European shit-hole. It wasn’t surprising she hadn’t a clue. But her attitude left a lot to be desired. She wouldn’t be getting a tip from him and if she had the gall to try and add service to his bill, he’d strike it off.

Something about her, smilingly oblivious each time she spoke to the way she murdered the English language, made him think of Yolanda. She was another of these stupid cunts who came over here and made no proper effort to get to grips with the native tongue. They were just there for a good time; slags, all of them. All thanks to the EU and the stupid British taxpayer. But in a way, that played nicely into his hands. The papers had tried to spoil things for him and the old routine wouldn’t work any longer. But it was time for a change anyway and it would be fun to try something new. There was little Yolanda, totally unaware of what was going on in the big world around her, just ripe for the picking. He was amazed that anybody had employed her to look after their kids. Didn’t parents have more care these days? Or were they so engrossed in their own work and lives that they didn’t give a stuff? His talents were wasted on her but he wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity. She was asking for it, stupid little bitch.

He glanced at the headlines in the café’s newspaper, skim-reading the first few pages, then laid it down beside him on the red leatherette bench. There was nothing in it about him today, which was a little disappointing. Perhaps it was a deliberate ploy to try and make him feel unimportant. He didn’t like the moniker they had given him. ‘The Bridegroom’. It sounded rather limp, unless perhaps they were thinking of Death as a bridegroom. It certainly didn’t have the same oomph as ‘The Yorkshire Ripper’ or ‘The Night Stalker’. But maybe they’d come up with something more imaginative once they got to appreciate his talents a little better. So far, they didn’t know the half of it.

The waitress slapped what looked like a cappuccino down in front of him. He took a sip through the nasty sprinkling of cocoa on the surface and pushed it away. It was an empty gesture, as the slag was already busy with another customer, taking down his order and giving him a cheap, flirty smile. Watching her, hating her, with her greasy, pudding-face and bleach-streaked hair, he felt on edge. Nasty, low-cut T-shirt and tight, short denim skirt which revealed an unappetising amount of shapeless leg – piano legs, as his grandmother would have called them. Nothing left to the imagination.

Seeing her stirred him up, rekindling the familiar desire. He closed his eyes and pictured taking her somewhere quiet, slamming her up against a wall, pressing hard against her, her hands forced behind her back, his hand tight like a clamp over her mouth and nose. He was so much stronger. He could see the panic in her eyes, kicking, thrashing, trying to bite him, her face turning pink and then purple as she struggled to breathe. Like a butterfly stuck with a pin, he would hold her there for as long as it took, waiting for her to finally weaken and go limp. That exquisite moment as the light was snuffed out. Then the look of surprise permanently frozen on her face as he slowly removed his hand. Just like that old witch, his grandmother. How he treasured that memory.

He’d been to confession that morning, the first time in weeks, and he’d seen her in one of the pews dressed in her black widows’ weeds, like so many of the foul old women who infested the place as if they had nothing better to do with their day. She didn’t look at him – as if she didn’t care that he was there or what he might tell the priest. He ignored her in return, walking to the front to wait his turn by the confessional without giving her the satisfaction of looking back. When he came out later, she was gone. But back at the house, he found her sitting in her favourite red velvet armchair by the fireplace, arrogantly oblivious to the fact that the grate was empty and cold. Her image flickered, translucent like a candle flame and she turned her sour, yellow face slowly towards him, malice in her eyes as she mouthed something. Bastard. That was the word, he was sure. He’d gone out of the room and slammed the door on her. She could just fuck off. Bastard. The little bastard. That was what she had always called him. How he hated her. He would squeeze the life out of her again and again, if only he could.

The longing was back much sooner than before, aching, gnawing at him, pulsing like a heartbeat. The hunger, the deep gut-twisting desire. It was getting stronger. There was only one way to deal with it. He would have to change the setting, alter the script a little, but it was good to improvise and he was sure it would be just as satisfying. As he sketched out in his mind a scenario for little Yolanda, the policewoman’s face rose inexplicably in his mind.