Carey Re-write

1.
The Californian Poppy Oil dripped down the back of his neck like a provocative finger stroking his nape. He stood still as the finger continued to trail down his back, staining his crinkled white shirt.

2.
“I want to fuck you.”
She shivered in front of him, naked body covered with goose bumps. Goosebumps and a strange mark which curled around her left leg. Mr Jacobs glanced back at her face, but her face had gone slack again. Her voice was tremulous as she said it again, trying vainly to make it sound as if she meant it..
“I want to fuck you.”
She didn’t resist.
“You stupid whore.”
His shouts were punctuated only by his grunting, she lay silent beneath him.
“How will you ever get out, eh doll?”
“You won’t get out, you’ll be stuck here ‘til you’re an old biddy.”
“You’ll be trapped here.”
“Forever.”
Her body had stopped trembling, she lay inert beneath him. Her eyes were blank. His arm twitched. The sound echoed throughout the aisles, reverberating out through the Lost and Found. Her eyes started to refocus, hand raised to her red cheek. Now that the echo was fading, it was the only testament to his anger. His body trembled almost in synchronisation with hers; it had begun. The sound of a wet fish being rhythmically slapped against concrete filled the great Lost and Found, spreading and folding into a cacophony of pain and anger.

3.
She had scuttled away somewhere. Jacobs did not know nor care where. She would be curled up like a cat licking its wounds, crazy little bitch that she was. He wandered through the endless aisles of the Lost and Found, little briefcase clinking softly beside him. He glanced at his watch. Soon it would be time to leave. Too little time was left to make a call, so Jacobs walked. As he strode past the abandoned objects, he mentally pricetagged each one. He stopped briefly before a gold-leaf bible, contemplating taking it with him. He moved on.
He wandered past the grey, dull wood that he often saw her sitting by.
“Totally worthless.”
He didn’t understand why she liked it so much, she would never be able to sell it for much.
Finally he came to the aisle where all the oldest junk was stored. Each and every item was familiar. He remembered categorising them when he had started working here. He had wanted to take everything with him, to sell it all. He knew better now, he took only the smallest and most valuable objects. He saw footprints in the dust, he knew she had been wandering here too. There was a mark in the dust halfway down the aisle, as if someone had sat there recently. It was in front of the butterflies.
He had always disliked butterflies. They had seemed to taunt him, their endless freedom only ended when he would catch and crush them in his hands. At first he had laughed when he saw these butterflies. Their freedom removed, pinned up on the cork. Confined forever, lifeless in the dark.
But he no longer laughed at the butterflies. They were too bright in a world of dust and dullness. They did not fit in.

4.
Mr Jacobs always walked home. A car was too expensive, and if he rode a bike his sweat would mix with the poppy oil to create a disgusting odour. It was starting to get dark, and by now much of the alcohol had worn off. A mewling sound from an alleyway made him break his stride. Walking back, Mr Jacobs found a small grey kitten. Caressing its head with one hand, the other searched for a nametag on its collar.
“Here puss. What’s your name then?
“Smokey? What a cute name.”
The kitten nuzzled his hand, purring as he stroked its back. Letting go of its collar, he continued to stroke it with one hand.
His other hand reached for his battered brown briefcase.

5.
Mr Jacobs’ briefcase had been wiped clean by the time he arrived at his apartment block. As he climbed the flight of stairs to his room, the voice of his superintendent hailed him.
“Jacobs! There have been complaints of a smell of paint from your apartment. You haven’t been…redecorating, have you?”
Jacobs turned with an inaudible sigh.
“No, Miss Peters.”
She stared at him briefly, incuriously glancing at what seemed to be a piece of fur on his briefcase. She shivered slightly and turned away.
Closing the door behind him, Mr Jacobs relished the thought of the day that he would own the apartments. On that day she would call him Misterr Jacobs as she was ejected in tears from her own apartment.
“Two years. Just two more years.”
The astringent smell of the grey paint that covered his walls filled his nostrils as he placed his briefcase in the corner of the bare room.

6.
His arms twitched. His sleeves were rolled back. His forearms protruded from the sleeves, trembling and twitching.
This was the fourth afternoon she had hidden from him, somewhere in the gargantuan Lost and Found. He would find her, it was just a matter of time. And when he did, oh how she would pay.
“Come on out, doll. It’ll be easier in the long run.”
“You can’t hide forever in here.”
The thought of her curled up in some dark corner, listening to his voice and shaking with fear excited him. He would find her today. He just knew it.
Something instinctual made him turn towards the older section. He no longer shouted, he savoured the alcoholic warmth that infused his breath. Slowly turning into the aisle, he saw her. The dust was now far more disturbed than before, she had been coming here more and more often.
“I think I’ve found you my pretty!”
Her head snapped around, eyes wide. She scrambled up, knocking into a shelf in her haste. The movement dislodged the butterfly case. Her head did not even turn around as it shattered right in front of him. His arms flew up unconsciously whilst he dropped to a crouch.
He crouched there for several seconds before raising his head above the protection of his forearms. He began to walk towards the end of the aisle where she had disappeared.
Beneath his feet the butterflies and glass were ground into dust.

7.
The little whore was smiling again. Her imbecilic glee was spread flatly across her face, mouth upturned as her eyes focused and refocused. Mr Jacobs was suddenly unsure. Usually her eyes remained unfocused whilst smiling, as she fled her senses and his world. But now she was happy with something in this world, and he wanted to know why.
Mr Jacobs did not like happiness. It served no purpose. It could not be categorised, it could not be measured on an abacus. How were others to know that one had attained happiness without clear sign of money? Take her for example. She seemed to be happy. Why else would she be smiling? And yet for all her smiling, what had she to show for it? Where was the money to show she had attained something? Mr Jacobs did not understand why she desired happiness. What he did understand was that she would still be here in two years when he was collecting rent in his battered briefcase.
He lit his cigar. She leaned against the wall, staring at him. Even from his chair he could see her quivering.
She began asking him questions again. But though they were the same old questions, she pushed him.
“I bet you wouldn’t.”
‘Listen, doll, I said I would, I meant I would. What’s the matter with you? What the fuck are you smiling about?”
His little toes began to twitch. Then the muscles in his calves began to tremble. In less than ten seconds his arms would be shuddering as well. And after that…well, he wouldn’t be the one quivering.
As he glared at her, the twitching slowly rising up his body, she brought her hands out in front of her.
“There it is.”
The twitching stopped. Just has it had reached the bottom of his chest it halted mid-spasm. Every muscle below his waist remained tight as he stared dumbfounded at her hands.
In her hands she had a piece of thick, brown turd. It was wrapped in plastic film, given an extra sheen.
“You dirty little bitch.”
She placed it on the table, and pulled out a withdrawal form. For two hundred dollars. He blinked. Two hundred dollars was a month’s worth of ‘collecting’. The finger began stroking his neck once more, his back arched.
“Sign the form.”
She would not. He reached out a hand, closing thumb and forefinger on the turd. Fingers sliding in, he began to raise it.
“I didn’t mean it. It was a joke.”
He bit it. His body jerked involuntarily as the morsel passed into his mouth, tongue flicking forward like a dog that bounds forward to meet its master after a day alone. The sound of the girl retching reached his ears. His stomach contorted, and he leant away for a moment to dry-retch. His throat was dry. Fumbling for the glass, he brought it to his mouth. He felt his moustache slide along the glass, leaving behind a smeared trail.
He popped the last of the turd into his mouth and swallowed. As it began to slide down his throat he wished that it had been fresher. Suddenly his throat caught, the turd hanging half-way down his gullet. The chair tumbled as he fled from the room. As his stomach purged itself, his thoughts centred on the two hundred dollars, and the girl.
He returned the room, wiping away the stinking muck from his neat clipped moustache. She stood where he had left her. She did not move. Not even to tremble. Her eyes were wide with fear as he closed the door to the bathroom behind him.
“Now sign the form.”
She would pay.
Oh, how she would pay.
The form signed, she shrunk back against the wall. She cringed at the stench of his breath. He took a step towards her, opened his mouth and quietly uttered;
“Now, give me a kiss.”