Damaged Goods. Helen Black

the two men watching the video. ‘She’s drugged out of her mind.’

      The young man opposite snapped off the television.

      ‘I need to see some sense of her wanting it,’ the older man said. ‘Or not wanting it, if you get my drift.’

      His attempt at inclusion sickened the younger man, and he shuddered. ‘This ain’t what I’m into.’ He gestured to the stack of cassettes beside him. ‘This stuff is just my product, Mr Barrows. Money in the bank, understand?’

      ‘I do, but you understand this: your “product” is not satisfactory, and if you think I will buy inferior goods you really don’t know me.’

      Oh I know you. I know you better than you think.

      ‘I’ve got some more I know you’re gonna like. How about I drop them round tomorrow.’

      A spark shone in Barrows’ eyes. ‘Young?’

      ‘Very.’

       CHAPTER TWO

       Tuesday, 8 September

      Lilly sniffed at the milk, which was two days past its sell-by date, and poured it over some cereal.

      ‘What’s that?’ asked Sam.

      ‘Special K.’

      He turned the empty packet around in his hands as if it were the latest must-have electro gadget. ‘Can I have some?’

      ‘There’s only enough for me.’

      ‘Please.’

      Lilly kissed the crown of her son’s head. ‘Frankly, I don’t think you need to lose weight.’

      Five minutes later Lilly picked at some Shreddies while Sam polished off the bowl of Special K.

      ‘What time is it?’ Lilly asked.

      Sam squinted at his new watch.

      ‘Put your glasses on,’ said Lilly.

      Sam sighed and rummaged through his pockets. Lilly was about to point out how much better it would be to keep them in their case when she saw her own pair lying lens down on the draining board.

      ‘Bart is pointing to eight and Homer’s nearly on six.’

      ‘Shit!’

      ‘That’s a bad word,’ said Sam.

      ‘Thank you, Mary Whitehouse.’

      ‘Who?’

      Lilly scrambled across the kitchen to the cupboard above the fridge to shove the cereal boxes back inside. ‘Never mind. We’re late, get your shoes on.’ In her hurry she tripped over the Lego fortress set up last night, banged her elbow against the fridge and scattered Shreddies across the tiled floor.

      ‘Uh oh.’

      ‘Hurry!’ Lilly yelled, and crunched her way to the door.

      The school grounds were deserted, devoid of the usual melee of babbling mums vying for a place to park. Had everyone been and gone? Surely they weren’t that late? As she wondered, Lilly cast around for a plausible explanation to appease Mrs Thomas, the omnipotent Head of House, and checked the time on her mobile. Five past eight.

      ‘Five past eight? You said it was …’

      She looked at Sam.

      ‘Just joking.’

      At 8.45 a.m. Lilly left the school grounds and drove towards the village of Little Markham. She yawned and decided to go back home for a cup of tea. She had an appointment with Kelsey at ten so there was time to spare, even enough to call for a paper, but as she entered the newsagent’s her mobile rang. Lilly checked the number of the caller and her heart sank.

      The voice at the other end chirped like one of the budgies Lilly’s nan used to keep. Sammy, Davis and Junior had spent their days pecking Trill and making a high-pitched racket. It was so grating that Nan used to put a gingham cover over the cage in the afternoon to fool the noisy buggers into going to sleep.

      ‘Hi, it’s me,’ said David. Lilly wished she could put a cover over her ex-husband.

      ‘Is it about tonight?’

      ‘Yeah. Cara’s just surprised me with tickets to the opera,’ he said.

      Lilly counted to ten. ‘It’s your evening to see Sam.’

      ‘I know. She must have totally forgotten.’

      Of course she did. After all, it must be such a stretch to keep track of her manicures and facials, how could she be expected to remember trivia?

      ‘I’m supposed to be seeing a client,’ said Lilly.

      ‘Can’t you get a sitter?’

      ‘I could, but Sam wants to see his father.’

      ‘You know I’ll make it up to him,’ said David.

      Lilly couldn’t be bothered to argue.

      ‘I’ll get him a programme,’ David said.

      ‘La Traviata, I’m sure he’ll be chuffed.’

      Lilly paid for three chocolate bars and stalked out of the shop. The assistant waved the newspaper she’d left on the counter but Lilly was too distracted to notice. As he put it back on the rack he shook his head at the headline:

      PROSTITUTE BUTCHERED. POLICE SUSPECT SERIAL KILLER.

      People today were out of control, he thought.

      ‘I think I have low self-esteem. Sometimes, when I’m in a room full of people I feel unable to speak. I think they won’t want to listen to anything I’ve got to say. Do you understand, Doctor?’

      William Barrows nodded but he wasn’t listening either. He had no interest in her stupid problems. He couldn’t even look at her directly without feeling ill. Her gnarled hands and wrinkled skin repulsed him.

      As she droned on he fantasised about hurting her, ripping her apart and causing inexplicable pain. Sometimes he couldn’t contain his fury, but today he internalised it, hid it deep within his core.

      As soon as his patient left, Barrows threw open a window to rid his office of her smell. Piss, sweat and halitosis. Even with the air-conditioning on full blast the stench of her decaying body made him gag.

      He looked outside to the street below where the nasty little black man was waiting. He wouldn’t come in until he had to, his distaste of Barrows was too acute. Let the fool bake in the sun.

      Barrows left the window, sat at his computer and made a swift exit from the site he had last visited. ‘Modern psychiatry in practice’ held little interest. Instead he went to his favourites in the hope of something fresh, but nothing new had been posted since yesterday.

      Barrows drummed his fingers. There was insufficient time for what he really wanted, but could he resist? Self-denial had never been a virtue.

      He wandered over to the cabinet beside the television and video recorder. He opened the doors and ran his forefinger along the meticulous rows of video cassettes. Each in exact line with its neighbours, each with its title printed neatly on the side. He let his hand hover over ‘Girl Sucking Thumb’ but moved on to ‘Nervous Redhead’.

      Decisions, decisions. At last he smiled and selected ‘Shy Princess’.

      He always named the films after his co-stars.

      Max waited outside the building. He pulled down a baseball cap to shield his eyes from the hard sun and lit a joint. The weed was good, but he yearned for something stronger.

      A