By Quon and Tom
2.
Paul woke slowly from a sleep so dark it was like swimming through ink. A
shower, juice, coffee and painkillers: he coaxed his body into a semblance of well-
being. Strangely, or not so strangely, he found himself thinking of Carlos. Paul let
out a quiet, bemused chuckle. Carlos: tall, dark and pretentious. He was so different
to Paul. He was catty and obnoxious, but welcoming and generous, too. He was vain
and gauche in equal measures. He was…he was unique. And he was changing
before Paul’s eyes.
Paul fried eggs and bacon in a pan and tried to focus on the night before.
From the moment they’d arrived, there was something off about Carlos. He had
disappeared into his booth and was even ignoring the flock of gothic girls that
circled his vinyl collection. Carlos only had eyes for that kid, the young blond guy.
Carlos had done this a few times before, stared at these vulnerable, artistic,
overwhelmed boys who hid in the gloom of the club looking his way. He had never
approached one before, never wrapped his long black-clad body around them like a
shadow. When Paul had passed by, vodka in hand, Carlos had glanced up at him
and Paul had frozen. There was something different about his eyes that it was like
looking at a stranger. Maybe it was some super-strong line of coke, but there was
almost something hungry about him.
Across the apartment, an answer phone picked up a call. It was one of the
barmen from the club last night.
“Paul? Hi, sorry to bother you but have you spoken to Carlos today? This
woman called this morning, apparently, her kid was in the club yesterday and he
didn’t go home last night. He’s not answering his cell phone and she’s really
worried. She’s threatening to go to the cops ‘cause we let him in and served him
alcohol and the kid is only eighteen. It’s a fucking mess, Paul, but mention it to
Carlos, please? The kid’s name is Christian and a few people think they saw him
leave with Carlos.”
The machine clicked as the caller hung up. Paul shivered, suddenly cold. He
called Carlos as his breakfast started to burn in the pan.
“Hello?”
Carlos was half-talking to the pillow as he lifted the receiver with an
exhausted arm. He felt unpleasantly dirty somehow.
“Carlos?” Paul, sounding nervous. “Are you awake?”
“No.”
“Listen, I got a call from the club you were doing last night. Did you meet
a kid named Christian? People were saying they thought he left with you.”
“I think so, yeah. Yeah, blond kid?”
“Yeah. He’s missing.”
There was a long pause in which Carlos came very awake, sitting up in bed.
“He’s what?”
“Gone, Carlos. Nobody can find him.”
“Fuck.” Carlos thought recklessly for a moment, tried to determine just
what had gone on.
“We went outside, and we smoked some pot. I was drunk. That was all I
remember. I blacked out about halfway through.”
“Fuck. Well, this kid didn’t come home last night and his mum is shitting a
brick.”
“I can imagine. Well, I’ll see. I’ll think and see if I can remember.”
“Okay.” Paul hung up the phone without so much as a goodbye, and Carlos
set the receiver down with a thudding heartbeat. What happened to that kid?
Something bad, no doubt. Something really bad. Gooseflesh shivered over him in a
chilling wave and he sat up in bed. He rubbed his nose and it came away sticky,
tacky with drying blood. Nosebleed, he thought absently. He could smell it; rich
and savoury, sticky-moist and metallic. Sour and somehow tempting. He didn’t
think much of the sensation and turned his attentions towards more pressing matters,
like the fact that he desperately needed a shower.
As he climbed groggily into a steaming downpour, he closed his eyes and
rinsed his hair and body of its disgusting film. The smell was powerful: that same
coppery scent raising the fine hairs on his neck, sending his belly squirming. Carlos
ignored it. He ran shampoo through his hair, thinking about that pretty blond kid,
Christian. Carlos had intended only to have his way with him; what had really
happened after he had blacked out? He hoped that he had only run off to be
pensive, as emo children like that would do, but somehow in his heart he knew that
Christian hadn’t been so lucky.
Not to mention, he had had such a disturbed dream last night; it had only
been a flash, and if it hadn’t been so vivid, he would not have remembered. A burst
of bright red blood and jellied flesh, a rasping gurgle of breath and a dying,
struggling convulsion. It had seemed so vivid, so awfully real…
Carlos threw back a cup of coffee and unfolded the paper, and thought no
more about any of it.