My singing comes to an abrupt stop, like when someone lifts the needle from a record player, scratching the surface. Though the music still continues to play, I can’t hear anything past the throbbing in my ears as I glance down at Dom’s white shirt in my hands.
The deep red splatters spoil the collar and part of the breast pocket, reminding me of the night Malcolm slit some guy’s throat right in front of me.
He always asked for me to serve him in the private room he occupied. Then I would dance for him. I should never have worn the necklace that night, but it went well with the burlesque outfit I was wearing for the show.
Malcolm and a group of men played cards around a large wooden table. Smoke from cigars filled the room, stinging my eyes. Malcolm looked up from his deck of cards. His lip curled into an evil grin when he raked my body in the black and red ruffled skirt and boned bodice.
I schooled my features, hating how he looked at me. An icicle scratched the length of my back, causing a cold shiver to rack my bones. After setting the round tray on the table, I dished out everybody’s drinks.
“Thank you, Pops.” His grin widened when he caught sight of my necklace. His fingers, like tentacles, slithered across the red stones. “You wore your jewellery for me.”
It wasn’t a question, more of an observation. He was always asking me to wear my jewellery, like he got off on it or something.
“Yes,” I whispered, though I hadn’t worn it for him. I’d worn it because I thought it went perfectly with my look. Secretly, I wanted to stand out amongst the backing dancers. I’d worked hard practicing the routine. While this may be a sleazy casino, at least dancing was something I loved.
“Sweetheart, come and sit on my lap. You might bring me some luck,” some guy I’d never seen before said.
Malcolm nodded in approval, like I needed his permission. I perched on his knees, not wanting to press all my weight against him.
“Pretty thing, aren’t you?” His hands crept along my thigh, his cigar breath invaded my senses. Malcolm didn’t seem to mind other guys taking pleasure from me. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it, but once his fingers danced around the glittery jewel around my neck, Malcolm’s eyes shot daggers across the table.
“Hands off,” he squawked, like a magpie attracted to anything shiny.
“Don’t worry, Malc. I can share. I’m not a greedy man.”
Feeling extremely uncomfortable, my body broke out into a sweat. I pressed my palms on the flat of the table to push myself from his knee.
His fingers curled around the snake at my neck, clutching onto it and forcing me back down before I snapped the clasp. This was all I had left of my father, a gift he gave my mother, but she never sold it. She kept it hidden away like her most prized possession after me, said it was sentimental. So sentimental, she put it in a safety deposit box along with photos and other old pieces of costume jewellery.
There was no way I was letting some bastard with dirty hands break the only thing I had that was a symbol of my father’s love for my mother, but when his hands were squeezing around my throat, I couldn’t breathe.
Voices muffled around me as my vision went black, then I saw red. With his hands loosened, I slipped from his grasp as I fell to the floor. Blood spurted from his neck, covering my face and hands. For a moment, everything seemed still and quiet, like I was in a movie. Only I was the camera taking in the scene before me as it panned around, filming from all angles.
With a loud ringing sound in my ears, I was jolted into my body. Loud voices shouted across the table. Malcolm waved the knife, threatening to slash at anyone who dared to cross him.
While preoccupied, I crawled away, gasping for breath. My hands trembled, coated in splatters of blood. I ran to the toilets backstage and locked myself in, then scrubbed myself so hard, I made marks on my hands, face, and chest. All I wanted to do was go home and shower, but I needed to get the hell away from that place as fast as I could, and that’s exactly what I did.
My heart pounds against my chest as I struggle to breathe, just like that night. I’m sure I’m as white as the shirt I’m holding, well part of it anyway.
The last time Dom wore this was when he took me from Club Curve. I don’t remember him having stains on his shirt. I would have noticed this. It’s not like he cut himself shaving.
With deep breaths, I try to rationalise all the things it could be. He could have had a nosebleed.
The front door closes, making me jump. I turn my head to Dom standing in the doorway of the utility room. I never heard his car.
He steps towards me, looking down at me on the tiled floor, his bloodied shirt in my hands. “Red?” His voice is full of concern as he bends his knees, crouching next to me.
Looking between me and his shirt, he takes it from me and inspects the small splatters of blood.
“I doubt the stains will wash out. Blood doesn’t tend to come out of clothing, unless you spit on it,” I say, trying to stay calm, as though it’s not unusual to have blood on your clothing.
“Is that why you’re upset?” He kisses my nose. “I couldn’t give a shit about a bit of blood on my shirt. Throw it away for all I care. Eating you out was worth it.”
I drop the shirt. “You’re saying this is from me?”
“What else would it be?” He gazes into my eyes, almost convincing me, but I would have noticed this. I’m sure I would.
26
