Loved by Mr. Night

She sat in the lobby watching the Western women drift by, heady strands of exotic scent lingering in their wake. They mask their aging with dyed blonde hair and painted faces, drape themselves in haute couture and walk on heels which were made to kill. Skin pale as ivory, eyes green, blue or hazel doesn’t matter. Men did not look at the eyes in the way that they watched their hips sway. Startling. Bizarre. They have everything that she aspires for. Men, money, style, carelessness of the freedom of the life that they have taken for granted. But it is an aspiration that she will never realize. Because she did not know that she will never see tomorrow. The girl catches a glimpse of her reflection. There is so much light everywhere, glass, polished metal, elevator doors, shining marble. She is everywhere that she looks…by far in the contrast she is shocked by her plainness. She is nothing like those women that she was staring at. It is only too apparent to her, beneath the make up on her face and the painted red lips and her eyes that she has tried to make her look beautiful. But she feels dowdy and ugly. She became aware of the man who was leaning on the table and looking at her. He was standing at the reception, anxious to catch her eyes and undressing her with his eyes so that she knows what is on his mind. The man is not remotely ashamed of his lust and she is uncomfortable. She had good legs, long and slender. Her skirt is short so as to make the most of them. But she uncrosses them now and presses her knees firmly together. There is no doubt in her about what he wants and it is not her. A voice speaks her name. It is soft, gentle and older, close by. She gets startled and looks up and finds an older man staring down at her. He is smiling at her. She is surprised by its intimacy. But he is not like what she had imagined. He is older but his hair is full and dark and there was something reassuring about him being an American too. He will be no ticket to better life but neither was he going to make false promises and he will know the value of money when he puts in her hand when it is all over. It was all so simple. A gaping black hole in the Silk Street leading to a narrow alleyway where the stall holders had closed up for night hours ago. To her surprise they turn into a tiny market street, and are swallowed up immediately by its darkness. She hesitates but his grip on his arm only tightens. She wants to ask him where they are and why they are going to a place like this. Where is his car? She asks and he answers that he cannot take her home and he has no car. Here they will not be disturbed. It is too cold. He promises to keep her warm and perhaps another hundred dollars if she adjusts…. She is slightly mollified and reluctantly allows him to lead her deeper into the alley. Here in the day thousands of people clamour and haggle for bargains, stall holders shouting and spitting and throwing the dregs of coffee on the cobblestones. She has been here many times but she had never seen this place like this. Cold deserted and shuttered up and the lights of the apartment buildings seem to plunge the alley into deeper darkness. They are almost at the far end of the alley when he propels her into an opening, and she feels the freezing cold of the metal gates pressing up against her back. She feels his breath on her neck, lips grazing her skin and she tenses for the inevitable. It never gets any easier at all. But he steps back and says that she should relax. He takes a pack of Russian cheroots from his coat pocket and then lights up one. His lighter flares up briefly in the dark. She is still shivering from the cold but it is less scared now. He leans against the wall talking about the demolition of the city in the northern side and the building of the apartment blocks there.  He lows the smoke into the air and watches it drift pass banner forbidding smoking. He asks her where she lives and if she has a day job. And she tells him about the antiques stall near her home and about her mother. She has no inkling of the contempt that he holds for her. She thinks that his smile reflects his interest. She thinks that his eyes are kind. She finishes her cigarette and then he tosses his cheroot into the darkness. Embers scatter as it hits the ground. He steps closer, a hand slips beneath her jacket, his hand searching for small breasts into fullness by the wonderbra sent by God for Chinese women. Hot smell on her face and the bitter smell of the cheroot he had just smoked. His hand lingers only briefly at her breast before gliding up her neck, fingers softly encircling it as he finds her lips with his and she chokes back the repugnance. Only she has no breath and she cannot speak. And for a moment she wonders what has happened to her, before realizing that his fingers have turned to steel and are crushing her windpipe. She struggles to free herself, but he is far too strong. His face is still close to hers, watching as she fights for her life that is fading so quickly. His eyes are full and wide and full of something that she has never seen before. She cannot believe that she will die here like this. Not here. Not now. Lights flash before her eyes and her fight starts to ebb. Too fast. Too easy. All too easy. Then darkness descends like a warm cloud, and she is gone. To a place that she has never dreamed of before. Her slight frame has become a dead weight in his arms, surprisingly heavy in lifelessness, as he lowers on to the ground, arranging her carefully on the paving stones. He glances quickly each way down the alley, and can hear the guard stamping his feet far beyond the market street, where embassyland stretches off into silent darkness. There is a frisson in him knowing that there is someone so close. So oblivious. It somehow emphasizes his superiority. Crouching beside her he looks at the dead girl on the ground and runs his fingertips lightly over the features of her face. She is still warm. Her blood still oxygenated. There is a tiny smile on his lips as he draws the knife from beneath his coat.