Uninvited by Jocelyn Dexter

Author:Jocelyn Dexter [Dexter, Jocelyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloodhound Books

32

Me

It had been almost relaxing following the life and times of Lucy Twist, after witnessing the horrors of Roger’s nocturnal habits. She, in comparison to her father, the sexual sadist, was more of a walk in the park. Stupid, but normal.

She worked full-time in a pub. Easy enough for me to finish up watching Rog’s exploits, and then move on seamlessly to Lucy’s pub. Unoriginally named The Cock.

The more I got to know Lucy, understood what she was about, I thought that perhaps, on some level, she’d subconsciously picked the pub for its name only. But I didn’t think her that intelligent, if I’m being perfectly honest.

Frank, perhaps wisely, chose to drink in a local pub closer to his work. She, therefore, greedily took the opportunity to, in her eyes, hold court: to mesmerise and then ensnare the men. To entrance and titillate them. Any man would do, it quickly became apparent. As if she were feeding on them; would starve and wither without their adoration. I didn’t enjoy watching the show that she put on every night.

I’d watch her most nights, bustling and blonde behind the bar, bubbly and brash simultaneously. She certainly knew how to work it. Well, to be more accurate, she thought she knew how to work it. How to work men.

But she’d made a schoolgirl error. She’d been unappealingly unsubtle about what she wanted. Had made it too painfully obvious that it was she who was the one desperate for the attention, desperate for any man to notice her. Desperate for them to ask her for sex. Desperate to get picked up, to be chosen. Desperate.

It was not dissimilar to watching a slow-motion car crash. It could only ever have one outcome. Lucy might think that she always came out the undisputed winner, the number one woman, but always, by the very act of her sleeping with any of her conquests, these animals, she’d already lost the game.

One night, funnily enough I think it was a Thursday, so a night that I’d had to bear witness to the psychopathic behaviour of Roger and complete the ensuing after-care that was my duty to Candi, I eventually and gratefully found myself heading, tired, into The Cock.

Here, my name was Tim. Big Tim. Who’d sit and sup his one pint, nursing it, making it last, but not a bother to anyone. Quite a laugh if you got him in the right mood. It was a persona I found easy to slip into – nothing loud nor overt, just a bloke. I sat amongst the beer-swilling crowds, camouflaged so well that I frequently had to remind myself that I wasn’t actually Tim. It was a good and easy disguise which required absolutely no finesse nor subtlety. Just being there, big, male and with a pint, ticked all the relevant boxes.

I was aware, however, that alcohol had never agreed with me. And I was surrounded by men who drank. I didn’t drink a lot because I didn’t like the feeling of being drunk and I had a very low tolerance for any alcohol.

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