From Dusk to Dawn (Chapter 4)
He felt at home covered by the thick shroud of night. It gave his movements certainty and confidence they only feigned during the bright, sincere hours of the day. But he missed the noisy silence of blackness. He missed the sound of cockroaches and various insects that were like a chorus to the melody of lonely hearts or guilty hands. Each to their own.
But Port Royal was too full of harsh sounds to allow this strange music to live. Particularly this part of the town. A chaotic mixture of colours, voices, and smells. During the day it served as marketplace for exotic fruits and spices but at nightfall it always transformed itself with the skill of a true chameleon into a market of another kind of goods. It was a perfect combination. Trading avocados to cunts, bargaining to moans, the smell of sweet fruits to the smell of messy pleasure. Yet, what made this place so fascinating was the imperfection of the transformation. Each state bore traces of the other like a reminder.
Today, Patrick could smell roses. They must have had tons of them that day. The almost sickly sweet smell still hung above the place, covering the exposed skin of the whores in invisible garments. They smelled like the Garden of Eden after the fall. Still wearing the mask of virginal perfection but pregnant with betrayal and sin. A betrayal to God. Their families. Themselves. Whatever they valued most. They were still desperately clutching at the remnants of beauty but were unable to keep the weed away anymore.
Some looked like they wanted to use their bodies as canvas for a painted image of the suffering Madonna. Pure creatures, brutally plucked from their soil, tainted, and left in the gutter to die. All an act. Some didn’t even know they were living a script. Everybody thought their suffering was genuine, hardly anyone recognized the cheap metal under the thin gold layer. One or two even had babies on their arms. And they even believed they had a chance in the fierce competition for customers. But men don’t want suffering Madonnas and their crying little saviours, only big mouths and wet cunts. And who would pay for an imperfect act anyway? They lacked her fragile beauty. And her silent strength turned into weakness in them. They wouldn’t last long here.
There were those who shouted and grinned and threw themselves at every passerby with such fierceness that the inexperienced would confuse aggression with talent. But Patrick knew better. Harsh laughs, loud cries, and openly displayed enormous breast could never arouse him and they certainly wouldn’t do for Beckett. He kept brushing them off like flies on a hot Caribbean afternoon. Bragging meant uncertainty and it usually cost too much energy that could have been put to much better use. Real talent was hidden, unknown even to its owner. Or surrounded by confident silence. Most would never find the true gems of the night, they’d be too distracted by the impatient throbbing in their loins and the whirlwind of blond, black, round, flat, tits and cock.
“Do that again ya little bugger an’ I swear I cut y’r balls off.” Patrick heard suddenly and if he hadn’t stepped to the side with the skill of a true predator, he would have been run over by a young, laughing boy who was being chased by an infuriated blonde. She stopped, though as she realized she’d never catch him and just watched as the boy turned around the corner and disappeared. She was out of breath, her cheeks were flushed, she still looked like a rotting corpse, Patrick thought. No matter how much cheap paint she used.
Would that be the sort of girl Beckett wanted him to send? He seemed oddly fascinated with playing the angel of death. Probably not, he decided as she turned to him, quickly trying to change her features from angry to seductive, and failing spectacularly. Patrick almost laughed her in the face. No, she was undoubtedly too dim witted to be of any interest to either of them.
And the boy? Beckett certainly looked like someone who would find satisfaction in a boy’s youthful body. But in fact Patrick could only guess. He hadn’t received any indication as to what to look for. “A whore” was all the information he got. And not even from Beckett himself but from a gloatingly grinning Mercer, who failed to see this as a test to a worthy opponent, not an order to an intimidated servant. It was an impossible task. How could one understand the Lord’s taste in less than a month? He could almost hear these thoughts running through Mercer’s mind. There was no way he could succeed. And Patrick didn’t care enough to destroy the man’s ridiculous illusions.
He left the huge market place and stepped into one of the dark alleys. Rutting against a wall was a fat man, grunting like a wild boar, a limp body trapped between the cold stone and his sweaty, heated flesh. He held her legs around his round, naked ass, her ankles unbearably white under her tattered skirt. She was staring mutely into the dark window of the opposite house as if it was a huge eye, watching her, judging her. She looked disinterested at most. Her hair, a strange shade of pale red and dirty blond, like the sandy beach, fell into her calm face. For the briefest of moments Patrick found himself looking into her lifeless gaze, shining with a story begging to be told. But Patrick was not a man to care about her or any other’s story. Someone he used to know a long time ago would have stopped to listen, to try and salvage the fallen, but Patrick never had the inclination to do the same.
As he turned around the next corner he could already hear the ferocious groan of the man and the lack of the familiar clinking sound of money on the wet ground. He probably forgot to pay, but there were no sounds of protest. How interesting. Patrick was about to turn back. Not to help her, just curious if her reaction was worth noticing. But he suddenly heard noises from just a couple of steps ahead.
“You can’t survive on fucking sailors only!” Under a blooming rose, the sign of the Lustful Lips, one of the better whorehouses in Port Royal, stood two girls. Patrick stepped back a bit, leaning against the house opposite of the brothel. Hidden from view, in the darkness he knew better than anybody, he watched the two whores with awakening interest. The one who had been speaking had a sharp, almost hawk-like nose, covered in freckles. Her shoulder-length blond hair was slightly curly, and so pale it seemed to be almost as grey as her eyes. Her lips lacked the natural redness of most women, what she didn’t care to hide with paint, but they were full and looked surprisingly soft. She certainly seemed to be a whore who was worth the money she was paid. Patrick still found her too plain, even though she was bound to have an interesting heritage. She hardly looked like English blood was running through her veins. She would be perfect for quick pleasure, but right now he was looking for more. Tonight he wanted thorns.
The other girl seemed to be unmoved by the lecturing words because she kept examining a hole in her skirt. She had flaming red hair, bound together loosely, and probably a temper to match, if one could judge by the impatient movements of her long fingers. She wasn’t what he would have called beautiful, her features were too hard, her mouth too big. Not that the latter was a drawback in her profession but it would make her even less attractive if she laughed. No, she wasn’t pretty.
“You need to learn how to attract those who have more than just a few coins in their pocket.” the other insisted.
“Finished?” the red-head asked finally looking at the other, annoyance radiating from her voice and the sharp movement of her head.
“I’m serious, Rose. Either do it properly, or don’t do it at all. That goes for you too, Becky.” the hawk-nosed one said, turning to the girl Patrick recognized from the alley, the dark circles under her eyes clearly visible in the light. “You let him leave without paying again, haven’t you? If I didn’t know better I’d say you’re in love with the butcher, I mean, what other reason could you have for letting him fuck you without money? Huh? Becky, I’m talking to you!” But the girl didn’t respond just entered the brothel, muttering a silent “I’ll go up to see how Shaun is” and a moment later she disappeared in the hot, loud house. “You should learn from your little brother.” she shouted after the girl and then added under her breath: “God knows, he’s never short of customers.”
“Or the energy to tend to them all.” the other added.
“He even has the kindness to help Giselle with her own.”
This seemed to be an old joke between them because they both started laughing, just as Patrick stepped out of the darkness to make them aware of his presence, though not before noticing that he had been right about the red girl’s laugh. It took them a bit to notice him, but when they did their laughter suddenly died away and the hawk-nosed girl immediately turned to him.
“Looking for someone, sugar?” Her tone was smoother than before, her arms instinctively flying to her waist, her breasts suddenly too close.
“Yes, but not for you.” Patrick replied in a cold voice.
“Whatever takes your fancy. I’ll be on my way then.” She didn’t seem disappointed or offended, but the silk disappeared from her voice and she seemed to lose any interest in him. She looked at the red-haired girl and nodded towards Patrick, no doubt urging her to make a move. But the girl just mouthed an irritated “Piss off” to her, though a smile was playing in the corner of her lips. She crossed her arms over her chest, looking into Patrick’s eyes with challenge shining in hers.
That moment, his choice was made.
He would send that sandy haired girl he had seen in the alley to Beckett. She was a tough nut he would enjoy breaking. She undoubtedly lacked the talent and passion of the other two but Beckett would enjoy squeezing her cries out of her like the juice of a ripe fruit. That would be challenge enough for tonight at least. Besides, he had his own plans for the little red demon. He wouldn’t send her into Beckett’s bed. Not tonight. Not any other night. This rose, he would keep.
But Port Royal was too full of harsh sounds to allow this strange music to live. Particularly this part of the town. A chaotic mixture of colours, voices, and smells. During the day it served as marketplace for exotic fruits and spices but at nightfall it always transformed itself with the skill of a true chameleon into a market of another kind of goods. It was a perfect combination. Trading avocados to cunts, bargaining to moans, the smell of sweet fruits to the smell of messy pleasure. Yet, what made this place so fascinating was the imperfection of the transformation. Each state bore traces of the other like a reminder.
Today, Patrick could smell roses. They must have had tons of them that day. The almost sickly sweet smell still hung above the place, covering the exposed skin of the whores in invisible garments. They smelled like the Garden of Eden after the fall. Still wearing the mask of virginal perfection but pregnant with betrayal and sin. A betrayal to God. Their families. Themselves. Whatever they valued most. They were still desperately clutching at the remnants of beauty but were unable to keep the weed away anymore.
Some looked like they wanted to use their bodies as canvas for a painted image of the suffering Madonna. Pure creatures, brutally plucked from their soil, tainted, and left in the gutter to die. All an act. Some didn’t even know they were living a script. Everybody thought their suffering was genuine, hardly anyone recognized the cheap metal under the thin gold layer. One or two even had babies on their arms. And they even believed they had a chance in the fierce competition for customers. But men don’t want suffering Madonnas and their crying little saviours, only big mouths and wet cunts. And who would pay for an imperfect act anyway? They lacked her fragile beauty. And her silent strength turned into weakness in them. They wouldn’t last long here.
There were those who shouted and grinned and threw themselves at every passerby with such fierceness that the inexperienced would confuse aggression with talent. But Patrick knew better. Harsh laughs, loud cries, and openly displayed enormous breast could never arouse him and they certainly wouldn’t do for Beckett. He kept brushing them off like flies on a hot Caribbean afternoon. Bragging meant uncertainty and it usually cost too much energy that could have been put to much better use. Real talent was hidden, unknown even to its owner. Or surrounded by confident silence. Most would never find the true gems of the night, they’d be too distracted by the impatient throbbing in their loins and the whirlwind of blond, black, round, flat, tits and cock.
“Do that again ya little bugger an’ I swear I cut y’r balls off.” Patrick heard suddenly and if he hadn’t stepped to the side with the skill of a true predator, he would have been run over by a young, laughing boy who was being chased by an infuriated blonde. She stopped, though as she realized she’d never catch him and just watched as the boy turned around the corner and disappeared. She was out of breath, her cheeks were flushed, she still looked like a rotting corpse, Patrick thought. No matter how much cheap paint she used.
Would that be the sort of girl Beckett wanted him to send? He seemed oddly fascinated with playing the angel of death. Probably not, he decided as she turned to him, quickly trying to change her features from angry to seductive, and failing spectacularly. Patrick almost laughed her in the face. No, she was undoubtedly too dim witted to be of any interest to either of them.
And the boy? Beckett certainly looked like someone who would find satisfaction in a boy’s youthful body. But in fact Patrick could only guess. He hadn’t received any indication as to what to look for. “A whore” was all the information he got. And not even from Beckett himself but from a gloatingly grinning Mercer, who failed to see this as a test to a worthy opponent, not an order to an intimidated servant. It was an impossible task. How could one understand the Lord’s taste in less than a month? He could almost hear these thoughts running through Mercer’s mind. There was no way he could succeed. And Patrick didn’t care enough to destroy the man’s ridiculous illusions.
He left the huge market place and stepped into one of the dark alleys. Rutting against a wall was a fat man, grunting like a wild boar, a limp body trapped between the cold stone and his sweaty, heated flesh. He held her legs around his round, naked ass, her ankles unbearably white under her tattered skirt. She was staring mutely into the dark window of the opposite house as if it was a huge eye, watching her, judging her. She looked disinterested at most. Her hair, a strange shade of pale red and dirty blond, like the sandy beach, fell into her calm face. For the briefest of moments Patrick found himself looking into her lifeless gaze, shining with a story begging to be told. But Patrick was not a man to care about her or any other’s story. Someone he used to know a long time ago would have stopped to listen, to try and salvage the fallen, but Patrick never had the inclination to do the same.
As he turned around the next corner he could already hear the ferocious groan of the man and the lack of the familiar clinking sound of money on the wet ground. He probably forgot to pay, but there were no sounds of protest. How interesting. Patrick was about to turn back. Not to help her, just curious if her reaction was worth noticing. But he suddenly heard noises from just a couple of steps ahead.
“You can’t survive on fucking sailors only!” Under a blooming rose, the sign of the Lustful Lips, one of the better whorehouses in Port Royal, stood two girls. Patrick stepped back a bit, leaning against the house opposite of the brothel. Hidden from view, in the darkness he knew better than anybody, he watched the two whores with awakening interest. The one who had been speaking had a sharp, almost hawk-like nose, covered in freckles. Her shoulder-length blond hair was slightly curly, and so pale it seemed to be almost as grey as her eyes. Her lips lacked the natural redness of most women, what she didn’t care to hide with paint, but they were full and looked surprisingly soft. She certainly seemed to be a whore who was worth the money she was paid. Patrick still found her too plain, even though she was bound to have an interesting heritage. She hardly looked like English blood was running through her veins. She would be perfect for quick pleasure, but right now he was looking for more. Tonight he wanted thorns.
The other girl seemed to be unmoved by the lecturing words because she kept examining a hole in her skirt. She had flaming red hair, bound together loosely, and probably a temper to match, if one could judge by the impatient movements of her long fingers. She wasn’t what he would have called beautiful, her features were too hard, her mouth too big. Not that the latter was a drawback in her profession but it would make her even less attractive if she laughed. No, she wasn’t pretty.
“You need to learn how to attract those who have more than just a few coins in their pocket.” the other insisted.
“Finished?” the red-head asked finally looking at the other, annoyance radiating from her voice and the sharp movement of her head.
“I’m serious, Rose. Either do it properly, or don’t do it at all. That goes for you too, Becky.” the hawk-nosed one said, turning to the girl Patrick recognized from the alley, the dark circles under her eyes clearly visible in the light. “You let him leave without paying again, haven’t you? If I didn’t know better I’d say you’re in love with the butcher, I mean, what other reason could you have for letting him fuck you without money? Huh? Becky, I’m talking to you!” But the girl didn’t respond just entered the brothel, muttering a silent “I’ll go up to see how Shaun is” and a moment later she disappeared in the hot, loud house. “You should learn from your little brother.” she shouted after the girl and then added under her breath: “God knows, he’s never short of customers.”
“Or the energy to tend to them all.” the other added.
“He even has the kindness to help Giselle with her own.”
This seemed to be an old joke between them because they both started laughing, just as Patrick stepped out of the darkness to make them aware of his presence, though not before noticing that he had been right about the red girl’s laugh. It took them a bit to notice him, but when they did their laughter suddenly died away and the hawk-nosed girl immediately turned to him.
“Looking for someone, sugar?” Her tone was smoother than before, her arms instinctively flying to her waist, her breasts suddenly too close.
“Yes, but not for you.” Patrick replied in a cold voice.
“Whatever takes your fancy. I’ll be on my way then.” She didn’t seem disappointed or offended, but the silk disappeared from her voice and she seemed to lose any interest in him. She looked at the red-haired girl and nodded towards Patrick, no doubt urging her to make a move. But the girl just mouthed an irritated “Piss off” to her, though a smile was playing in the corner of her lips. She crossed her arms over her chest, looking into Patrick’s eyes with challenge shining in hers.
That moment, his choice was made.
He would send that sandy haired girl he had seen in the alley to Beckett. She was a tough nut he would enjoy breaking. She undoubtedly lacked the talent and passion of the other two but Beckett would enjoy squeezing her cries out of her like the juice of a ripe fruit. That would be challenge enough for tonight at least. Besides, he had his own plans for the little red demon. He wouldn’t send her into Beckett’s bed. Not tonight. Not any other night. This rose, he would keep.