October River Walk

Old River Walk.

*

Friday.

Here again at this time of night with these same noisy, drunken fools. Why at 11pm every Friday night do I find myself sitting at this same stupid, crowded horrid little table with a the same damp beer mat covered bar jutting in to the back of my head? Three pints down and straining over the alcoholic hubbub to hear Steve telling me about the Hammers chance for glory this season. Steve has never played football and doesn't know anything more than what he gets off the telly. I can't stand football chat but nevertheless I sit with my plastic smile and mild mockney accent listening to my boss waxing lyrical. At least we are not talking programming, I think Steve knows less about his second favorite topic of C standards than he does about football which is a shame because we are both professional programmers.

"Gotta go", I mouth across the table, tapping my watch as an afterthought as if to intercept any incoming protests. It was sort of true, if I missed the next train then I would find myself on the last one. The last one of a Friday night is essentially a moving cage of drunks, suddenly deprived of the diversion of holding a bottle to their lips and faced with a choice of either general social abuse or entry into the first stages of the hangover. Neither are pretty, you don't want to get the last train.

I push myself up from the table and turn towards the door, gaining a wet sleeve in the process as I steady myself with the bar. A portly guy leaning against the door staggers out of my way to let me past. He seems cheerful and red faced in spite of apparently having poured a pint of something brown over his Italian cotton piqued shirt. Really, a bib would have been a better choice.

As my footsteps hit the cobbles outside the pub, a sobering draft of cold London air hits my face. Suddenly the world feels a little bit better, the noise has gone and this little bit of Finch lane is as it has been for hundreds of years; cold, hard, a little damp but seemingly tolerant of those who pass through it. A beautiful little stroll past the Bank of England for a few moments and I find myself descending deep into the earth to find my way to the deepest part of the station from which my train will depart. There is a tiny queue by the lifts but the spin down the almost spiral stairs with sprightly dodges to avoid the little pools of vomit and general rubbish left by the last travelers is a marvelous treat.

The train seems pretty deserted and is leaving almost immediately, excellent. I pop in my IPod and stare at the black reflective window until we pop out of the ground and the panorama of East London starts to unfold. Not long at all until I am above ground and walking away from the lights of the station down towards the river path. I have taken this route more and more since Stephanie left. She used to hate it late at night, especially after I was mugged that one time. For me, I much prefer the mildly uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach as I take the very old, very dark, exposed path by the river to the alternative choice of the well-lit but scummy little road with its parade of hooligan pubs and fast food joints.

The path is well cobbled, a few meters wide flanked by a guard rail to stop accidental river access on one side and a very high spiked fence on the other. Nobody else comes this way and it is an ill-advised route so I take it.

It is turning into a rotten night, there is light drizzle as I get to the waters edge. The top of the black iron railing stopping unwary travelers toppling into the fast moving muddy Thames is sodden and I take delight in whipping my hand along it as the band in my head and I change key. I am getting wet rapidly but home and a nice pot of tea are not far away.

Looking across the river on clear nights you can see the sky-scrapers reaching up to the clouds, constantly illuminated up with all sorts Banking adverts. I often wonder if someone is really doing a decent costing of the amount of extra custom these guys get compared to the amount they burn in electricity 24/7. I have a sneaky feeling it is the same sort of money that buys Italian cotton double-cuffed bibs. However tonight is not a clear night and I can't see anything, not even a faint glow, that is pretty rare actually.

Damn London river fog. Fight the creeping feelings. Why am I still here in this job? I was excellent at math at school, why am I working in a shitty computing job?

Pay the rent is the answer. Why didn't I travel, I did when I was younger, I even spent a year in Spain, why am I in the rain alone still in London?

I kicked a stupid rock that bounced down the path, enveloped itself in the fog and then made a clang as it hit the river railing. Shit, alone in the fog, middle of the night next to the river, ah crap.

The self deprecating thoughts were getting rapidly chased out by the more sinister memories of getting mugged not far from here. Slammed against the stone cobbles from behind, the bang loud inside my head as my skull hit the ground. The freezing steel of the blade pressed under my ear against my neck and the vicious winding punch that drove into my rib, delivered by the same fist that then pulled my wallet out of my pocket.

My IPod stopped, out of juice or wet, I don't know. Either way it left me all alone in the eerie foggy darkness with just my thoughts tumbling around me.

I shuddered as I walked, pushing the thoughts out as best I could. The grey green fog now really coming in quickly, starting to obscure even my feet was not helping. I could no longer see the path in front of me at all and would have been utterly adrift save for the railing which I knew ran almost all the way home.

Every now and then something in the river moved or splashed. In the dearth of vision my other senses heightened and so each bump shot nerves down my back and added a little sweat to my already soaked palms. Little noises from the river, probably birds but also things floating with the tide, jostling each other in the current.

Don't think of the barges. Don't think of the barges. Every year many tens of people drown in the Thames. Most are drunk and either fall or dive in, not realizing the power of the deep water flow. For others, it is serves as a somewhat romantic method of removing oneself from the rat-race. Many are washed out into the Channel, but even more are trapped by the barges. Ancient creaking steel monoliths anchored in the side stream, serving to catch whatever detritus London drops into the murky drift. A swimmers nightmare, the currents towards the inflows increase and funnel and the underwater filters prevent even large fishes escaping.

Stop thinking, stop thinking, stop winding yourself up, drunken twit. I resolved to stride forwards into the gloom, one hand tightly gripping the icy railing as I heard a sob.

A cry.

Fuck Fuck Fuck. No, I didn't hear it, I can't have, not here, not tonight, I told myself, my heart pounding in my chest. Then, again, as if for clarification, louder this time came another sob. I saw her, a long black figure emerging out of the rolling fog. She was sitting on the steps down to the river that mark the access to the beach and the half-way point of the trip along the path. Ideally I wanted to pass on by but the guide railing along which my hand had been running came to a brief gap, filled by her body.

I am not a brave or particularly generous soul and in London, as with other big cities, it doesn't pay to be one. The general rule is that you don't get involved if it doesn't concern you. I hoped to pass behind her as if I had never been there but as I grew close the vision with which I was presented slowed my pace until I was at a standstill, transfixed and gripping the last piece of iron.

She was young, no more than 30 I guessed. Long, straight, jet-black hair swept back over cream shoulders, tumbling down the back of a long, full-length ball gown. Her face white, almost as alabaster, but punctuated with dark eyes and full, apparently black lips. She was tall and slim but not thin, her body stretching down to delicate polished shoes that rested several steps below. Her arms, exposed from the shoulder down crossed in front of her as she peered out over the invisible expanse of water.

"Hey", I stammered which came out somewhere between a word and a clearing of my throat but did indeed serve to announce my presence.

She didn't start but did turn quickly to face me. Touching her eyes, she looked up at me and smiled, "Hi". An accent, but I don't know what.

"Are you ok", I asked, looking down at her flawless oval face, peering into her dark eyes.

"Yes, fine thank you. I am enjoying the night". Eastern European I think or maybe Scandinavian?

"Ok", I responded, as she turned back to the river.

Not knowing what to do, I started to shuffle past behind her. Obviously she was cold, it was late and raining and even I was cold with my 3 layers of suit and coat. I wanted to say it but the adrenaline building inside me told me that I was going to stutter.

"Are you not chilly?", I shot out as I rounded her.

She looked up at me again and this time smiled up at me properly. "Why no, would you like to join me?"

She was stunning; her soft, full lips parted just a fraction to reveal gleaming white teeth. I had to tear my eyes off her stunning mouth, only to fix them back into her gaze.

I took my coat off and draped it around her shoulders and moved to sit down on the stone step next to her. She giggled a beautiful silvery laugh, again showing brilliant white teeth, I don't know why I fixed on them. As I alighted next to her she shuffled close to me.

"Have you come to save me dear knight?"

"Yes, perhaps", I whispered.

I looked down at her long legs, our bodies close but not quite touching. It did feel warmer down here, somehow the wind had died down and that drizzle had gone with it. Maybe we were in the shelter of the old college behind us or perhaps the alcohol and the beauty of the lady was dulling my senses, either way the tea could wait.

She held out her hand, long, pale and delicate. As I took it, I was hit by an electric excitement. I gently grasped her freezing cold fingers and said "Chris, how do you do?"

"Mircala" she responded, "enchantee", her eyes dancing with fire held me transfixed. She shuffled yet closer to me so that now our bodies touched. Everywhere we made contact, her skin was as soft as snow and just as cold.

I think we made small talk but I really don't remember well. What I do remember was admiring her face as she talked, the way it morphed through expressions and how it lit up as she smiled. The rise and fall of her chest as she breathed and spoke, the beauty of the curve of her bust, the way her nipples jutted through the fabric of her dress and the silky smooth plunge down from her neckline. My hand certainly smoothed up from her hips around her delicate waist and gently cupped her bosom in my palms as they passed. I think she smiled and purred but maybe I am filling memories with fantasy.

We sat by the river, quietly whispering to each other until the first signs of light started to appear in the distant sky, that far I remember. I remember leaning in close in eager anticipation of the first time I would graze those full, dark lips and then the ecstasy as we kissed and our fingers grasped the back of each others necks and ears. I remember her clean, slightly citrusy scent and the touch of her nose on my cheek through which emitted little sniffles and moans. I remember the hardness building in my silky work trousers as I ran my tongue over her front teeth, delving deeper into her soft mouth and the shock as it rounded her sharp eye-teeth.

I think I remember drawing back, still holding her head in my hands and brushing my thumb down her cheek to the parting of her lips where I gently peeled back her top lip. Her front teeth beautiful and gleaming were flanked by almost animal like canines. She did not have fangs per say as they were not long but they were extremely pointed. "Like a moth to a flame", she giggled covering her mouth coquettishly.

The next thing I remember was waking with my face on the cold stone in blistering sunshine as I was prodded by the broom of the guy who wheels a little bin along the pavement while sweeping the rubbish into the river. "Bank twat" he stared down at me as the full force of my hangover hit me. He jabbed me with his smelly bristled broom. Thankfully home was not far away and I stumbled easily to my door.

*

Saturday.

I didn't see much of most of the next day. It started with a hangover and horrid blistery warm sun trying to creep through my curtains and eroded into a trashy horror-flick fest in the dark of my living room. By Saturday nightfall I was pretty much back to normal and happily busied myself cooking up a lump of fish having cried off another pint in the pub with the lads.

As the chubby bit of bream sizzled away, I took a cup of tea out onto my balcony and stared back down the river. Last night and the darkened stumble home seemed distant now the weather had cleared up. I can see the path from my flat and could make out the spot that I had wasted away a few hours with Mircala.

My booze impaired memory of the evening was sketchy but little by little bits were coming back. I felt a spurt of excitement as I remembered kissing her but it was matched by a pang of frustration at not having exchanged any details. Jeez, I meet so few really nice girls and then one comes along and I pass out before working out who she is. Argh.

The bream was done and I settled down to do my best internet-google stalking in front of the TV. After a few hours, I had simply drawn a blank but then I didn't have much to go on, just a weird name that maybe I had muddled up anyway.

The evening film finished just before midnight and I was turning in. As I shut the curtains and turned out the lights, I fancied that I heard a soft lilting voice drifting up and over my balcony.

"Chrstopher.. oh Chrstopher...", it tinkled through the night air. A soft chiming call up to my window, surrounded by girly giggles.

"Christopher, are you coming out for me?" she cooed as I stepped out onto the wooden decking to look down onto the street.

There stood Mircala, a dark slender shadow under the street lamp. Her beautiful oval ivory face looking up at me and calling me.

My heart missed a beat as I grinned down.

"Why don't you come up?", I called.

She shook her head, "no, I want to dance. Come out to me".

I mumbled an agreement and a promise to be down in a few minutes and stumbled back into the flat. I removed my fish-stained jogging pants and pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt in the blink of an eye. In a few more seconds I had on my special dancing trainers and a jacket and was out of the door.

I burst out of the front door to see her standing still, waiting for me, stunning in the moonlight. She had a tight silky blue cocktail dress on that finished just above her knee. Her hourglass silhouette was breathtaking in the half-light.

I stopped just short of her, "hey".

She beckoned me over and drew me into her, again the citrusy perfume tang and excited electricity through every bit of me that touched her.

Mircala led me up through a funny bit of town that I don't know very well. It is where civilisation stops for a little bit, giving way to an area filled with parks woods and long sloping drives up to fantastic, giant old houses.

It is all a bit of a whirl but I think I remember following her down into the basement of one of the mansions.

It was an incredible bar.

I couldn't believe it was so close to my place but yet I had never heard of it. Dark, with blue neon glows from the lavish cocktail bar ended in a two-tiered dance floor. A deep, low thunderous base rhythm filled every bit of me as we drifted down the last few steps into the warm interior.

I gestured to Mircala, motioning towards the bar, quizzing to see what sort of drink she wanted. I saw her tip her head back in the flashing UV and laugh a no as she pulled me towards the dance floor. As she laughed I caught a glimpse of her super sharp eye teeth again and remembered back to our kiss from the night before. She quickly covered her hand over her mouth as she yanked me by the wrist onto the wooden sprung floor.

The vibrations of the base through my body and the gyrations of Mircala in front of me served to settle me into a half-eyes closed trance-like dance state. For a while there was nothing but the music and the girl attached to my hips and chest and face. I don't know how long we writhed in the sweaty crowd moving in unison but for a while time stood still for me as we locked as one into a single body.

I felt her hands snake up around the back of my head as she pulled me into her own nape. My cheek squashed against the back of her jaw, I kissed her flawless skin running up to the lobe of her ear. My hands pulling her close and running down the small of her back to her perfectly rounded bum, I held her tight, pressing my hardness against the risen mound between her hips.

Mircala pushed herself hard against me, grinding roughly against the front of my jeans. She grasped the back of my neck hard and pulled me into her waiting lips. I felt her warm mouth against my shoulders and fell passionately into her as she ran her tongue up from my exposed shoulder over my neck, licking the salty sweat off me roughly as she did. Pressing against me I felt her exhale deeply in pleasure, almost growling as she teased my ear with the tip of her tongue.

Then she broke from me,

"enough"

she pulled me, her thin hands cuffed around my wrists, almost vice like, off the dance floor and out into the chilly night air.

As we burst out into the street, she whirled and pushed me back against the damp Georgian brickwork. She kissed me deeply, her tongue snaking forcefully into my mouth, forcing mine back behind my teeth as she probed me. Her body pressing me hard against the wall, I could feel her hard nipples through my t-shirt and make out the opening line of her pussy as she ground against my hard member locked in my jeans. She kissed me hard and ferociously, pausing only to let me gasp breath every now and then.

Then she screamed an aggressive, feline, animalistic growl and pulled me back off the wall and broke into a laugh, almost a cackle.

Mircala half dragged, half jogged with me back down towards my place, her intentions clear as she marched in front of me, giggling and panting as she went. We were at the front door to the block of my flats in what seemed like only minutes and as we got there, she again rammed me against it, kissing me hard and pulling my hips against herself.

"Well are you going to let me in?" she panted breaking the kiss, nipping at my chin. There was a quick flash of teeth and we both paused a moment. She allowed me to peel back her top lip to reveal her canines which appeared to have extended a little. She broke into a grin and in front of me her two eye teeth slid out of sheathes to at least a couple of centimeters longer than usual. They then slid back in a little but not all the way. I was dumbfounded.

Mircala giggled, "they do that when I get excited".

As I put the code into the outer door, all semblance of the meek, petite girl I had met by the river the night before had departed in lieu of the predatory sexual animal standing in behind me, starting to grip my shoulder and quake with little shivers of excitement.

As the lift opened to let us into the dull steel interior, Mircala pushed me from the back, turning me against the back wall, again letting out a little shriek of animalistic desire.

"I want you now. I can't wait" she panted.