Short Horror Stories ^~^

Starving Makes It Fat

For a while now he'd been wondering how they would make their money when he couldn't do this any more. Nobody stayed young and charming forever. He found it ever more wearisome to superimpose imaginary women on the chunky bodies he seduced. He'd never failed yet. But one day, morbid obesity would defeat him - the tickle of a walrus moustache would not translate in his mind to the silky tresses of a visionary inamorata and he would wilt ... forever.

Liz said not to worry. She said she was thinking about what scam to operate when he ceased to conquer weight-challenged women. He should feel reassured, but he didn't. Suppose Liz decided he was expendable?

He pushed the thought back into the mental crevice from which it had crawled and resolved to think only about money. Money was his aphrodisiac: if all else failed he could imagine the women - Buddha-like - were composed of soft buttery gold. Infinitely attractive. Then the bigger they were, the better.

*

'Good morning, may I speak to Miss Claire Henderson, please?'

'Speaking.'

The voice was bright, conveying feminine bubbliness. There was nothing to suggest the speaker was six stone overweight. Liz pondered that, as she continued the conversation. Very few women had fat voices.

'Miss Henderson, are you able to speak privately, or would there be a better time to call you?'

'Why, what's this about?' Most of the bubbles had popped now, replaced by flat urgency. Liz always wondered how many of them expected what was coming next. What proportion of the large unloved had a premonition of certain punishment for their one horizontal transgression? Suppose she just said, 'Two weeks ago you had sex with my Matt. You must have known he didn't want you for your looks. Now he wants payment for services rendered and I'm ringing on his behalf to collect.' How many would pay up? But that would be the lazy approach. Dear Matt had worked hard, now it was her turn.

'Miss Henderson, I'm afraid it's not good news. Mr. Matthew Helme has asked me to contact you on his behalf. Are you alone?'

'Yes. Yes I am, what's wrong?' Now the voice was leaden - old, and at least as heavy as its owner.

'Possibly nothing. I do not wish to alarm you unduly, however ...' Liz allowed the pause to grow, opening a crack in the universe through which the woman's worst fears could crawl. '... I am sorry to say Mr. Helme has a communicable disease.' Another pause. Sometimes the women rushed to fill it, sometimes they were mute. Neither response reliably predicted their future conduct. Some garrulous ones baulked at Liz's fees and refused her appointments, while silent ones could cave in swiftly, handing over cash for three or four 'repeat treatments'.

'He is deeply ashamed. He has paid for you to have a private consultation with me to establish whether he has transmitted any infection to you. This consultation will be completely confidential and avoid the need for you to visit your doctor or a clinic for sexual diseases.'

Liz used 'clinic for sexual diseases' to shock the women into submission. Miss Henderson was no exception. She accepted the first appointment offered to her. Liz hung up before the woman could bid for reassurance. Time for a reward: she hit the media player button on her laptop and the rich sound of JosÈ Carreras singing Nessun Dorma filled the room. She loved Carreras - he had a voice bigger than himself, unlike Pavarotti whose voice was smaller than the man.

The Regency office in which she sat was a sweet gem of architecture. Mellow brick and paned windows wrapped her in the comforting illusion of old money. It was on a short lease, of course. Six weeks. The scam always started with the short lease. She flicked through the spreadsheet, checking the future office rentals.