The Wine Red Suit
by Emma Lee

I walked up to the bar and saw my murderer. I felt that icy chill that could arrest a heartbeat as I saw him hovering at the section of the bar where the regulars hang out. He nodded in rhythm to the conversation taking place around him.

Distracting me, Josie bustled in and ordered a dry white wine. Her flushed expression told me this was a celebration: the wine now would probably be spirits later. It must have been an important day as she'd had her light brown hair highlighted and was wearing a smart wine-red suit with matching lipstick and nail polish. I joined her while keeping an eye on him. Colleagues Vicki, Marie, Debbie and Carol soon came in.

"Clever you! Got the drinks in already!" said Marie, "See, Josie's a genius!"

"Did you see tonight's paper?" asked Vicki.

"You mean that woman? Terrible wasn't it," responded Debbie.

"What's this?" asked Carole.

Josie swirled the wine in her half-empty glass, focusing on it momentarily before saying, "A woman was murdered in a pub carpark the night before last. They've appealed for witnesses."

Marie swallowed and then took a gulp from her drink. "But that wasn't all, was it?"

"She - they didn't even name her - was raped too," said Vicki. "Police said it was a vicious murder and warned women to be on their guard. But they didn't say which pub or give any descriptions. So what are we supposed to be on guard of?"

"That's terrible. They didn't say who she was?" Carol paused. "You mean it could have been here?"

"Yeah, but you'll be OK. He goes for short brunettes," Debbie tried to lighten the mood.

"That's me out too then," laughed Marie, "and you Vicki. But it kind of leaves..."

They all looked at their drinks.

Then Josie laughed nervously, "You mean there was someone else in this town as short as me?"

"My round," said Marie. "After that publicity, he's going to lay low for a while, isn't he?"

I was the outsider of the group. The night before last I sat near them until my friend turned up as arranged. It was to be a week of celebrations: my engagement to Pete, Mark's birthday, Pete's promotion, ending with Pete buying me an engagement ring on Saturday which would probably spark another celebration. I'd already seen the one I wanted: nothing showy, a gold band with one solitare diamond, something dignified rather than something piled with rocks that looked tacky despite its expense. I wanted a ring that said I loved the tall, dark haired, newly-promoted marketing manager I was going to marry.

"Yeah," continued Vicki, "I mean, we don't even know where she was found."

"So forget it," said Debbie, "or you'll be getting the next round in. I mean, I know it sounds hard, but we don't know where it happened, we don't know what who did it looks like so, as long as we stay together, nothing's going
to happen to us."

My murderer stayed in the company of the regulars who propped up the bar in their jeans and trainers and grubby tee shirts under worn jackets. Their skin aged by alcohol, fingers stained nicotine and facial lines emphasised with grime. 

It was one of those old established pubs not thought to be making enough money, so new landlords had refurbished it, extended the range of wines and spirits, put more lights in and employed a chef at lunch times and early evenings. But the old regulars still propped up the bar. I'd first come here for a business lunch, which was where I'd met Pete. I'd talked him into signing up for the PR campaign I'd planned for their new brand and Pete and talked me into a date.

"Is that the time!" exclaimed Marie, "I should be getting home. Graham 'll've fed the kids, but they don't go to sleep unless I say goodnight. I better go."

I wondered if I'd have ever have found myself saying something like that. Pete had wanted children but I just had visions of struggling to fit childcare around work.

"We better be off too," both Carole and Debbie say. There are hugs, air-kisses and congratulations all round before the three of them go.

Vicki eyed the barman as he collected the empty glasses, all smeared with shades of red lipsticks. Josie got a round in.

Vicki drank up, "It is getting on. I was in the office at seven this morning. Usual time and place tomorrow night?"

"'Course," Josie smiled.

"Coming?"

"No, I'll finish this first," Josie indicated her half-empty wine glass.

"OK, see you tomorrow," Vicki shrugged and left.

I looked down at my hands. I can see my own self-image in that I appear to myself and others like me the way I appeared the night before last: in a black dress and make-up to celebrate Mark's birthday, the night before celebrating Pete's promotion. My murderer could see me, if he was looking for me, but Josie can't.

Josie finished her wine in one gulp and went to the bar to order a double vodka. After this she too would go home. The bar clock is fast. Time is called. On the other side of the bar, a couple of the regulars had slumped onto barstools. My murderer has disappeared from immediate view. But I know where he is.

Josie downs her vodka in one and slumps forward, arms on bar: my chance and I take it.

For a moment I pause to look down at her/ my red nails. Theoretically I knew I could enter someone's body, but this is the first time I've attemped and achieved it. I reach out Josie's/ my hand and pick up the glass and carefully put it down again. Good: manipulation is easy. Josie is my height and roughly my weight although it feels odd catching blonde highlights in the corners of my eye.

I catch the harsh glare from the body of one of the regulars and feel that icy chill again. I know what he wants: the figure in the wine-red suit.

I too had waved off my friends so I could finish one last drink and left on my own. Or so I thought. I'd been followed. As Josie/ me is being followed as I now leave the bar. I walk a short distance, moving out from the light over the pub's door to the darkened, empty carpark.

Suddenly I feel a man's arm around my waist, a hand over my mouth, gagging any screams. This has happened before. Fortunately Josie wore stilettos. I bang one heel down on his foot with all Josie's weight. He stumbles, loses
his balance and I hit his head against the carpark's concrete with all the might I have.

My anger was so extreme, it took over and I used it to tell me what to do. I knew I was muddling two separate events that now seemed to be overlapping and confused. I could feel hands at my throat and my hands trying to push some
male weight from me. There was the sound of clothing being torn as I'd felt my skirt pushed up, my underwear ripping. I remembered that humiliation I'd felt, that sense of being utterly helpless under someone's greater weight. I hear the crack of a skull against concrete. I'd felt the violence of forced penetration and the slow, numbing realisation I was being punished for having one drink too many by rape. The hands on my neck had pressed harder until I had struggled for breath. Then I don't remember any more.

I heard a man's retching. That sound brought me back to now. I pushed the regular drinker onto his back. He began choking. I held him and blocked his nose. If I could trap my murderer in this drinker's body, then the drinker would be left to haunt the bar instead. Josie's wine-red suit was free of damage and had not been torn. The drinker lost his fight for breath. I rolled him on his side and arranged his arms and legs to look like he'd clumsily staggered and fallen over.

Quickly I returned to the bar and sat Josie in her slumped position. The barman was busy asking lingerers if they've homes to go to. Before Josie comes round I make her promise not to have another drink, then leave her. She rummaged in her handbag for the keys to her flat, carefully clasping them in her hand before standing up and straightening out the creases in her skirt. She fixes a smile and calls goodbye to the barman.

I glanced over to the band of regulars. One is missing. But my murderer is also missing: trapped in a dead man's body.

There is another presence. A dead drinker's ghost haunts the bar pretty much as he did when he was living. I need to leave before he has any comprehension of what's happened, although he probably won't sober up enough to remember.
My plan had worked: I was the last victim of my murderer.

Josie leaves, walking in a straight line from the pub door to the pavement. She doesn't see the figure of the regular drinker lying in a carpark space, his head injuries consistent with a hard fall, choked on his own vomit. He died before my murderer could escape. The police will make enquiries. However, Josie will not remember anything other than having her final drink. When interviewed, the barman will mistakenly state that she was in the pub all evening and comment that he would have noticed if that dark red suit had left the bar at any point.

Then it strikes me that Pete had never come back here. He must have begun to avoid the bar where I was murdered. Not that I blame him. How could I communicate that I still loved him, but he was free to get on with the rest of his life, even if that meant finding someone else? Perhaps it's for the best: this way my memory is of us on the phone, making plans, looking forward to a future.

I feel myself fading.

©2001 Emma Lee

Many of Emma Lee's short stories and poems have been published in anthologies and magazines, mainly in the UK. Currently one of her stories, "Someone Else's Wallpaper"  can be see at the Terror Tales website.