By Derek Raymond
An axe-wielding psychopath carves younger Dora Suarez into items and smashes the top of Suarez's pal, an aged girl. at the comparable evening, within the West finish, a firearm blows the pinnacle off the pinnacle of Felix Roatta, part-owner of the seedy Parallel membership. The unnamed narrator, a sergeant within the Metropolitan Police's Unexplained Deaths department, develops a fixation at the younger lady whose homicide he investigates. And he discovers that Suarez's dying is much more weird and wonderful than suspected: the assassin ate bits of flesh from Suarez's corpse and ejaculated opposed to her thigh. post-mortem effects compound the puzzle: Suarez used to be death of AIDS, however the pathologist cannot inform how the virus was once brought. Then a photograph, provided by way of a former Parallel hostess, hyperlinks Suarez to Roatta, and inquiries on the membership display how vile and inhuman exploitation can turn into. "I was once Dora Suarez" is the fourth e-book within the "Factory" sequence.
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Extra resources for I Was Dora Suarez
He half noticed his lips, for which he had a passion, in a gilt mirror, and was full pleased to see that they were as thick and red as ever, ready to draw any woman. Only his hands dissatisfied him; for in spite of his gloves, which he peeled off for a moment, the palms were marked from the drainpipe he had scaled; they were dry and rust-coloured, and that was a detail that clashed. ’ he shrieked. ’ He pointed a long, loose finger upwards and shook it at the place as though it had threatened to fight back – but already the second’s pleasure he had had of ‘handling’ the interfering old git was over: so she was weighed off wasn’t she, and who gave a fucking green banana?
These wretched people (clerks, killers, anyway absent people) would be laughable if it weren’t for the immense damage they do; and of course it is because we do laugh at them, switch them off the telly whenever they appear, and so on, that they do the damage because of that self-despair which they can never afford to acknowledge. Now the killer found that he was at an interior point in himself, looking down at the blood-puddled floor, at the girl’s body, where his self-image (of which he was immensely proud) bothered him vaguely; he felt that something inside him was hammering to get his attention from the wrong side of his steel door – some entity that was starving, excluded and ignored.
Unsuspected. He felt replete, thanks to his activities, a hungry man with a full belly at last amongst this load of selfish old people in the evening of their days who had never done anything in life except invest their money and keep their heads down. He knew what sort of people they were because he had been keeping an eye on them from the abandoned basement garden for several weeks and could well imagine the scream that was going to go up when this lot was discovered. And there was no doubt it would be soon – for the weather was rainy and fairly warm, and the neglected dead made their decay known just as definitely in Kensington as they did in College Hill.