The Sunday Serial: Episode 6 – Sarah’s dark side

In which shit hits the fan

CUSU ink murder robert eyers rose sarah squirrels Sunday Serial tattoos

There was a dark side to Sarah that we haven’t had an opportunity to explore properly.

She had got to the top of CUSU through a complex process of bribery and blackmail. She had once been in a relationship for three months, but her boyfriend left her (claiming he ‘now hated himself too much’), so she pretended to be lesbian for a year. During this year she discovered a lot about herself, mainly that she wasn’t a lesbian. The summer before coming to Cambridge she’d volunteered in a cattery. During this summer she learnt a lot about herself, mainly that she hated cats. Cambridge has since taught her that she also hates education and other people. The only way to overcome this was to govern the people and ignore the education. Hence the irrepressible ambition to preside over CUSU. And this is why she had no qualms about dealing with Simon now.

“More wine, yes?”

Her unsuspecting victim nodded, and she moved over to the cupboard.

“Rosé this time, I think.”

She selected two fresh glasses – larger than before. Into the first she poured rosé. Into the second she poured vodka, and then coloured it with a touch of red wine. This latter was offered to Simon.

“Bet you can’t down it,”she added, before pouring hers down her throat.

“Bet I can” Simon retorted. He got halfway through, staggered to the window, threw up over a porter wandering below and then passed out.

“Didn’t think so” murmured Sarah softly, then sat back and calmly observed her prey.

To Sarah, Simon’s was a limp and unresponsive body. But Simon was a dreamer, and to him his body was a powerful chicken’s torso, rapidly pummelling an enormous and defenceless beaver.

“You can’t do that!” called the beaver to Dream Chicken Simon.

“Why not?” replied Dream Chicken Simon, unrelentingly.

“It’s just not done!”cried the beaver, in anguish.

“Ptcha!”answered Dream Chicken Simon, pausing his pummelling for a moment. “Everything’s done nowadays.”

“No it’s not,”retorted the beaver bitterly. “Nowadays everything thinks it’s being done, but actually – if you look underneath – it’s just trying very, very hard to look like it’s being done.”

Oblivious to the anthropomorphically animalesque philosophies being propounded within the head of the body before her, Sarah decided that it was time to act. The Master had always made her wear a squirrel headdress, and it seemed fitting that Simon should wear it now now. She brought the squirrel out from the wardrobe in which it lived, and taped it to her recumbent guest’s head.

Still pursuing this might-have-been theme, she unwrapped the condom that she’d left conveniently on her bedside table. Unrolling it and gently inserting one end into each of Simon’s nostrils was, she laughed to herself, one of the strangest things she’d ever done. But it looked hilarious and seemed, somehow, cruelly appropriate. She cut his clothes off with her desk scissors, and then positioned him, crucifix-like, on her floor. Taking her phone out, she snapped a large number of photos and emailed them to herself for safe keeping. She threw the scissors back across the room to her desk, but they knocked over a bottle of ink, which rolled to the floor. Luckily for Sarah, it didn’t spill. Unluckily for Simon, it gave her a much, much better idea than any she’d had to date. She found a sewing needle and dipped it in the ink. Then, straddling Simon’s body, she began work on her first ever home-tattoo.

Id rather be at Oxford than at Rons”.

The ‘Id’was a bit wobbly, but by the time Sarah got to the ‘be’she was well into her stride. Simon’s chest was scarring nicely, and the ink was seeping into the lines. ‘Oxford’was perfect [NB – this is the first time that sentence has appeared in the Tab]. Unfortunately, as she rounded the final corner of the last ‘S’in ‘Rons’, the pain brought Simon round.

His first ten words word have made a nun faint.

His next ten would probably have turned her on.

And eventually he realised what was happening.

“You…”he gasped.

“Shhhhhhh”murmured Sarah. “You wanted me to ride you, didn’t you? Yeah. Relax.”

This confused Simon. He’d thought she was grievously wounding him, but in fact she was just grinding on him. Quite powerfully. The pain in his chest must just be a side effect of the wine. Sarah started moaning softly, and he joined in. This was more like it. Sarah was a sexy girl, and Simon liked the way she was being dominant.

Then she grabbed a pillow and held it over his face.

Shit. She actually was killing him. Bollocks. Tits.

He squirmed and writhed. And Sarah discovered that violence was the one thing that her sex life had – to date – been lacking. She would make up for that now. Holding the pillow firmly she kept grinding and kept moaning. And, just as she was about to squeeze the last breath from his feebly drunk lips, she thrust a little too firmly, had to put an arm on the floor to steady herself, and Simon seized his moment and overpowered her, rolling her onto the floor and punching her face as hard as he could. She rolled over, lay still, and Simon rushed from the door.

He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t know what he was doing. He knew that he had nearly died and he knew that he was in pain. So he knew he must run. And he needed help. So it was fortunate that, as he dashed across the bridge, he ran full tilt into Archie.

“Archie! Help me. Help me, mate. Please.”

Simon was in tears. And Archie was in panic. He had nearly finished booby-trapping the bridge, but Simon was not meant to arrive yet. Yet here he was, naked, a squirrel on his head, a condom up his nose and a bloody, inky mess on his chest.