‘Are you going first, old boy?’ someone asked Ted. ‘Too right, Edgar old chap.’ Ted, his flies undone, adjusted his trousers, aimed his weapon and rammed home.
Chloe, Mary and another girl whose name Carew did not know, plus one of the men, were holding Suzanne’s hands and feet as Ted enjoyed his sacrifice.
He jolted his delivery and, when he had finished, Suzanne’s body was white and exposed; her nipples staring at the stars, her crisp covering of pubic hair stirred by an intermittent breeze.
She was not exposed for long. Another man took Ted’s place. With obvious appreciation, Suzanne arched her back as another penis thrust between her open thighs.
Carew leaned his head back against the stone of the wall. He was dizzy and needed support. His mind and his body were in turmoil. What the devil is wrong with me? he asked himself. I am aroused. I know I am aroused, but not by this scene. There is another scene in my mind. Another time when Suzanne was being penetrated and I was watching.
The other man who had pushed himself into Suzanne was now ejaculating over her rather than in her. A third man was waiting to take his place. In the past, Carew would have shouted encouragement and would either have had her or been preparing to have her. As it was, he was stumbling away from rather than towards the action.
Sweat broke out all over him and soaked his shirt, his pants, even his socks. He had to get away. He had to leave them to it.
Katie had only just got into her own bed when the knock came. She covered her nudity and the fact that she was a woman, and opened the door a fraction. It was Imran.
‘You are wanted.’ He smiled that same smile he always gave her. Was there some secret joke between them?
‘Who by?’
‘Your master. Dress warmly. I will be down in the car. We are to take some food and drink out to the abbey ruins.’
She paused. At this time of night? ‘He asked for me?’
‘I need your help with the provisions,’ Imran answered. ‘And if I need you, then the master needs you.’
She knew she could have refused. She was sure that there was no real need for her to go, but Imran was here and she was out of bed, so she took the line of least resistance.
‘I won’t be a moment.’
The night was bright, and there was something alluring about going out at a little before midnight.
Imran smiled at her in that strange way of his before starting the car. ‘I am glad you are coming with me. I think the master will appreciate that.’
In what way? she asked herself, but did not say anything.
It was only a matter of some five miles to the ruins. She’d only been there herself on a few occasions, but not always at night.
‘More fizzy!’ went up the cry as she and Imran carried the weighty straw hamper into the abbey. No one stepped forward to lend a hand as they stumbled along the only clear bit of ground that led to those gathered around what looked like an altar. Once it was there and put down, hands suddenly appeared from all directions and, although there was plenty of food in the hamper, it was the bottles of champagne and burgundy that everybody reached for.
Katie, her cap tipped low over her eyes, bit her lip to stop from laughing as she espied Suzanne. The American girl was laid out naked on the stone altar, covered in goose pimples, but fast asleep. What’s more, she was snoring and her legs were wide open, her inner thighs glossy with fluid.
Katie hid her giggles behind her hand. There was no guessing how much Suzanne had already had for supper!
Imran helped her unload the hamper. Her mind was occupied with the task, and also with wondering where Carew might be and what part he might have played in Suzanne’s fatigue. Suddenly, a hand alighted on her shoulder. She started. The touch was familiar. So was the voice.
‘Good lad. I could just do with some food.’ Furtively, she glanced at the speaker from beneath the peak of her cap and was instantly glad of the darkness. Edgar! It was Edgar! If he saw her, she was finished.
With head bowed, she stepped backwards so that he could push in and get what food and drink he wanted.
His mouth opening as though he were about to speak, Imran looked questioningly over his shoulder at her. Something told her he under-stood. Again, there was that amused smile. The shadows were very dark and strangely welcoming. Katie held her breath until she was in them. Then, she turned away from where the crowd was bathed in moonlight.
Wisps of trailing shrubs brushed her face as she waded into the more dense undergrowth. Reaching out to feel her way, her palms warmed to the heat the stones had gathered during the day.
Although the ground beneath her feet was fairly even, it was very dark, so she was careful where she walked.
The further she went from the main body of the abbey, the more silent it became, and the more still.
Only the odd bat or preying owl swooped over her head, and leaves rustled in the odd breath of breeze.
Beyond, the shadows, meadows, woods, and far off farmhouses were bathed in silver. There was a magic about the bright scene beyond the blackness, a magic she found difficult to ignore. With one hand, she felt her way along the wall, but her eyes studied the moon-kissed scene beyond. The spell was not broken until she bumped into someone else.
‘A body! Another body in this blackness!’ She caught her breath, but did not cry out.
By the sound of the voice she had found Carew. His breath smelt of drink and his body was heavy against her, the abbey stones warm, but sharp behind her back. Hot hands were around her waist before she had a chance to escape. She kept silent. So far, she knew it was him, but he did not know she was Oliver, and his hands were already on her body. ‘I do not know who you are girl,’ he said through drunken breath. ‘But I intend having you here and now, and I shall call you Olivia. Olivia,’ he repeated. ‘Do you hear me?’
She did not answer. Not in words. He was close, and her reactions were a direct result of his body being against hers. As her heart and her desires quickened, she arched her spine and thrust her breasts against his chest, her pubes against his hard penis.
She squirmed enough to allow her hands freedom to shove her cap into her pocket. That, she decided, would have been a dead giveaway.
Then his hands were fumbling at her shirt buttons before burrowing inside to squeeze her breasts and pinch her nipples. His teeth were hard against her mouth, his tongue demanding as it duelled with hers.
Drink was the all-pervading smell, though the fresh scent of his masculinity was hardly hidden by it.
Unwilling to miss this chance, and trembling with excitement, she undid his trouser buttons, undid her own, and pushed her trousers down to her knees.
As he whispered drunken nonsense into her ear, he pushed her against the wall of the abbey. The warm stones of the abbey scratched at her bare buttocks. Her hands and his collided as they fought to guide his penis into her.
Half closing her eyes, she hissed through her teeth, unwilling to let loose in real words the ecstasy she was feeling. Her body tingled; like the zest, she thought, of a freshly peeled orange; fine, zingy and somehow, indescribable.
Clinging firmly to his shoulders, she rocked her body forward to meet his. The crispness of his pubes meshed and crackled with hers. Again and again his pelvis tapped and teased her hidden nub.
Carew clung to this woman he had found, yet he could not help thinking of her as Oliver. Something about her smell made him think that way.
She grabbed hold of his hair, and pushed his mouth to her breasts which had burst out from her open shirt.
Carew was drunk, but capable enough of having a fine hardness that filled her vagina, and a pelvis that thrust in constant rhythm against her aching mons. He smelt her, he felt her, and he was enjoying using this woman he could not see. ‘Are you a ghost?’ he asked, but did not want, and did not
get an answer.
‘No. You’re not a ghost, my darling. You’re not a ghost.’
The softness of her body and the rapidity of her breathing told him she was there, that she was real.
At least, he thought, I have not pushed my penis into a dry joint in the abbey wall. But her scent tormented him. If only, I could see her, he thought in his muddled mind, it might end this torment.
But no matter what this woman he was screwing looked like, the smoky grey eyes were in his head, and they wouldn’t go away.
‘Damn your dark grey eyes,’ he shouted as he came. ‘Damn your pretty, pretty face! Damn you!’
As her own orgasm took her, Katie hugged him close and felt his trembling. He was a creature in pain, not in pleasure, and soon she would have to do something about it. But not yet, not until she was sure that he was hers, because now that was all she wanted.
He placed his hands palm down on the ancient walls and braced himself as he became soft and fell out of her. Breathless and still, Katie stayed there until she was sure he had not seen her, and not realised that she was the boy who haunted him. Then quickly and silently, she rebuttoned her trousers and prepared to take her leave.
Leaving him to talk to himself about some boy who should have been a woman, she ducked down under his arms, and left him there. Her steps were quick along the path, and the stones now scratched her hands rather than her behind. Hastily, she pulled her cap back on her head and bent low as she ran past the rest of the crowd and towards the car.
Only once did she hear Carew move and call behind her.
‘Who are you woman? Are you a dream? Are you real?’
She did not answer. Dreams never do.
But somehow, the magic of the blackness and the silver moonlight at the old ruins, had cast a malignant spell.
At nine o’clock the next morning, she saw Imran driving the Bentley. Carew was in the back.
She waved, but like the stone sentinels that sat on top the gateposts, he stared straight ahead as if she were not there.
By ten o’clock, Mister Benson, the man whose supper habits with Mrs Webster were nothing short of unusual, handed her things and told her that she’d been dismissed. The decision shocked her to silence.
As though he did not trust her to leave the premises, he escorted her to the side gate and shut it firmly behind her.
Slowly, and without looking back, she made her way down the lane, disappointed that the avenue she had chosen to get close to Carew Bentley Thompson had been closed to her as firmly as the gate.
Before she reached the end of the lane that opened onto the main road, Gareth stepped out in front of her.
She stopped and turned her saddened eyes to him. ‘I’ve been dismissed.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. It wasn’t anything I said, mark you. I think it was a spur of the moment thing. I don’t know for sure, but I think it had to do with something that happened to him last night. Whatever it was, it put him in a fair good mood, I can tell you.’
She nodded, but he didn’t need to tell her what had happened last night. In the darkness and against the rough walls of the ruined abbey, it was her who had been unable to resist. Carew had gained strength from her weakness.
‘You won’t tell him about me, will you?’
‘Not if you don’t want me to.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But there is a price to pay.’
His eyes twinkled as he said it, so she knew full well to what he was referring.
She sighed.
‘I don’t need to guess what it is you want. Anyway, I could do with some loving. Where do you want me?’ He smiled and put his arm around her shoulders.
‘Come on,’ he said as he hugged her close. ‘Let me make you feel better.’
Bare skinned against the dampness of the forest floor, she lay where he told her to lay, and stretched out her arms and legs in the same way she had caused him to do back in their little room up under the eaves of the stables.
Gently, he secured her limbs with white-flowered strands of rambling bindweed, so fragile she could toss them aside if she so desired.
But she did not desire.
Bright green coloured her vision as Gareth placed the coolness of broad-leaved dock over her eyes. The sound of flighty birds and the lazy, hazy sound of humming bees was all around her. Before he touched her, all that caressed her flesh was the coolness of the forest air, and all she smelt before his body covered hers was the abundance of damp, dark foliage.
Chapter 13
On the drive up to London, Carew felt better than he had for a long time, in fact, he regarded his troubles as being over.
Not that it hadn’t taken a good degree of self-denial to leave the gamekeeper to tell Olivet that his employment at Thompson Towers was at an end. It had been difficult, very difficult indeed. But it was something that just had to be done, or there was no accounting for how he himself would have ended up. Like Uncle Charles, probably, he thought, and inwardly cringed.
With a faraway look in his eyes, he thanked whoever it was he had bumped into in the darkness of the abbey ruins. His brain had been muddled with drink and confusion that night, but just the feel of her body and the enthusiasm with which she had responded to him, had made him feel like a man again. The only thing he regretted was not knowing who she was.
Outwardly, he was almost his old self again. The boy, Oliver, had been gone for four days now and, although he was missing those dark grey eyes and that lithe figure and pert behind, his mind and his body were far less troubled.
‘Your tailors, Mister Bentley Thompson, sir,’ said Imran. They came to a halt outside a double-fronted shop where a discreet sign stated ‘Bespoke Tailors to Gentry’.
Carew took a deep breath of satisfaction as he waited for Imran to come round and open the rear passenger door.
With a certain determination, his silver-tipped cane hit the pavement before his foot. As he stood up, he straightened his waistcoat and beamed at the place in which he was to be fitted out with a new hunting jacket for the forthcoming season. Attending to such errands was, he told himself, a sign of normality. Soon everything would be as it had always been - just like the establishment he was about to enter.
The shop had a darkly varnished and extremely ornate window frame. Yellow-striped blinds kept the sun off a minimal window display of crossed polo sticks, plus suitable attire.
Goldman, Denzil and Sachs was only frequented by gentlemen who passed the time doing what gentlemen had always done, and sport - in the normally accepted term of the word - was only one of their interests. When in town, this very reputable establishment was also the place in which to enquire about the more disreputable - but discreet - establishments, where a gentleman might relieve himself of pent-up passions and a wallet of pound notes. Perhaps later, Carew thought, he might avail himself of those more covert services. Perhaps he might again avail himself of Mrs Vertibel’s very fine establishment. For now, he was every inch the gentleman, and felt it.
With a smile playing around his lips and his head held high, he eyed the street where clothes told all, and money bought credence. The sun was bright and his heart was lighter than it had been for a long time. Anyway, even though it was only a street, he liked what he saw. It was all so ordinary, so acceptable.
White and cream shop canopies cracked in a stiff breeze and slim women in short skirts, shiny silk stockings and cloche hats strolled arm in arm with female friends or gentlemen in flapping trousers, striped blazers and straw boaters. They laughed, eyed each other with undisguised interest and whispered sweet secrets in each other’s ears.
‘Trams full of wide-eyed people trundled by and so, to his great surprise, did women on bicycles. The fact that they rode bicycles was neither here nor there. The fact that they wore trousers most certainly was!
‘Whatever next,’ he mumbled to himself, and blamed that place in California where moving pictures were made.
‘Shall I wait for you, sir, or will you be going to your club?’ Imran stood straight and serene in his pale grey chauffeur’s uniform.
‘No,’ replied Carew. His answer was as sudden as his decision. ‘It’s a nice day and I feel very well. Better than I have for a long time. I think I might just take a little stroll. After my fitting, I will walk to my club. Pick me up from here in about an hour.’
Imran nodded, then walked with his employer towards the facade of Goldman, Denzil and Sachs.
The doorbell jangled as Imran opened the shop door for his master before returning to the car. If Carew had turned and looked at his servant, he would have seen the same look Katie had seen; the bemused smile, the raised eyebrow.
But Carew did not notice. He was absorbed in his own self-esteem, an assuredness that he was once again his own self Imran Jaffar knew differently.
Once the fitting in the darkly varnished shop was over and done with, Carew was out of the shop and walking. Soon, shops, trams and taxis were more numerous, and so were the crowds.
With a smile on his face, he tipped his hat at everyone he passed and wished them good day. Neither their faces nor their persons were known to him. But today, such formalities did not seem to matter, that was until he thought he saw a face he recognised. They were just two young ladies, but the look of one was enough to stop him in his tracks.
‘Oliver!’ He said it low and hushed, yet just saying it seemed to dry his throat and crack his tongue.
His heart thumped. His head thudded as though someone was hitting him with a hammer. He stared at the two young women as they rushed by.
Had they seen the look in his eyes• and feared for what he might do? Did he look crazy? Was he crazy? Was he seeing things, or had he really seen those dark grey eyes that had been haunting him for a while now?
But it couldn’t be. Not Oliver! It was not possible! In his mind, he checked over exactly what he had seen. Two young women. That was all. One he remembered as wearing navy blue with some sort of yellow pattern’ on it. But it was not her he was interested in. The other young woman wore dark grey and pink, and her eyes were of the same grey as her clothes.
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