by Stuart Keane
"Oh…" she said, trailing off.
"Anyway, I can mention it to my colleagues."
"That would be great, thank you." She hugged herself tight, her gaze on nothing in particular. Her hair was unkempt and frazzled, as if she'd just stepped out of bed. Sean felt a pang of sorrow for the small woman.
"Right, your name is…"
She paused for a second. "Holly."
"And your husband is?"
"Stephen. Stephen Stone."
"His disappearance. Is that normal behaviour? I mean, does he normally go away for that length of time?"
"No, he hardly leaves the house. Which is why I'm worried about him."
"Okay … and you live in Barrington?"
"Yes, we live on Elm, the road adjacent to the hill."
"The hill?" Sean asked. Barrington had several; he needed to clarify the statement.
"Yes, the hill. Over by the Nichol mansion. You know, the spooky house straight out of a horror movie," she uttered.
"I'm familiar with it, yes. The doctor lives there. Frankenstein and ghosts and all that malarkey." Sean smiled and made a mental note.
Holly nodded. Said nothing.
Reading her facial expression, his heart sunk a little. "We'll find him, okay? Do you have a picture of your husband?"
Holly nodded quickly. She swung a handbag around her shoulder and removed a blue purse. After a split second of indecision, she slipped a photo from a hidden compartment. Sean didn’t notice a wedding ring, but kept the observation to himself. She handed it over.
"Thank you." He removed his mobile phone from his pocket. "Could you dial your contact number with this? Means I can get in touch should anything develop."
Holly took the device and dialled. Her fingers were a blur on the keypad. After a second, the phone was ringing. She nodded, cancelled the call with a deft thumb, and handed it back.
"We'll be in touch, Mrs Stone."
"Oh, it's Miss Hayden, not Stone."
"I thought you were married."
"I am. New traditions. I kept my name."
"Excellent. Well, you take care."
Holly smiled, turned, and walked away. Sean watched her merge into the crowd on the pavement, her stride aimless and slow. She was in no hurry to be anywhere.
Unusual, considering her husband is missing.
A normal woman would be like a dog on a rocket to get home in case he's arrived.
Sean made a mental note, turned the key in the ignition, and steered into traffic.
*****
Glorious.
Simply glorious. Perfect.
Astounding, even.
Morgan hoisted her left foot and held it in the air, before twisting it in the nearby floor mirror. Glancing at them from a variety of angles, she surmised that the shoes were simply beautiful. Her decision to steal them had been a wise one. She gazed at her pale ankle above the hem of the shoe, the colour of it simply divine, the white ribbon bobbing as she moved her foot back to the floor.
They're mine.
She placed the blouse against her chest, tilted her head, and shook it.
Not my style. A great decoy, though.
Morgan bent her arm at the elbow and draped the blouse over it. Checking that her skirt covered the stolen shoes, and that her sandals were securely hidden in her bag, she breathed out and exited the changing room.
And walked into a security guard.
At first, mild confusion stunned her into silence as she bounced off his wide chest, and a nervous smile spread across her face. She was about to excuse herself, but as the seriousness of the situation dawned on her, and she spotted the other people behind him, an uncomfortable warmth spread deep within, a spreading pool of seeping terror.
Caught in the act.
Shit.
The security guard smiled, and that's when she recognised him. The unkempt blond hair, the full jawline and multiple chins, all of which were decorated with a smattering of golden stubble. The shit-eating grin that made her want to punch him in the face.
"You?" she uttered, her face twisting into a despising grimace.
Trent, who stood off to the side, flinched at her sudden outburst. He shook his head with frantic precision, as if regretting something.
The guard smiled. "Yes, me. You honestly thought I would forget?"
Morgan shook her head. "No. However, you should have." Her eyes flicked to the door, hatching a plan of escape. "Nothing good can come of this."
"I'll be the judge of that." He leaned in, and whispered, "I might even give you a chance to reconsider our previous conversation."
"Not even if you were the last person on earth and riding a fat cunt's peanut cock was my only method of survival," she spat, her words tinged with venom. A chuckle escaped her thin lips.
The guard blushed, caught off guard. He breathed out, and watched the people around him. Trent folded his arms, his eyes narrowing. A female clerk stood watching, her mouth open in awe. The guard rubbed his chin, defeated before the people he sought to serve. His power had taken a massive dent. "Right, let's go. Save your mouth for your solicitor."
"Men. You're all after one thing."
"Yep. And we do anything to get it." The security guard reached for her elbow.
Morgan thrust away, recoiling from his touch. The young girl scooted around a rack of shirts, putting them between her and her captor. The hangers screeched as she held it, seeking protection. "Don’t you fucking touch me!"
She assessed the situation, but realised it was a dire one. The guard now blocked her only exit. Even if she could get past him, Trent was bringing up the rear, obstructing her path. She could get past him, but Morgan was more worried about the multiple cameras in the mall, devices that would record her every move as she fled for freedom. There were other security guards, fitter, healthier, in better shape than her current one. And who knew what members of the public would decide to be Joe Hero? Too risky.
Play to your strengths.
She glanced at Trent and winked. The young boy blushed, his face flushing crimson. The woman behind the counter stepped forward, still in awe. Morgan noticed she had a small audience, albeit a weak one.
"Tell them why you want to arrest me so bad?"
The guard said nothing. He took a step forward.
"Go on, tell them. Tell them!"
"It'll be easier if you just come with me, missy."
"He caught me once before … in Primark, if I remember rightly. He did the whole routine, pretty much like this. Once he had me in custody, he offered me a clean slate … the only implication was that I sleep with him. I could fuck him to go free."
Trent's gaze shifted slightly, and turned to the guard. His colleague did the same, her mystified gaze sweeping the shop floor to the uniformed man, a hint of contempt glazing her stare.
"Go on. Tell them the truth."
The guard shook his head, his hands on his ample waist. "You're over the line."
"Over the line and honest. I'm sorry, officer … I assume you tried to be one before failing police school or whatever it is you plods do, but I don’t feel safe in your custody. Trent, don’t let them take me."
Trent stepped forward and stopped. "Um…"
"You can't hand me over to him. He could sexually assault me. He already offered it to me, which I'm sure is against his protocols."
"Is she telling the truth?" Trent uttered, his voice weak.
The guard turned. "Really, Potter? You're questioning my methods? Get out of my face."
Trent shied away. However, his female colleague stepped over. "You have no authority."
The guard sighed. "What?"
"She hasn't left the store. You're a mall security guard. Until she leaves the store with her stolen merchandise, she's our problem. You can't do anything," the woman finished, smiling at her realisation.
The guard looked between the two retail clerks and scoffed. "Really?"
They stood firm. Morgan leaned on the rack before her, hid
ing a smile. The smell of clothing seeped into her nostrils. Her eyes widened; she was about to get away with this. She considered slipping the shoes off and walking, to fight another day.
But they were so damn precious…
Silence won the battle. "You'll be sorry you did this," the guard threatened, forced by the stalemate. Holding a hand in the air, he grunted and waddled to the door.
As he disappeared, Morgan shifted her gaze to the clerks. "Thank you, so much."
"Technically, you didn’t steal anything yet. We do need the shoes back, though," the woman said. She tugged at her shirtsleeves and emerged from behind the counter. "And we'll have to bar you from the store. Small penance, in the grand scheme of things."
Morgan, resigned to defeat but thankful she was still a free woman, nodded. "Sure, but can I wear them for a little longer?"
The woman said nothing.
Trent stepped forward. "Sure. Walk around the store. It's what you do in new shoes, right?" His colleague shot him a derisive glance, but he nodded. "She's a customer, you practically said so yourself."
She groaned. "Fine. Five minutes, and you're gone."
Morgan smiled. "Thank you."
*****
"If you feel my sessions are a hindrance, I can recommend someone else?"
"No, don’t … don’t do that. I didn’t mean your therapy … I meant my condition. That's a hindrance, as you can well imagine."
Melanie paused. "Sure. Well, you're the boss, and I'm here to help you. If the sessions are beneficial, then I will not change anything," she said, looking at her notes.
David felt a surge of relief. Catastrophe avoided.
He glanced at Melanie, who was scribbling on her pad. Her hand bobbed and weaved as she moved it across the page. David felt his gaze returning to that shapely bosom; the curves were certainly having an effect on him. He admired the soft tanned flesh, the teasing cleft of the cleavage, the top that restricted his view of her charms and drove him insane. He felt a bulge forming beneath his jeans. He found his eyes wandering to her glossed lips, her shapely fingers, and imagined both going to work on him, bringing him to a beautiful, shuddering orgasm. Taking advantage of Melanie's occupational distraction, he observed her shapely legs once more, and sighed.
What I wouldn’t do to have my mouth between them.
This is your therapist. You can't think about stuff like this. It's against the rules.
Says who? Your boss?
Oh yeah, he does.
Cunt.
Keep it in your pants. Mind you, following a sexual harassment case, only the fine people at Direct National could stick you with a fine piece of arse like Dr. Bartram. You'd be a fool not to milk this for all it's worth.
The word milk made him think about breasts again and David felt sweat trickling down the side of his face. He wiped it away in a hurry as Melanie looked up at him, and grinned. Her smile knocked him for six. He felt a stiffening in his pants and immediately thought about his grandma. Which didn’t work, it actually made him harder.
She was beautiful in her prime. I saw the photos.
That's your…
You sick freak!
David shook his head.
Melanie took a sip of water from her glass. "So, can you explain your situation on that day? Why are we here?"
David said nothing.
Melanie laid her pad down and interlaced her fingers. "If this is too hard, or too early, we can leave it."
David closed his eyes, pushing the thought from his mind.
Hard. Fuck!
It's as if she knows!
He opened them and sighed nervously, finally in control. "No, I need to face my demons. Otherwise the therapy is a waste of time."
Melanie sighed. "David, I'm your court-assigned therapist. Whatever you tell me stays in this room. I'm not judging you; I'm here to help you. You have no enemies here."
Poor guy, she thought. He's a pervert but he's still human.
Bullshit.
He's the scum of the earth. Women live in fear because of people like him. However, this is your job, your career choice. Everyone is equal, no matter how creepy.
If your mum could hear you, she'd disown you.
Melanie looked at David. "Please, continue."
"Well … it all started with a woman called Thea."
*****
"Where are we?"
Thea Osgood saw nothing but total darkness before her. If her knowledge and cursory research had been correct, the underground domain before her stretched for miles, weaving and curving beneath the town of Barrington. Unlike many British sewer systems, these tunnels were metres tall, curved and illustrious in their hidden opulence. The brickwork was ancient and crumbling, hindered and slicked by the damp conditions; it glistened in the probing aura of her torch light. The walls reminded her of the infamous American sewers portrayed in the movies; those inhabited by killer rats, pink slime and mutated reptiles.
"Where are we?" she repeated, her nerves fraying a little.
Stephen Stone peered into the darkness, unsure. "Somewhere under Elm, I think."
"The road near the freak's house?"
"That would be the one."
"Fuck this…"
"I thought that was the plan?" Stephen's chuckle echoed down the tunnel. "We could have just gone back to my place. Why all the … mystery?"
"Your wife is there. I think she'd take exception to us fucking on your sofa."
"Okay, okay. Good point." She saw his head arching, his eyes taking in the sublime beauty of the tunnel before him. "I have to admit though … cool location."
Thea smiled, a surge of regret swelling in her abundant chest. The things I do to get laid.
I wish David were here. Things would be simpler.
Simpler than a married man, anyway.
Do not think about him.
It's your fault he's gone, you pushed him away.
You bottled it and grassed on him for sexual harassment.
And now? You can't go near him.
You can't have backsies.
Thea sighed.
"I think there's a maintenance dwelling down here," Stephen said, snapping Thea from her inner dilemma. "Thea, shine the torch to the right."
"A please would be nice."
"Do you want to find a place or not?"
"Fine."
"I don’t know why we couldn’t go to yours," Stephen muttered. The tunnel amplified the quiet sentence, and echoed back to him. It sent a shiver down his quaking spine.
"You know I prefer sex outside, in public places. It just doesn’t get me going otherwise," she lied. Truth is, she liked her privacy, and where she could take a man home if she wished, she liked her sanctum. Her home was the one place that she called her own. No man had ever set foot in there, and she intended for it to remain that way. Thea knew it was weird, but she didn’t care. Everyone had their quirks.
She swept the torch across the sewer tunnel. The small stream in the centre glistened beneath its brief touch. She expected to see a body or similar shape bobbing there, expected to jump and flee as a scared woman should, but saw nothing but ripples. A trickling sound caught her ear, and she noticed an inlet just beside her, sluicing into the stream below. She expected the smell to be worse.
The torch bobbed and fell on an alcove, one flecked with dancing shadow and rough edges, like someone had cut a large cube from the wall. As if motioned, Stephen ambled over to it, cautious in his approach. He sidled along the right hand walkway, his feet skittering beneath him. After a moment, he paused and smiled. "This will do nicely. There's an office here, with chairs and … hey, a fridge? Result."
"You're joking," Thea said, amused. "All the way down here?"
"Well, we're not that far from the outlet pipe. It makes sense that sewer workers have a place to converge and reside on their break. You coming over here or what?"
Thea nibbled her lip, a little aroused. Stephen's rare dominant side always got her in the mood. She
composed herself and started to walk, her hips swaying, hidden in the darkness. "Is that a promise?"
"I'm sure I can … acquiesce to that demand."
"Acque what now?"
"Never mind."
Thea entered the alcove. The space was impressive; small but contained and organised. A desk sat in the centre of the room, a chair tucked beneath it. A small table and chairs sat opposite, their surfaces slick with muck and damp. A solitary fridge stood in the corner, humming away. A thin locker stood beside it, the door wide open, the interior empty.
"Nice pad you have here," Thea whispered, approaching Stephen.
He turned to face her, recognising the tone of her voice. "Well, I find it’s best to make an effort. After all, I want only the best for my ladies … especially the attractive ones."
"Your ladies? You better not be fucking anyone else but me, not even that wench you call a wife…" Thea popped the first button on her blouse.
"Trust me. With this," he said, sliding his hands through the air, indicating to the woman before him, "There's no competition."
Thea said nothing. She ran her hands along her waist, watching her lover with a sultry gaze. She licked her lips and groaned a little. A warm surge blossomed through her, nearly consuming her. "Where do you want me?"
Stephen chuckled. "Ever been fucked over a desk?"
"No," she lied, in an effort to keep the fantasy going. A chill had erupted on her arms in the form of rigid gooseflesh. The sooner they finished, the better. Next time, she'd take him to the fucking graveyard. "No. You ever fucked someone over a desk?"
"No," Stephen lied. It was his preferred sexual position. Only last week, he'd shoved Holly over his desk at home, as she slapped papers and stationery to the floor, screaming and begging for more. Their marriage was still alive in some respects, and it still had its moments. Despite this, he put the effort in to keep the affair going; after all, Thea was a total stunner, a nine or ten on any meter a warm-blooded male could invent. Cake and eating it came to mind.
