by Jake Barton
"Sorry," he said, despondently, pouting like an overgrown child.
"Oh, it just makes me feel a bit funny, that sort of thing. I dislocated a couple of fingers a few years back and it’s like I can still feel it when I see you doing that."
He gave a lop-sided smile, but stopped the business with his knuckles, for which she was grateful. Running his fingers round the outside of his glass, collecting the moisture and making wavy patterns, he was a bag of nerves. Donna was almost tempted to suggest he went back to cracking his knuckles.
A girl sat in the chair opposite, glancing at a couple of passing lads to check their level of interest. Zero. She looked away and concentrated on buffing her nails. Another prospect would be along in a minute and she'd want to be looking her best. Not for the first time, Donna contrasted the current predatory mode freely adopted as the norm among females her age with her own approach. Put simply, she couldn't be arsed to chase after men. An old-fashioned girl in that respect.
Donna turned away and watched the dance floor. One couple were practically having sex, grinding their hips together, hands roaming freely under clothing, tongues intertwined like a couple of fighting snakes. She looked away, feeling tired all of a sudden.
The girl opposite crossed her long legs threatening to overturn the table. Big blonde hair, blue eyes and a bra that pushed her boobs up under her chin. The full bimbo look with more layers of mascara than she had brain cells. Pretty, under all the makeup, but too stupid to know that less can be more. Patent leather pumps and white socks. Not just any old socks. White socks with a lacy trim, the sort of thing a doting parent would buy for a five-year-old girl.
No doubt a five-year-old would look sweet in them. On a grown woman they looked ridiculous.
But, Donna thought, what the fuck do I know about fashion? Just another of the female interests that had passed her by.
The blonde girl raised a handbag the size of a cabin trunk and rummaged in its depths. Donna felt a growing sense of isolation from her own sex. She didn't even carry a handbag. Why bother? Her hairstyle didn’t need a comb or brush and she certainly had no use for all the girlie palaver of makeup, perfume and the rest of the package. Donna only used makeup at weddings and other such special occasions. Other times, a quick dab of lipstick was all she’d allow herself. That went in her pocket along with keys and a black leather wallet. She invariably wore jeans or trousers with pockets, so that was her sorted.
She’d never liked Barbie either, come to think of it, hated fluffy toy animals with a passion verging on pathological, and begrudged going shopping for anything that wasn’t food. Just not the girlie type. Never had been and never would be.
Donna got up, thought about ordering a drink at the bar, but changed her mind and walked straight through to the Ladies where she perched on a stool in front of the mirror and studied her appearance. Not good. A girl came in from the bar – big hair, loads of makeup, the full works. One of the dance floor dollies. She plonked herself down next to Donna, rummaging in her bag.
"Bloody roasting in there," she said. "I’m sweating cobs." Donna nodded to her reflection in the mirror. She was sweating all right, like a Derby winner, although the horse would probably smell better.
"First time in here, is it?" Donna nodded again.
The girl was friendly enough, but then, complete strangers were always talking to her in the Ladies. From what she could gather, the opposite applied in the Gents. Lee told her once that only poofters talked to strangers in the bogs. You kept your head down, pissed, farted and fucked off out again. He had a way with words, did Lee.
"You meeting someone, then?" Persistent!
"Looking for somebody," Donna said, defensively.
"I bet I know them," she insisted. "If they’re from round here, I’ll know them." She tapped Donna’s arm with the point of a shocking-pink fingernail. "Who is it then? A lad, I bet?"
Donna said nothing. The girl poked her again. The bottom of her jacket was torn, the satin lining showing below the burst stitches of the hem. She clicked her tongue impatiently, her tone becoming more hostile at Donna’s indifference. "Come on, don’t be snotty. I can help you."
Donna sighed. "Alex Melia. Ring any bells?"
The other girl grinned. Her teeth were streaked with the lipstick that smeared her lips.
"Told yer, didn’t I? I know Alex. Student, yeah? Lives in Neston?"
"That’s him. Seen him lately, have you?"
"Not this week, but he was in here Friday night, early doors. On the piss with that mate of his, the dead fit one. They’re both students. I don’t really know Alex, not to talk to, you know, but I know his mate."
"Do you know a girl named Celine? Lives in Meols Drive? Might have seen her with Alex?"
She shook her head. "Celine Dobson? She’s not been in for yonks. I’d know her if she came in here. Jimmy, that’s Alex’s mate, he was in last night. I didn’t see him to speak to ‘cause he was with some old bat, old enough to be his bloody mother if you ask me, but I don’t reckon she could have been." She cackled, a really dirty Sid James style laugh. "Not unless they were a really close family, know what I mean? All over him she was, bloody disgusting at her age."
"Do you have an address for Jimmy?"
"No. Might know where you’ll find him later on though. Cost you a drink though. A Malibu should do the trick." Donna smiled and headed out to the bar. Malibu? What else?
~ Chapter 8 ~
An hour later, Donna was back on the streets. It had taken a second Malibu, and a lot of boring girl talk, but she now had an idea where the elusive Jimmy could be found. It was past closing, but that wasn’t important. It’s not as if she was here for pleasure. She wouldn’t be setting foot in this next place if that were the case. One of those dog-rough pubs you hurry past if you’ve got any sense.
Donna pushed open the door and was immediately enveloped in a warm fug of beery sweat and walked gingerly across the tawdry strip of carpet. The pattern faded now, but still retaining enough detail to make her avert her eyes. Jackson Pollock with a splattering of vomit was the closest she could come to a description.
The bar staff were gathered together at one of the tables, obviously too wired to go home, each with a bottle of designer beer close to hand.
"We're closed, love." Donna jumped as the voice came from behind her. Turning, she saw a skinny lad, nineteen or so, in tight black jeans and white t-shirt, hands clutching the necks of half a dozen bottles. His tone was aggressive, and, judging by the sweat stains under his armpits, he'd had a heavy night behind the bar.
" I can see that," Donna replied, trying to look tougher than she felt. "I just need a quick word about a lad named Jimmy." She saw the group at the table exchanging glances – three lads in their early twenties, each sporting the obligatory earring; a rough-looking woman in her thirties and an older man with the florid complexion of a hard drinker. It was a surprise when the woman was the first to speak. "Who's doing the asking about Jimmy?" Not why, but who? Interesting.
"Name’s Donna. I just need a quick word with Jimmy."
"I bet you do, you cheeky little bitch," she said. A ringing peal of laughter segued into a throaty chuckle, and then died out altogether, the whole process containing not a shred of genuine humour. The others laughed along with her, their expectant eyes fixed on Donna.
Donna stood in the doorway like a bloody lemon until the older man seemed to take pity on her and wandered over, still clutching his bottle. Up close, he looked rough. Thick rubbery lips and a fleshy bulbous drinker's nose. Slate coloured eyes that saw everything but gave nothing back. Donna smiled and a hint of warmth crept into those brooding eyes. Maybe not a hint as such, more the faintest suggestion, but enough to persuade her to stay.
"What do you want with Jimmy? It had better be good, or the boss will break your bloody legs for you."
Donna looked at the woman and saw the look she was giving back. Realisation dawned. "Oh, he’s her feller then?"
"
Got it in one, doll."
"I see. Will you tell her..?" Donna stopped as the boss loomed up in front of her. She was half-pissed and spoiling for a fight, but the rolled-up sleeves revealed weedy arms and Donna knew she could take her with one arm tied behind her back.
"Tell me your fucking self."
"Right. Well, for starters, I’ve never met Jimmy, wouldn’t know him from Adam, so you can forget any bloody daft idea that I’m in here chasing after him. I need to talk to him about one of his mates that’s all."
"What fucking mate?" Her tone had softened, not a lot, but enough.
"Alex Melia?"
"That twat. Well Jimmy fucking well should be here by now, but he isn’t. So you’ve wasted your time, haven’t you?"
"Have you got a number I can ring him on," Donna persisted. "I’ll make it worth his while."
"You’ll have to or you’ll get fuck all out of him," she laughed. "Hang on, I’ll see what I can do." She wandered back to the table where her staff waited, their disappointment at not seeing a scrap evident.
"Here you go," she said, returning with a scruffy piece of paper in her clenched fist. "That’s his mobile number. You can ring from here if you want." She indicated a pay phone on the end of the bar.
"No, that’s okay, I’ve got my mobile in the car," Donna said, taking the piece of paper and escaping into the night.
*****
Trudging wearily up the stairs, Donna eased the creaks from her aching back. A hard night with not a lot to show for it. She’d eventually managed to telephone Jimmy, the elusive friend of Alex Melia, but was still no nearer to finding the man himself. She’d arranged to meet Jimmy tomorrow in the Dee Arms. She’d also learned more than she’d really wished to know about the local drug scene where Alex Melia seemed to be a minor player.
Donna felt old for the first time in her life. A generation had crept up behind her, knowing all about drugs, computers and House music, about which she felt as out of touch as Peg.
The house was quiet. Peg must have toddled off to the attic she’d made into a self-contained one bed-roomed suite. Not that she ever spent any time there during the day. The main room was in darkness and Donna tiptoed past thinking Gary may also be asleep. Peg had sorted out enough bedding for him to sleep on the sofa on a temporary basis. Donna did have another bedroom, but it was too full of junk to be usable on such short notice. He’d said the sofa was perfect, and she knew from her own experience how comfortable it was.
She had a good forty minutes conversation with Gary Rudd on tape.
They’d covered the night of the fire and the immediate aftermath in some detail and, hopefully, Dexter would be pleased with her work to date. Donna went into the kitchen and was poking around in the ‘fridge for something to nibble, when she became aware of the sound of water running through the pipes.
Steam poured out of the bathroom as she opened the door a crack. That much steam meant really hot water, too hot for Peg that was for sure. Gary was in the shower. Donna couldn’t see him; not that she was looking of course, but could certainly hear him. He may have many excellent qualities, but singing was not one of them. She assumed he was singing. Perhaps he’d pinched his foreskin in the shower screen door. No, it was definitely singing. "Beam me up, Buttercup," no less. He was performing a cappella, which was just as well; she’d hate to be the accompanist trying to stay with him. He switched to early Elvis. "Heartbreak Hotel". How old did he say he was? If the King was listening, somewhere up there, he may not actually turn in his grave, but she’d bet it would really put him off his cheeseburgers.
Donna closed the door and went back to the kitchen, found some St. Agur, her favourite blue cheese, and a decent chunk of granary bread, a tomato and half a bottle of red wine. Feeling quite sophisticated, she sat at the kitchen table and tucked in while writing notes on her evening’s work. If you could call an evening of Malibu-inspired gossip work! At one stage, she heard Gary coming down the corridor from the bathroom, but he didn’t come into the kitchen. She finished off her supper, washed up and tidied away.
Should I go and look up Gary Rudd? The thought prompted a snort of amusement. I need to go and take a cold shower, she thought, stretching her arms overhead as she rose from her chair. What’s the use of having hormones if they only kicked in with the wrong sort of bloke? Not that there was anything wrong with Gary. Quite the reverse, he was lovely. But, he was too bloody old, even for a woman of the world like her. Woman of the World? Jesus!
Donna walked stiffly out of the kitchen and into the bathroom, noting with mild amusement that Gary had refolded the towel he had used and wiped the surface of the sink after brushing his teeth. She reached for her own toothbrush and scrubbed away for a couple of minutes, savouring the tang of spearmint. After rinsing, she cupped her hands under the cold tap, splashing icy water on her face and dried herself on the damp towel previously used by her guest, breathing in the faint masculine scent.
She turned off the light, darkness wrapping around her like a heavy cloak. Making a sudden decision, Donna removed her outer clothes and, in bra and pants walked from the bathroom towards the lounge. The door was slightly ajar and she pushed it open, taking half a pace inside. Gary lay on his side, the duvet thrown back to reveal his upper torso. Thick clumps of hair covered the muscular planes of his chest, rising and falling with each breath. In repose his expression was entirely peaceful, free of strain and almost boyish in appearance.
Gaining confidence, Donna walked slowly into the room until she stood next to the sofa, then reached behind to unfasten her bra and dropped it on the floor. Hooking her thumbs into the sides of her knickers, she slid them down, raising a foot to kick them away. Naked, she shivered momentarily, more from nervousness than from any chill in the air, then carefully raised the corner of the duvet and slipped under the covers. What if he’s not interested? Can I deal with rejection?
She almost giggled as Gary opened one eye, taking in her presence. Too late to back out now. Go for it. Donna pressed against his naked body, kissing his neck. Gary responded instantly, the tip of his tongue tracing the edge of her lips, gently probing the warm velvet interior. His fingers fluttered over her ear lobes and neck. Raising himself slightly, his tongue moved to the hollow of her throat, then slid down the slope of a breast, lips capturing the warm fleshy bud of a nipple. Rewarded by her gasp of arousal, he moved back to her lips, kissing her with fresh urgency. Donna reached down, feeling his throbbing strength in her hands.
No doubt about it, he’s definitely interested.
He reached across, but Donna pushed him away, giggling at the surprised expression on his face. Moving away slightly, she raised herself, lying on top of him, her right hand still grasping him firmly. She could feel the heat coming off him in waves as she straddled him, pinning his hands either side of his head, and biting his fleshy lower lip as she eased herself down. He began to move, slowly at first, then increasingly more rapidly. Donna threw her head back, breasts bobbing, relinquishing her hold on his hands. There was no need for restraint – he wasn’t planning on going anywhere for a while. He moved his hands up to her breasts, nuzzling the tips, rotating his palms on her nipples. Donna grunted, bucking violently as he maintained his furious pace. She felt her orgasm begin, savouring the moment, could hear her breath rasping through her open mouth. Sweat dripping from his upper body, he gasped with each thrust. Donna felt him, growing even harder, tightening and his orgasm sent her over the edge, pushing her hips down to meet his as he exploded. She fell forward, pressing her lips fiercely to his as he pulled her in tightly, arms tightly clamped round the taut ridges of her spine.
"Fuck me," Gary said, his breathing ragged.
"I thought I just did."
~ Chapter 9 ~
The cool half-light of dawn signalled the birth of a new day. The first hint of sun on the distant horizon banishing the darkness, its rays casting a burnished gleam on the waters of the lake, turning night into day.
Marcus stood on th
e shore, looking at the lake surface, his chest heaving. He’d gradually built up the difficulty and intensity of his exercise routine and was now at a formidable level of fitness. He walked slowly towards the cabin, watching the sun’s reflection glinting off the dirty glass of the tiny window. Turning his face towards the few desultory rays of sunshine, stubbornly attempting to pierce the gloom under the canopy of trees, he grinned as he entered the cabin, revealing startlingly white teeth.
Celine was awake. She looked pale – her lips dry and cracked, reddened where she’d bitten into them. He ignored her and went straight down the corridor to his own room. She’d made a clumsy seduction attempt the previous evening, presumably hoping to ingratiate herself with her captor. He’d slapped her face and twisted her arm behind her back until the tears flowed. "Don’t flatter yourself," he’d said. "You’ve got nothing I want."
When Marcus returned, she was staring at the wall. He threw a grey tracksuit on the floor next to the bed and reached down to release the handcuffs. "Get dressed," he said. "Time for walkies."
*****
While Donna went through the pretence of tousling her immaculate bed, she was relieved to hear Peg bustling about. Gary was up and dressed, the soul of discretion as he praised the comfort of the sofa, eagerly taking up Peg’s offer of a real cooked breakfast.
"I don’t know why," he said, "but I’ve got a real appetite this morning. Just goes to show what a good night’s rest will do."
A good night’s rest? Donna thought, I don’t remember either of us getting much rest.
She put her head round the door to say good morning, and then dashed off to the bathroom as Peg beamed her pleasure at having someone else to look after.
The shower was just what she needed. Hot and steamy. Just like last night! She turned the dial to run cold, but could only bear the icy cascade for a few seconds. Andy had once recommended cold showers as the ideal way to kick-start the system in the mornings. They’d been compulsory at the minor Public School he’d attended, on the grounds of being character building. Character building my arse, Donna thought, dashing for the sanctuary of a warm fluffy towel and rubbing the circulation back into her limbs. Better to be called a wimp than freezing to death.
