Protection

by Carla Blake

  The bed wetter went without sweets for a week, whilst Isobel was simply branded a trouble maker. A title she more than lived up to.

  No one wanted her, no one cared and whenever potential parents came to visit she hid, instantly giving the impression she was of a sullen nature and downright rude to go with it, and while the other children gradually left to begin new lives with loving families, Isobel remained. Silent, brooding and miserable.

  Her teenage years saw her turning to petty theft for amusement in which she plundered London. Soon learning how to con foreign tourists and picking mostly on the ever enthusiastic Japanese, who heavy with cash but low on local information, looked at Isobel with something like adoration when she sneered at their guide books and told them she could show them something few other visitors to the UK ever got to see.

  The underground cathedral at Charing Cross Station.

  Honoured to be given such a privileged opportunity, the fifty quid Isobel asked for soon changed hands and delighted with her haul, she then guided them to the fringes of Charing Cross station, where she left them.

  Her position as one of the custodians of the cathedral, she’d explain in a low voice, would be in jeopardy if its exact location ever became public knowledge, therefore what they had to do now was find the nearest policeman, whisper the secret password to him, and he would then guide them to the hidden entrance.

  The Japanese would then thank her and as Isobel wandered off, go in search of the nearest policeman. Leaving Isobel wishing she could stick around to see what happened when they whispered Youpigshit’ to the nearest copper. But with hundreds of pounds at stake, it was usually better to leave.

  The money, however, was her undoing.

  Back at Sunnylawns, the senior administer having been advised that Isobel was suddenly turning up with new clothes and various other items unlikely to have been bought with her allowance, instantly decided that this thieving must be a cry for help and arranged for Isobel to attend a series of counselling sessions in the hope that finally somebody might be able to get through to her.

  Isobel, wearing a brand new skirt cut so short it could have doubled as a belt, dully attended the first meeting. Emerging ten minutes later with a sore hand. The result of having punched her counselor, who seeing her in so tiny a garment, had dared to suggest that perhaps her problems would be easier to bear if she indulged in a little sexual therapy?

  At eighteen, and legally an adult, she demanded she be allowed to leave the home.

  The home was delighted. Glad to be rid of her and wanting to ensure that she never came back, the administrators paid the first three months rent on a studio flat and handed over the reigns of responsibility to social services, breathing a sigh of relief as they closed Sunnylawn’s grim doors on her forever.

  Isobel had returned only once.

  To watch it burn.

  After that, had come work, although how she’d ended up doing the job she did, she would never know, but beguiled by the glossy recruitment poster and sucked in by the courtesy and respect shown to her as she’d requested application forms, she’d promptly signed up. Thinking it the ideal way to get back at all the people who got up her nose.

  Let people swear at her and get physically abusive, she didn’t care. She was used to looking after herself and if all else failed, she could always walk away. And if any of them did decide to take things a step too far then she wasn’t going to think twice about threatening them with words like ‘police’ or ‘ casualty’.

  So far, though, she’d managed to walk the streets as a traffic warden relatively unscathed, assaulted by nothing more than a few, swear words and furious inquiries as to the nature of her parentage. Neither bothered her. It was the weather that pissed her off. Rained on, frozen to death or sweltering in 90 degree heat, the conditions were sometimes bloody awful and that was before the general public chipped in by parking in the most stupid, bloody places before going mental when they got a ticket.

  Occasionally she did think about jacking it in, but then she thought about the effort needed to find another job and she changed her mind. She also couldn’t think of another occupation where she could possibly throw her weight around half as much.

  Straightening the fridge magnet, she fingered the second one of non stolen origin. This she had made herself and it featured nothing but a feather sellotaped to a magnet, a small memento of her days in an office and a brief affair that had ended in tears. She didn’t really know why she kept it, except that it reminded her that someone, once, had actually liked her enough to fuck her.

  Opening the fridge door, she helped herself to a cola and wandered back to the television, wincing at the sight of yet another animal veterinary programme.

  The way the presenters cuddled up to some cute, fluffy kitten, cooing over it and getting all watery eyed, made her feel sick! Who gave a toss about a stupid kitten? It wasn’t as if it was going to die. Hundreds of offers of a ‘good home’ were probably flooding in right now. The daft creature destined to spend the rest of its days in total, bloody luxury in case someone off the programme decided to make a surprise visit at a later date to see how little, ‘ fluffy, wuffy’ was getting on.

  Pity the kid’s home couldn’t have adopted a similar policy.

  She could see it now.

  ‘ Can you give little Henry a home? A playful chap, he can often be found pulling the legs off spiders or with his finger shoved up his nose, but he is adorably and look how friendly he is. Wouldn’t you just love to tuck him in?’

  “No, I bloody well wouldn’t.”’ Isobel muttered and snatching up the remote control, started to channel hop. A car show. A cop show. The news. Boring!

  Leaving the news on, she turned the volume down low and gathered up the now empty takeaway dishes, stacking them on the floor before ripping open the popcorn and pulling the tab on her cola. On the screen the reporter dripped with rain and smiled tightly, clearly unhappy at being stuck out in such appalling weather.

  Isobel watched with indifference. Only half paying attention as the picture showed a flashy limousine pulling smoothly up to the kerb and a huge, black guy getting out of the drivers side to open the rear door. Two women dressed to kill in long, evening gowns then climbed out, both of them smiling prettily as they faced a sea of flashbulbs and Isobel Pearce, watching from her scruffy bed, nearly choked on her popcorn.

  It was her! It was bloody her! What the bloody hell was she doing, dressed up like that? What the fuck did it matter? It was her! It was definitely her! She’d recognize her face anywhere! Christ, after all this time!

  Lunging forwards, Isobel hit the volume button, completely forgetting she still had the remote, and the voice-over thundered into her ears. The stars were gathering for a charity ball. A lavish event expected to raise a considerable amount towards aiding the Third World..

  Tutting, Isobel waved impatiently at the screen. Bugger that, she wanted a name. A single name to confirm that what her eyes were seeing was true. But that information seemed to be restricted to whomever the camera was zooming in on at the time and the confirmation she sought was not forthcoming. Not that she particularly cared.

  How could she ever forget the first and only person she’d ever made love to.

  The dress, now hanging on the back of her bedroom door, drew her eye and lying in bed, Andrea’s gaze roamed over the scarlet fabric, her mind re-playing the evening’s events. The charity ball had been a complete success. The three million pounds raised bringing startled gasps and applause from the great and the good, the sheer razzmatazz of it all making it difficult for Andrea to stay focused, aware that she was becoming dazzled by the splendour of the occasion and the perfumed whirl of star spotting, and relieved when she was called upon to deal with the paparazzi. Skilfully guiding Carrie away from their suffocating presence before they could crush her in their desire to take the ultimate picture.

&
nbsp; But as assignments went though, it had been both easy and pleasurable and if she closed her eyes, she could still imagine the heat from Carrie’s skin on the palm of her hand…

  Shuddering, she opened her eyes again and stared at the dress. What the hell was she thinking? She couldn’t fall for the boss even if she was totally gorgeous, successful and genuinely nice. It was all very well knowing Carrie had accepted her sexuality with barely a blink, and admitted to be being gay herself, but that didn’t necessarily mean she was in any way interested in starting a relationship with her. That was just wishful thinking, and if she lost this job simply because she couldn’t control her feelings it really would be a shame. No, what she had to do was keep everything on a strictly professional basis and keep the fantasies for when she was alone in bed.

  Naked, Andrea stretched out and closed her eyes again, allowing her head to fill with images of Carrie as she cupped her breasts and squeezed her nipples until they were hard. Then, feeling the first rush of desire flowing between her legs, she wallowed in it. Enjoying the increasing sensation of lust, as her body cried out for more and she gave her tits one final squeeze before sliding her fingers down her body, over her thighs and into the exquisite plumpness of her swollen pussy where she slid a single finger along the length of her moist slit, before inserting it deep into her cunt and beginning to fuck herself. Thrusting slowly and deeply, Carrie’s name already forming on her lips as she withdrew and concentrated solely on her clit. Loving the way her slit felt so swollen against her hand as she rubbed and rubbed. A warm, pink flush spreading across her chest. Her hips rising. The pleasure building, building, tingling along the entire length of her pussy, flooding her, tipping her ever close to the edge until finally, with a final stroke of her clit, she came, breathing Carrie’s name into the darkness.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Volunteers.

  A word that, on any other day, would have seen Isobel running for the hills, except today her superior was looking for volunteers to keep the traffic flowing around the new leisure complex Carrie Shilling was due to open, and she couldn’t get her hand up fast enough.

  It would be cold, she heard him say, and it was possible the police might temporarily recruit them if things started to get really sticky. Hundreds of people were expected to turn up and if the crowds started to get out of control, then traffic wardens would be expected to reinforce the thin, blue line, which meant that he was sorry but he couldn’t guarantee their safety. Hence the need for volunteers.

  But Isobel didn’t care and with her hand firmly in the air, she waited to be signed up.

  The occasion was just what Isobel had been expecting. Row upon row of shouting, cheering morons waving tatty bits of paper, cameras going off left, right and center, mainly from the media, and plenty of swearing aimed at herself and her colleagues as they struggled to keep motorized morons from parking in restricted areas. So far she’d been called a fat cow, a sodding bitch and something in French that she hadn’t been able to decipher, but which she felt sure was deeply insulting. All in just under an hour.

  But the moment the smart limousine pulled up and she stepped out, none of that mattered and Isobel forgot everthing in favour of trying for a better view, quickly removing her hat in the hope that she might recognize her.

  Except it didn’t happen. The crowd was just too unruly for the prestigious group to hover long - especially after the debacle of the movie premiere - and they merely paused long enough to smile and wave before disappearing inside. The actual cutting of the ribbon witnessed only by the privileged few while the rest of the hoi polloi were forced to watch the proceedings on a giant video screen erected outside. A disembodied voice, booming from a hidden bank of loud speakers, urging everyone to go home almost as soon as the red ribbon separated in two.

  Isobel rolled her eyes. Like that was going to happen!

  The crowd wasn’t going anywhere. In fact she’d put money on some of these sad gits still standing there after it had grown dark. The majority of them convinced that Carrie was in fact still inside and merely waiting for things to die down before making her exit. Huh! It was more likely that she’d already gone, whisked away the moment she’d done her duty, and bundled out of sight before the last cheer had faded away.

  The speakers boomed a second time, again urging folk to leave, and a few did start to drift away, glancing frequently over their shoulders as if they were letting the side down by leaving early and afraid they might miss something whilst their backs were turned.

  Isobel, figuring she probably had seen the last of her, launched back into her job and tried to sort out the traffic. It wasn’t easy. A white van driver called her a heartless bitch, another asked when she was going to stop faffying about and get everyone moving and a cop tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Give us a hand further up the road, would you?”He said when she turned. “There’s a car up there needs to get through and the whole bloody road is completely blocked.”

  His wink was enough to tell her who the occupants of the car really were, and thrilled, Isobel followed him, eagerly dishing out warnings and tickets before swearing at a guy in a 4x4 who ran over her foot and laughed as he drove off. It hadn’t actually hurt, the vehicle moving too quickly to do any real damage, but she swore at him anyway, then smiled when he was stopped further down the road and forced to take what she hoped would be a lengthy detour.

  The same constable who’d spoken to her earlier ambled up then, fingering a large tear in the shoulder of his jacket. “Look what they did to me bleedin’ uniform!”He grumbled, poking his finger straight through. “Probably have to pay for this myself and all because a bloody film star wants to get home. It ain’t flamin’ worth it.”

  Isobel agreed it wasn’t and stopped to glare at a woman in a Mini who looked as though she was considering parking on a double yellow.

  “Gonna be a flamin’ nightmare gettin’ her out of here as well.”The copper continued. “And to think she only lives down the bloody road.”

  “Who?”Isobel asked, suddenly all attention. “Carrie Shilling?”

  “Yeah, her. She only lives at Downlands. You know, the big house about two miles away. Christ! It would’ve been bloody quicker if she’d walked!”

  Shaking her head, Isobel tutted and made all the right noises, but inside she was trembling with excitement.

  Now she knew where she lived.

  Climbing out of bed, Carrie yawned, stretched and crossed to the window, opening the curtains onto a bright, clear day, the sun shining from an azure sky as it sparkled across the light coating of frost spread across the lawn.

  It was, she thought, the perfect day for a long, leisurely walk. Across fields or through forests or along a cliff top with the wind in her hair - and half a dozen photographers capturing her every move!

  Sighing she heard a soft crunching sound and looking down spotted Andrea, walking along the gravel path as she completed her early morning inspection of the property and pausing beneath Carrie’s window to briefly examine the frame before strolling on, apparently satisfied that all was well and totally oblivious to Carrie watching from above, pleased that contrary to what she’d first feared, Andrea’s presence in the house was turning out to be more of a comfort than a hindrance.

  Instinctively Andrea seemed to know when she needed space and kept her distance, yet she always managed to appear just when she was starting to think it would be nice to have some company. She was also very good at her job. Not too pushy, or domineering, but instead solidly reliable. No one, Carrie felt sure, pushed Andrea around.

  And she was gay. Now that had come as a surprise, although it hadn’t been an unpleasant one. It was just that aside from herself, gay woman always seemed to be wearing dungarees, horrible lace up boots and sporting short, spikey haircuts and only occasionaly had she come across a gay woman who actually looked like a girl. Not that she had anything against ga
y woman who wanted to dress in dungarees, she simply preferred her girls to look like girls. Like Andrea.

  Vaguely she wondered what she would be like in bed?

  Not that she had time to ponder now. Carmichael was due at nine thirty, and as much as he’d undoubtedly adore to sit opposite her whilst she was clad in nothing more than a bathrobe, she wasn’t going to give him the pleasure. His blood pressure was high enough already.

  Amanda, up since six o’clock and on her third cup of coffee of the day, kicked open the back door, dragged the sack into the kitchen and dumped it on the table, pulling out the first of many, many letters.

  This was a job she could cheerfully have done without, although it hadn’t always been this bad. When Carrie had been appearing in the daytime soap it had been fine, because then there’d been an army of secretaries at the TV studios to cope with it, but now Carrie was a famous film star, all the mail seemed to come direct to the house, where there was no one to help her and she was expected to manage it all on her own.

  As if she didn’t have enough to do!

  Moaning about it wasn’t going to help though, and sipping coffee, Amanda began to sort the letters into piles. Most merely wanted an autograph which was easy enough. Carrie always made sure she had a huge pile of signed photos to hand and it was simply a case of popping one into an envelope and sending it off. Next came the requests for a lock of Carrie’s hair or some other personal belonging. A standard lette dealt with those stating that Carrie was very sorry, but if she gave locks of her hair to everyone who asked, she’d be bald.

  Requests for knickers and other such items of personal underwear were simply binned.

  ‘ Gusher’ letters, as Amanda liked to refer to them, or pages and pages of sickly sweet devotion usually accompanied by numerous drawings of hearts and flowers, received a stock reply as well, although it was nowhere near as gushing as the one they’d sent in, and Amanda often wondered how disappointed they were when they read that Carrie was grateful for their support but unfortunately would be not be joining them for dinner and a moonlit stroll?