Women With Handcuffs

by Sacchi Green

  The constable wrinkles his nose, but he goes in anyway.

  “I’m Ellen, by the way,” she tells me as we step across the landing and into mine, and I realize what a god-awful mess I left it in this morning.

  “Carla,” I say back. “And this is Billy, my little monster.”

  She grins. “I’m sure you’re not a monster really,” she says to Billy, but he goes all shy and hides behind my legs. “Must be a bit crowded for three of you, in a flat this size.”

  “Oh, I’m not with his dad!” I don’t know why I blush. “Never was, to be honest, but VJ’s a good dad to Billy. He has him every Friday. That’s why I was out all day.”

  “Making the most of it?”

  I nod. “It’s my day at the gym—yeah, I know, could do with a few more of them.” I carry on quickly, so she doesn’t feel she has to say something polite. “Then I do the shopping. No point dragging Billy round Tesco’s when I don’t have to. But it means I’m out all day, so that’s why I didn’t notice the milk. Here, you run your hand under the tap while I get the first-aid kit.”

  “Sounds like you’re a good neighbor to the old dear,” she says, loud so it’ll carry over the sound of running water.

  I’m not, really. I mean, I look in on her, and I get stuff for her when she’s not up to shopping, but I always feel I ought to do more. “I try,” I say.

  “Hasn’t she got any family?”

  I’m back with the bandages. Billy’s happy enough watching TV, and I don’t feel bad about it, knowing he’s spent the day playing footie with his dad. “She was married, but they never had any kids. I don’t think she’s got anyone, now.” I have to concentrate, as I dab her hand dry with a clean towel and then wipe the cut with antiseptic. She’s got lovely hands, long, slender fingers with short, blunt nails. Practical. Not like my bunches of sausages with nail varnish that always seems to chip as soon as I put it on.

  “Sad, to be all alone like that,” she says. “Goes to show, though, doesn’t it? I mean, my mum’s always on me to find a man and get married, but she did all that and still ended up alone.”

  “Oh, not you too? That’s mums for you. S’pose I’ll be the same one day, pestering Billy to give me grandkids!” We both laugh, and I put the dressing on her cut. Slowly, so I don’t have to let go of her hand too soon. Daft, really.

  “So which gym do you go to?” she asks, not pulling her hand away or anything.

  “Just the sports center one. They do a special rate if you’re on benefits.” I flush. “I mean, VJ gives me what he can, but it’s not enough to live on, and by the time you’ve paid for child care…”

  She’s still smiling. “I know, believe me. And anyway, what’s the point of working just to pay someone else to look after your kid? He’d rather have you, wouldn’t he? And who could blame him?” I’m sure she just means because I’m his mum, though her voice is soft as she says it, and she gazes into my eyes like it could mean something more.

  There’s a knock on the door, even though we left it open. “Ellen? The ambulance is here,” the male constable calls.

  “I’d better go,” she says, as our hands slide apart. I’d like to think there’s regret in her eyes. They’re pale gray, and beautiful like the rest of her. “Thanks for patching me up.”

  Next Friday Mrs. MacReady still hasn’t come back to her flat, and I wonder if she ever will. I hope she doesn’t hate me for calling the police. I’ve been in that flat, with its bare floorboards and crumpled newspapers; I know all she had left was her independence.

  I go to the gym as usual, and it does the trick, like it always does. I don’t know if it’s the exercise or MTV, but when I’m in there it’s like another world: no worries, just thoughts. I think about Ellen, but it’s not a sad kind of longing like it has been all week, just a gentle happiness that I ever met her.

  And then I see her. She walks in like a dancer, all cool and sporty in her Nike pants and vest top, so slender they drape as much as they cling. She smiles when she sees me on the exercise bike and comes over to say hello. I’m horribly conscious of my faded breast cancer T-shirt and the saggy jogging bottoms I got for two quid down the market.

  “Hi, Carla! I thought I’d give this place a try—my gym costs a fortune, and it’s not all that great. Maybe we could have a coffee, afterward?”

  I pant out a yes, and she smiles again and goes off to the elliptical. It’s dead ahead of me, and as she moves I can see her hips outlined, see that lovely heart shape of her bum. Her arms are pale, like the rest of her, and a little muscled, but still softlooking.

  I do an extra ten minutes on the bike without even noticing.

  I’m just wondering how much longer I can string out my usual routine without making it obvious when she comes over. She still looks as cool as a spring morning, even with her face a little pink from the exercise and beads of sweat on her chest. I try not to stare at those. I must look a right state, all red-faced and panting.

  “I’m ready for my shower, now—are you nearly done?” she asks, like she doesn’t know.

  “Yeah, I think I’ll call it a day, too,” I say, and we walk down to the changing rooms together.

  My breathing isn’t getting any slower, and it has nothing to do with how fit I’m not.

  I wonder how she managed to get a locker so close to mine. Maybe it’s luck. Maybe someone up there does give a fart about me after all. We park our bags on the same bench, hers all smart and with a label, mine a battered old knockoff that’s falling to pieces but still just about doing the job. “You know, I like it here,” Ellen says, pulling off her T-shirt. “Think I might get a membership.”

  She’s got lovely breasts, I see, as she struggles out of her sports bra. Small and perfect, with the prettiest pink nipples you ever saw. Me, I have to stand well back when I take my bra off so I don’t take her eye out with one of my big bazoombas. Stretch marks on them, too, not that anyone’s got close enough to notice in a good long while.

  “You know, when I was at school I’d have killed for a bustline like yours,” she says.

  “We should’ve traded bodies,” I tell her. “I always hated everyone looking at my chest.”

  “Can’t blame them, though, can you?” She pulls off her Nike pants and the thong beneath, and I can’t think of anything to say. She’s so beautiful. So pale and willowy, like a dryad or a naiad from the stories my mum used to tell me when I was little. The hair at her crotch is darker, like ginger snaps. I wonder if she tastes as sweet. She smiles. “I’m just dying for a shower, aren’t you?”

  And she grabs her towel and a couple of bottles, and pads off to the showers in her bare feet, and I just stand there with my tits out, open-mouthed.

  Then I finally get my arse in gear and follow her.

  She orders a latte in the cafe afterward, and I have a cappuccino. “Have you heard anything about Mrs. MacReady?” I ask, because it’s been preying on my mind.

  Ellen nods. “’Fraid so. She won’t be going back to the flat. They’ll find her a home. I’ll let you know where.”

  “Thanks. I’d like to visit her.” If it’s not on the bus routes, maybe VJ would give me a lift, instead of to the gym on a Friday. “She’s not really got anyone else.” I’d like to spoon up the chocolaty froth from my cappuccino, but I don’t want Ellen to think I’ve got no manners. Then I catch her watching me playing with my spoon with a wicked look in her eye, and I do it anyway. Her smile makes my stomach flutter.

  “I think she’s like us,” I say. “Mrs. MacReady. I mean, she’s never said so, but she told me once she only got married because she wanted kids. And then she never had any. How bloody awful is that?”

  “Things are better now,” Ellen says, picking up her spoon and a packet of sugar. “We’ve got choices she never had.”

  “What’s it like, being a policewoman?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Oh, I dunno. What’s it like being a mum?”

  “It’s brilliant,” I tell her. “Best thing I
ever did. Don’t know what I’d do without my Billy, even if he can be a bit of a so-and-so sometimes. It’s just—you know how relationships, sometimes they don’t last? But your kid, he’s yours for keeps.” I go a bit red, I think. “I don’t usually go on about it like this, though.”

  Her eyes seem to sparkle. “You should do it more often, then.” She stirs her coffee, then takes out the spoon and holds my gaze as she gives it a lick before putting it on the saucer. “I always knew it’d be either the police or the army for me. Decided in the end I wasn’t sure if I could actually kill anyone, if it came down to it, so the police it was.”

  “I bet your family is proud of you.” I don’t mean it to come out a bit wistful.

  She just smiles again. “Oh, you know families. Never satisfied. So, you and Billy’s dad, how did that happen?”

  It usually hurts, when anyone asks that. And it’s not that it doesn’t now, but somehow, this time it’s more like I’m feeling the memory of it, rather than the pain itself. “I never meant to be a single mum. I was in a relationship, had been for a couple of years, when I started trying for a baby. But when I miscarried, she couldn’t deal with it. It was like she thought it was a judgment on us or something.” Or maybe she just wanted an excuse. “But when she left, I still wanted a baby. And that’s when VJ said, look, there’s not much chance he’d be having a kid any other way, why didn’t we have one together?”

  “So you did. It must have been hard.” Her hand brushes mine.

  “Worth it, though,” I say, and then I have to take a sip of my coffee because my throat’s gone dry.

  Ellen tells me she’s got the day off, so we spend it together. Daft stuff, like walking through the park and getting ice cream. She likes vanilla; I’ve always gone for chocolate. They’re a good mix, together. When we get back to my place, she asks if she can come in. I wish I’d tidied up, but it’s not like she hasn’t seen the mess before. There’s an old film on BBC2 so we sit down to watch it, but halfway through she slides her arm around my shoulders. I don’t mean to make so much of it, but when I turn in surprise it just seems natural to kiss her.

  She tastes sweet, and her lips are cool and soft as ice cream. I kiss her again, worried she’s going to melt away from me. Her hand comes up to cup my boob, and it’s like there’s a direct line sending the tingles straight down to my crotch. I’m wet for her already. I shuffle closer on the sofa, and she throws a leg over mine so she’s sitting on my lap, the film forgotten, and her hand still kneads my boob. I push up her T-shirt. Her skin’s like velvet, with steel underneath. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone this badly.

  Ellen breaks the kiss to lean back and tear off her T-shirt. I wish I had the courage to do the same but I’m not like her. I’m not beautiful, me.

  Ellen does it for me, and then she undoes my bra and kisses my boobs like they’re something special. “You’re lovely,” she says, so sweetly, so breathily I almost believe her. I can’t speak, so I unhook her bra and set those perfect breasts free. Her nipples pucker and harden, so I tongue them gently to encourage them. She gasps and arches her back. Then she climbs right off me to undo her jeans and slide them down those slender hips.

  I never knew what a turn-on it could be to have a beautiful, naked woman on my lap while I’m still half-dressed. From the waist down I’m perfectly respectable, at least to the naked eye, although from the waist up I’m a wanton slut. I grab her bottom, kneading the cheeks and pulling them apart.

  “How long have we got?” she asks, her voice rough.

  I look at the clock and work it out. Takes a bit longer than usual. “Couple of hours yet, before VJ brings Billy back.”

  “Then take me to bed.”

  “You go first,” I say. I want to look at her as she walks, all fluid motion wrapped up in smooth, creamy skin. There’s a tattoo of a rose on her left cheek, where only a lover would see it. I brush it lightly with my fingertips as she walks, and she shivers.

  “I want to see all of you,” she says when we get there, her hands on my hips, then sliding up to my boobs. I undo my jeans and push them off awkwardly. At least I’ve got decent undies on. I never wear my worst ones when I go to the gym.

  “Take those off too,” she says. “I’m busy.”

  She is, too, kneading my boobs and brushing her thumbs over my nipples, making them stand out proud. I step out of my damp knickers, and she drops to her knees, kissing her way all down my belly. My legs shiver as she nuzzles into my crotch. “Lie down,” I tell her.

  “Only if you do, too.” She smiles and stands up, putting her arms around my waist. We kiss again, all tongues and hands, then climb onto the bed, still kissing.

  I slither down, about to go down on her. “No,” she says. “Come back, I want to see your breasts.” So I use my hand on her, and she plays with my boobs, licking and sucking and biting them as she gets close. She feels like molten gold around my fingers, and when she comes she arches her back and cries like a cat. I stroke her as she comes down from it. I still can’t believe she’s here with me.

  “Your turn,” she says, and kisses her way all down me, her face still flushed and her eyes bright as diamonds. She’s got a wicked tongue on her, Ellen has. It teases as much as it pleasures, keeping me on the edge so long I think I’m going to die. When I fall, I shatter, but she’s there to pick me up again and hold me.

  Afterward, we lie together on the sheets, basking in the warmth of the afternoon sun, the duvet thrown to the floor. Ellen’s head is on my shoulder, and one hand’s just playing with my boob.

  “Going to miss these when you leave?” I ask. It doesn’t come out as light as I’d hoped.

  “I’m going to dream of these, love,” she says with a smile in her voice. “Mind you keep them safe until I come round again. When can I come round again?”

  Any time, day or night, but I’m not so daft as to say it. Well, maybe I am, at that. “Come whenever you can,” I say.

  Ellen sighs into my breast. “Wish I could say tomorrow, but I’m on lates. Shift work’s a sod.”

  “I’m a mum, remember?” I say, pulling her closer. “I’m used to broken nights. Come when you can.”

  I feel her smile against my skin, and I close my eyes on the sunlight streaming through the curtains, making the dust motes dance and sparkle for joy.

  June’s never blazed so bright.

  A PRAYER BEFORE BED

  Annabeth Leong

  Nechama swung herself up out of the police car and surveyed the scene. A homicide was adding insult to injury in a neighborhood like this, the violence of one person against another like a boot grinding into the wounds of poverty that God had already inflicted on the people who lived here.

  The place was swarming, caution tape bright yellow against the faded gray paint of the two-family home. Uniformed personnel of all shapes and sizes trampled the weeds that overran the yard, which had probably gone neglected because neither of the families living in the building had decided whose responsibility it was.

  Nechama glanced back to her new partner, Tom. The expression on his clean-shaven white face was all business, and she needed to be the same. Maybe she could blame the pressure of his naïve enthusiasm for justice; whatever the cause, Nechama had been feeling old. She needed to pull it together fast, before they went inside. A suspected domestic violence case—one where the boyfriend had likely strangled the girlfriend and then slit her throat—would have plenty of horrors waiting in the interior. This was no time to get sentimental about the front lawn.

  As usual, the rhythms of the job calmed and prepared her. She checked that her badge and gun were in place and tucked in a few of the coarse, tawny curls that had escaped from the severe bun trying to restrain them. She took comfort in the sensation of her powerful muscles as she strode alongside Tom to report in and get briefed on the status of the scene.

  “Zayden, we need someone to take a statement from the neighbor who found the body,” the supervising detective told Nechama. �
�She’s been watching the victim’s kids, but Junior here can take over while you talk to her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nechama gestured with her shoulder for Tom to follow. She pushed through the crowd of forensic scientists examining the doorframe at the mouth of the house and allowed herself a quick glance up the stairs, where the body still lay. Then she motioned toward the door to the apartment to the left.

  Tom knocked, giving Nechama a chance to observe. She saw the telltale signs of her partner’s nerves. His index finger persistently flicked at a nonexistent spot on his pants, and he worked his jaw as if chewing gum.

  The door opened. The neighbor was a petite black woman, her skin so dark that the whites of her eyes glowed like streetlights at midnight. Even wearing sweats, she carried herself like she was worth $7 million. Her head was shaved close, and she wore big, gold, hoop earrings decorated with feathers. Her body rippled with compact muscle. Her eyes were hostile, her jaw set and her posture challenged either of the cops to just try fucking with her. Somewhere behind her, a kid was crying, and another set of kids were giggling hysterically.

  Mostly, Nechama didn’t think about sex while on the job. It was never appropriate and often a dangerous distraction. This time, she couldn’t help imagining herself sliding down those sweats, her own shaded Sephardic skin light against the deep hue of the other woman’s legs.

  The woman blinked sharply at Nechama, seeming to read her thoughts. Nechama dropped her eyes, clearing her throat to signal Tom.

  “Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” Tom said. “We need to take a statement from you.”

  She put both hands on her hips. “And who’s going to watch all these kids?”

  “Um, that would be me.” Tom flicked again at his pants then stuck out his hand. “I’m Officer Tom Phillips. My partner, Nechama Zayden, will be the one talking to you.”