by Leona Turner
It had been three days since the altercation with Dean, and Jon had all but forgotten it. He had reasoned that if the boy had wanted to use the information, he would have made a move by now. Jon was convinced that the tempestuous nature of youth would have made it impossible for Dean to play the long game with such information. Jon had other things to occupy him that were infinitely more gratifying than dealing with estranged offspring. Her name was Sarah, and Jon was absolutely infatuated. He’d been seeing Sarah for the best part of four weeks now, and he enjoyed the time he spent with her and her kids. Her apartment had become a haven for him, but he had to admit to himself he was really looking forward to this weekend—a whole weekend, just him and Sarah. This time next week he’d be cosily ensconced in bed with Sarah in a nice quiet hotel somewhere in the country. They’d decided earlier not to contact each other in the previous week so as not to arouse suspicion at home. Of course he was aware that his wife Joanne must suspect anyway—he’d been doing it for years—but it was his son, Harry’s, birthday soon, and they agreed the lad didn’t need his mother becoming any more neurotic leading up to it.
He had spoken to Sarah earlier and she had sounded happy; she had said she had something to tell him. He had worried at first that the weekend away was just a ruse to soften the blow when she told him she was growing tired of him, but after further probing, he was satisfied that the news must be good news. She had said it was exciting, and he was glad, as he had some good news himself: he’d come to the decision that he was going to divorce his wife so he could be with Sarah full time.
His wife, Joanne, was not a bad woman; she had always kept a nice house and brought up both his children exceptionally well, but over time he had fallen out of love with her. Being aware of this, Joanne had always dealt with Jon’s various indiscretions over the years with a quiet air of dignity. She’d come to terms with the knowledge that he was going to have them with or without her blessing, so she resolved to turn a blind eye and accept that fact along with all the other duties expected of a wife and mother. Now, though, he felt a little guilty; he’d fallen in love this time, and he’d fallen hard. He wished his wife would ‘find out’ and go mad at him, shouting and swearing and throwing things so he was left with no other option than to walk out. He would become the injured party and not have to feel guilty about leaving her, but he knew that would never happen. He also knew that when he did tell her she’d cry, making him feel terrible. Women crying sat uneasily with Jon ever since childhood, when he’d have to comfort his mother after his father had stumbled in drunk, smelling of some old tart’s perfume. If he was honest, he secretly felt that his wife had somehow cheated him out of his youth and into the family home. He had started to resent any time he had to spend with her and her aging body—it made him feel old. He’d lost interest in his marriage, and the end result was a self-perpetuating cycle of dislike, which had turned into hate after the first few years.
Sarah was different—she made him feel young whenever he was around her. To his mind, she made him a better version of himself, more alive, more fun to be around. Most would had seen her for what she was at twenty paces, but Jon had relished the excitement of spending time with this younger woman. He almost liked himself around her, and that was where all his insecurities had stemmed from, his own self-loathing. Now he had found reassurance in his own self worth by having an affair with a woman half his age, who, in most people’s eyes, would be viewed as no better than a common tart.
He had stopped by the new bar in town, Andre’s. It was populated generally by the more youthful contingency of the town, and he had actively avoided the place. Now, though, as he sipped at his pint, he felt quite at home here. He noticed several young women eyeing him up, and he couldn’t help smiling to himself. He intrigued them; he couldn’t believe it had taken him so long to work out the simple truth that young girls preferred older men. They were more experienced with life, they treated them better than their younger counterparts, wining and dining—women liked that, and that was something his younger counterparts never seemed to be able to get their heads around. Women, for all their harping on about being equal to men, still wanted to be treated like ladies occasionally. But the biggest advantage that he as an older man had over the younger male generation was conversation. All the young lads at his garage only had two topics of conversation, the first of which was football, and the second, women. Neither of these topics interested the average woman; surprisingly enough, hearing the latest play of their boyfriend’s latest infatuation, be it their favourite football player or the front page of this month’s FHM, turned them off completely. The lads couldn’t seem to understand that these pseudo gods and goddesses that bewitched them so made their partners feel somewhat less than perfect.
He, however, was feeling invincible. He had the woman he deserved and he could see the pair of them going away on holidays together, visiting his kids at the weekend, and starting off a whole new chapter of his life. The pretty young things sitting at the bar giving him the come- on could forget it. From now on he was a one-woman man, and that idea, knowing he was now a far better version of himself, pleased him immeasurably. As he finished his pint, he nodded at the young lads, who were steadily advancing toward the women at the bar, as he made his exit. Walking out into the car park, he held up the remote for his car and pressed the button twice, and he was rewarded with the familiar beep-beep as the car responded to the command. He walked swiftly over to the other side of the car park to where the sound had originated, spotted his car, and quickly got inside. Although it was summer, it had been quite a cool day, and there was a slight chill in the air. Putting the key in the ignition, he turned it and felt relief as the fans started blowing warm air at his face. Relaxing for a second to enjoy the warmth and happiness growing within him, he relaxed his head back against the headrest. Simultaneously he felt something cold being pressed against his neck. Slowly opening his eyes, he carefully tilted his head back and moved his eyes up to look in the rear view mirror, his eyes coming to rest on the reflection in it. He froze briefly at the sight of the small, cherubic face staring back at him. Already anticipating his movement, the locks on the doors clicked back on.
“What do you want? Money?” Already knowing the answer to the question, Jon looked back at the pale face.
“No, I don’t want your money.”
“So what do you want? You can have anything. Just say it and it’s yours—anything.” Jon knew he was babbling, but he didn’t know what else to do.
“Drive.” The voice was stronger this time.
“What?”
“I said fucking DRIVE!”
Jon started to whimper.
“Please, I think you’ve got the wrong person…”
“No, Mr. Hamilton, I think I’ve got just the right person. Now drive before I pull this blade across your neck and watch you bleed out.”
Not daring to question again, Jon flicked the ignition and the engine roared to life. Steering the car very carefully, he proceeded to drive the Bentley toward the exit of the car park.
Sarah Lester was ecstatic. She had managed to find a babysitter for this weekend, and she had made the reservations for the Swan Inn. She’d booked two nights away, away from the kids and the drudgery of her non-existent life. Things had been better for her lately; she had met Jon at her local pub, when she’d been out with her mates one Saturday night four months ago. He was tall, funny, and handsome in a scruffy kind of way. At forty-three he was twenty-two years her senior, but that hadn’t bothered her; the older ones were always more attentive anyway. He was married, like the fathers of her two children had been; she had always had a penchant for rich, older, married men. They lavished gifts on her, treated her well, and then scuttled back to the wives to get their tea and their laundry done. The idea of getting married and saddling herself with the same mug for the rest of her life had held little appeal as far as Sarah was concerned. She liked it better this way, when she got the best of them, and when
she was bored she’d just move on. The fathers of her children still popped by every now and again to see their kids and have a bit of ‘fun,’ as they termed it. It was a win-win situation, as far as she was concerned. She had everything she could want, from the plush three-bedroom apartment to the brand new car, the men got to see their kids, and, most importantly, their wives didn’t. Sarah had this gig stitched up, and now she was pregnant again, with Jon’s baby this time. She’d wanted a bigger place for a while now and she could just see herself in one of those big detached houses on the edge of town.
It was thirty degrees outside and Sarah was beginning to feel tired. She’d bumped into some old friends earlier while out shopping and had stopped to have a few drinks with them. She didn’t usually drink during the day, and as the first few flashes of pain streaked across her forehead, she was reminded why. She knew she should really be thinking about packing for the weekend, but decided she could leave it until tomorrow. Her mouth was starting to feel dry from the alcohol. Getting up and going through to the kitchen, she decided to get a cold drink, but changed her mind when she remembered how sick it had made her feel last time she’d felt a little drunk. Putting the glass she’d just gotten out back again, she went to the freezer. She’d started making the kids ice-lollies every day; it gave them something to shut them up and was a damn sight cheaper than the ice cream van. She’d actually bought the trays from Pound Land and they’d turned out to be one of the best investments she’d ever made. Taking the tray out now, she saw there was only one left, and she pulled it out of its plastic case and shoved it in her mouth. Savouring the coolness against her tongue, she grabbed the rest of the plastic cases, stuck them in the sink, and vowed to have them washed up and back in the freezer again within the next twenty minutes.
Sauntering through to the living room, she kicked off her shoes and sprawled herself across the leather sofa; it felt wonderfully cool under her warm legs. She rested a minute; flashes of pain still warning of a potential hangover. She looked slowly around her, quietly sucking away at the lolly. If she were to move, she would need a whole new living room suite; this modern look certainly wouldn’t work in a detached property in the suburbs. It would need to be more classic; she had always liked the more classic style, but in a modern purpose built apartment it would have looked chintzy.
After staring round her living room for a few minutes, Sarah decided she really should try and work out what clothes she should take away with her this weekend. The warning flashes of pain across her forehead had ceased, and she thought she might just get away with moving around again now.
She’d recently bought a new gypsy top, and teamed with jeans it would be the perfect casual outfit. She prided herself on being well turned out but still casual, approachable. She relied on this look heavily, as it had won her most of her men. She was the opposite of their wives, casual, comfortable, and young enough to get away with it. She knew her relaxed attitude was what initially drew them to her, and she exploited this in the clothes she wore. Even after two children she was still very comfortable with her body, and it showed. She secretly laughed at the women these men were married to, all pompous and trying desperately to appear happy with their perfect house, perfect children, and apparently perfect husband. But their neatly manicured lawns, nails, and perfectly-coiffed hair didn’t fool Sarah, it just showed their marriages for what they were: loveless. Any woman who had time to trim the garden borders or spend hours in a beauty salon getting their hair, nails, and face done obviously had no time for their husband, or, sadder still, the husband had no time for them. So these vanities became their way of filling their sad, wasted little lives. Trying so hard outwardly to project the right image ended up doing just the opposite: they were obviously trying to hide something that was far from perfect.
Sarah knew all this because she had met both her men’s wives at one point or another during the relationships. She enjoyed turning up at the same restaurant as them occasionally, introducing herself as a work colleague, watching the fear on her lover’s face as she did so. Then she’d spend a good long time chatting to the wives, enjoying the way they would look her up and down, as if to ascertain if she was a threat, and then talking down to her about how she should find a good decent man, settle down, and have kids. Sarah would happily nod along, knowing she did have a good decent man, she had their good decent man, his kid, and, oh yes, she was the reason the wives family could only go on holiday once a year. This had rankled with both wives. They could never understand where all their husbands’ wages went. That was usually Sarah’s cue to laugh jovially and suggest that maybe he had a mistress on the go, to which both wives had had similar reactions.
“Him? What young girl would want to saddle themselves with him?” And both women had laughed raucously as they continued discussing the merits of men, or rather the lack of. As far as the wives were concerned, she had found a kindred spirit, but little did she know the biggest threat to her marriage, as she would have seen it, was sitting right there in front of her, laughing at her jokes and drinking her wine.
And this behaviour would serve two purposes: firstly, it put Sarah out of the frame as far as a potential threat to the marriages were concerned. Secondly, it made the husband feel angry with his wife for showing him up, and consequently he would forget that Sarah had been the one who had created the scenario in the first place.
Sarah hauled herself up out of the chair and walked through into her bedroom, holding the ice-lolly between her teeth. She reached up and grabbed the overnight case she kept up there for her weekends away. Throwing it onto her bed, she walked back through to the kitchen. If she didn’t get the ice-lolly tray refilled and back into the freezer soon, there’d be hell to pay when the kids got back. Once again placing the lolly between her teeth, she started running the hot water to wash them up, and as she was doing this her teeth started to slide through the ice. Aware she might drop it, she quickly dried off her hands and went to catch it before it fell. But no hurry was needed—her teeth had gone through the ice and had found something, something hard but strangely soft, like perished rubber. She spat the remains of the ice-lolly out into the hot water of the sink, and it only took a few seconds in warm water for it to become apparent what she had had in her mouth. As the ice melted, she rubbed at her eyes. For a moment she thought she was hallucinating, a strange hallucination brought on by pregnancy and the alcohol she had consumed earlier. But no matter how hard she rubbed, it was still there. First she thought it was one of those rubber fingers that you can buy from joke shops, and that one of the kids must have done it as a joke. But what she noticed next told her irrefutably that what she was looking at was no child’s prank: at the base of the finger there was a ring, a wedding ring, and she knew who its previous owner had been—Jon.
The scream rang round the large building, and within half an hour the police were there.
Dean had left numerous messages on Clare’s phone since finding out about his paternity, hoping it might prompt her to phone him. Since then, a week had passed, and he had given up trying, and the only call he was anticipating was Mark’s.
They were going to a party tonight. Mark thought they could get rid of the fifty ecstasy tablets Mark had acquired at the weekend. Rustling round in his pockets, Dean found the slip of paper Mark had given him earlier—it was the web address of a new porn site. Apparently Mark knew someone who knew the guy who’d set it up. Turning the computer on, Dean waited for the screen to load and typed in the web address. As the computer located the required site, Dean leaned back in his chair, taking a swig of his lager. The screen took only a few seconds to load, but when he saw what was on the screen, Dean’s heart missed a beat. Nearly choking on his lager, he spat it out, spraying the computer as he did. His eyes were fixed on the screen, which displayed the woman he still loved for the entire world to see. His face hardened. She was taking the piss out of him, her and that prick in the picture with her. They were taking him for a mug. As he watched, a
dribble of his beer and spit snaked down the screen and between her breasts. He snapped, sweeping his arm across the computer table and sending the monitor crashing to the ground. Grabbing his jacket, he decided he was going to go and find Mark and find out exactly who the man on the website was.
Grabbing his mobile from his pocket, he found Mark’s number and hit ‘call.’
“Mark? Where are you?”
Mark’s voice was loud on the line.
“I’m just getting in my car on my way to you, why?”
“Meet me down at the Tin Whistle.”
Five minutes later, Mark arrived at the pub. Scanning the room, he saw that Dean sat in the corner, and he seemed on edge. Mark ordered two pints and went over to join him.
“So what’s up, then, mate?”
“Who told you about that website?”
“What website?”
“You know what website.”
“What, the porno one? Yeah, a bloke I met in here told me about it—why?”
“No reason. Is he in tonight?”
Mark looked around the bar once more.
“Nah. Look, are you going to tell me what all this is about?”
“I knew someone on the site.”
“Male or female?”
“Female.” Dean’s voice was low. Mark knew this was his cue to leave the subject, but his natural curiosity couldn’t let the subject drop.
“An ex?”
“Can you just fucking drop it? All you need to know is that I want the name of the guy who runs the site and the guy who’s boning the girl on the home page.”
