Jim Grant Short Stories #2

by Colin Campbell

  “Excuse me.”

  Grant dodged around the woman and set off after Fagin. The man looked angry they’d missed picking the latest pocket or two. The grip he exerted on the boy was harder than Grant’s had been. He didn’t need to grip the girl. She’d go wherever the boy went. Loyalty. An admirable quality. Grant was glad he’d let them go. He wasn’t glad he’d steered them into this spot of bother.

  Fagin took the pair round the corner into an alcove between the left luggage office and the restrooms. As soon as he was out of sight, he slapped the boy round the back of the head. Bad move.

  Grant heard the slap before he came around the corner. Heard the boy’s muted cry and the girl’s whimper. He switched the holdall into his right hand, freeing up his stronger left. He was a lefty. Conflict was unavoidable, and his instincts took over. Calmness settled over him. It was his combat preparation, a technique that had served him well in the army and worked just fine as a frontline cop. Most people tensed up in the line of fire. Grant did the opposite. He relaxed. His muscles became loose. His mind smoothed out any wrinkles. Nothing obstructed the flow of action. Nothing deflected his point of focus.

  His point of focus now was a fat man picking on a couple of kids.

  Grant came around the corner like a force of nature. He swung the holdall and let go. It sailed out and upwards, catching Fagin by surprise. Fagin instinctively turned and caught it in both arms. That left no hands free and Grant with two. He only needed one. The strong left hand grabbed Fagin by the shoulder and pushed him backwards. The right hand stayed loose just in case. Momentum and the heavy bag propelled Fagin towards the restrooms. Grant guided him through the door into the gents’.

  The door swung shut behind them.

  “What the fuck?”

  Fagin found his tongue and rediscovered some of his bravado. He held the holdall across his chest like a shield, flexing his shoulders and giving his head a little nudge forwards like a boxer ducking and diving. He wasn’t any boxer. Tension etched itself on his face. Surprise factor had won the first round.

  “Fuck you think you’re doin’?”

  Grant surged forward and shoved the holdall hard. The bag was heavy. The left hand was heavier. Height and weight and muscle were all in Grant’s favor. The blow transferred through the bag and thumped Fagin in the chest like a sledgehammer. He stumbled backwards and came up against the washbasins. Grant stood in front of him and slightly off-center to avoid being kicked in the gonads.

  “I know just what I’m doing.”

  He stepped to the side and raised one leg slightly. He stamped on the outside edge of Fagin’s left leg below the knee, and the overweight bully collapsed like a broken twig.

  “And that’s my bag you’ve got there.”

  He snatched the holdall left-handed and swung it in a short underarm arc. The weight of it multiplied on the back swing. It grew even more on the follow-through. Grant leaned into the swing, staying relaxed but with his feet apart for a solid base, and brought the bag forward hard and fast. It caught Fagin under the chin and snapped his head back against the built-in marble-topped washbasins.

  He flopped like a boned fish. No spine. All wet.

  Three men using the basins down the row quickly collected their bags and dashed out of the restroom. The hot-air hand dryer one of them had been using kept working for a few seconds. An automatic faucet dribbled cold water. The door flip-flapped shut like the swing doors of a Western saloon. The water stopped. The hand dryer switched itself off. Hot metal ticked as it cooled.

  Grant nudged Fagin awake with his foot, then dragged him into a sitting position by the collar. He instinctively reached for the handcuffs on his hip before realizing he was plainclothes. No protective equipment. No handcuffs. Off-duty.

  He stood up and to one side. The most dangerous beast is a cornered animal. A fighting arc didn’t just mean a swinging fist. A well-aimed kick could bring down even the strongest man. Grant kept out of kicking range even though Fagin didn’t look like he had a good kick left in him. He switched the bag to his right hand, freeing up his left.

  “That’s theft. Now why do you want to take stuff that don’t belong to you?”

  “I don’t take stuff that’s not mine.”

  Grant dropped the holdall onto Fagin’s outstretched legs and knelt down on it fast and heavy, pinning the fat man and bringing Grant’s face right into Fagin’s personal space. Grant’s strong left hand came up, and Fagin flinched. Grant didn’t hit him. He grabbed his nose between thumb and forefinger and twisted. Blood and snot oozed like a squeezed tube of toothpaste.

  “No, you don’t, do you? You get kids to take it for you.”

  Fagin moaned in pain. Grant twisted harder.

  “They your kids?”

  “No.”

  The word came out all mashed but just about intelligible.

  “Whose?”

  Fagin tried to speak and flapped a hand towards his nose. Grant let go.

  “City orphanage.”

  “Wrong. They’re my kids now. See what happens if you touch them again.”

  He didn’t finish. Instead he stood up and washed his hands. The hand dryer was still hot. He dried his hands. There wasn’t even a hint of post-action adrenaline shakes—another benefit of Grant’s relaxation technique. He picked the bag up and went to the door.

  “You’re lucky I’m on vacation. That’s what you call a holiday over here, isn’t it?”

  He pushed the swing door and reentered the world of noise and movement. Keep out of trouble. Don’t get involved. One out of two wasn’t so bad. He wasn’t surprised that the kids had gone. What did surprise him was who had stayed.

  “You’re not that small at all, are you?”

  The businesswoman smirked. Grant smiled. He looked down at her from a great height and flexed the muscles of his neck. Bones cracked like firecrackers. He lowered his voice. “You know what I could do with right now?”

  “I think I do. Welcome to Boston.”

  TWO

  Terri Avellone stood in front of the lace curtains and unbuttoned her jacket. Her room at the Airport Hilton was way above Grant’s West Yorkshire Police expenses chit. Bright daylight outside turned her into a silhouette. The jacket looked expensive, and it slid off her shoulders like silk off smooth skin. She tossed it expertly onto the chair next to the window. It landed neatly folded over the armrest. The white blouse she wore was thin and sheer. With the light behind her Grant could see right through it, the delicate shoulders forming a perfect frame for her slender waist and full breasts. He reckoned that was exactly the view she wanted to give.

  He glanced around to take in his surroundings. It was like no hotel room he’d ever been in. Deep pile carpet and hidden lighting supported the neutral colors and plush furnishings. The writing desk was leather-topped and wide as an aircraft carrier.

  The bed was bigger than HMS Ark Royal.

  Grant dropped the holdall next to the built-in wardrobe and unzipped his windcheater. He stopped. She was staring at him with the same hard straight look she’d employed in the arrivals lounge. There was a twist of a smile on her lips. She seemed to like what she saw. Grant sniffed twice. He pulled the neck of his T-shirt away from his body and sniffed again.

  “Long flight.”

  She nodded. “Longer than mine, I’m sure.”

  He hadn’t asked where she’d flown in from. He hadn’t asked her anything at all. The bathroom door was open in the far corner. Ceiling lights and wall mirrors made it look like a honey-coated grotto of infinite possibilities. Grant nodded towards the door.

  “That’s the other thing I could do with.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “I am your guest.”

  Avellone unbuttoned her blouse, slowly. Top button. Pause. Second button. Another pause. Third and fourth. Then she stopped. The smirk w
as partially hidden by the darkness of her silhouette. “Don’t forget to wash behind your ears.”

  He smiled back at her. This was a woman who knew just what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask for it. She also shared his dry sense of humor. Boston was shaping up to be the perfect holiday assignment. He shrugged out of the windcheater and threw it on the bed. The crumpled heap wasn’t as neat as Avellone’s jacket toss. He didn’t mind. It was time for a shower.

  Stinging water hit his face and shoulders. Hot and steamy. The shower cubicle was bigger than most hotel rooms he’d stayed in. There was a corner bath that could fit three and a pair of washbasins with a full-width mirror. There was a toilet and more towels than you could use in a week. Baths didn’t interest him. For Grant it was always the shower.

  The glass-walled cubicle stood floor to ceiling in a fully tiled angle of the bathroom. The Hilton obviously catered to tall guests. The showerhead was high on the back wall. The glass door sealed the spray in. It steamed up immediately. Grant soaped himself from a dispenser on the wall. He felt cleaner already. He closed his eyes and let the spray spark him back to life. He sensed the door open and close rather than heard it. He kept his voice conversational. “You need to get clean too?”

  Hissing spray filtered her voice to a whisper. “No. I need to get dirty.”

  He felt her breasts brush across his back. They were firm and smooth and tipped with hard nipples. They felt like fingernails scraping across his skin. Then they were gone. He waited. Five seconds. Ten. Her breasts brushed him again, twice, then pushed against the muscles banding his spine. He felt them flatten against him, followed by the rest of her body. Her stomach pressed against his buttocks and she moved it gently side to side. The smooth, soft plane of her abdomen felt good. The small, hard mound below it felt better. She pressed that against him briefly. Water and soap lubricated the friction until it wasn’t really friction at all. It was just soft and gentle pleasure.

  One hand snaked around his stomach.

  Despite his relaxation technique, there was no escaping the effect that single hand had on him. His buttocks tensed, prompting her to rub herself against them even harder. She flexed her legs, lowering and rising, adding a new direction to the gentle movement.

  Her other hand snaked around his stomach.

  Something below the waist twitched into life. Electricity sparked goose bumps across his chest and abdomen. The hairs on his forearms stood on end. He took a deep breath but stood still. This was her show. Her breasts were flattened against his back. Her stomach swirled in tiny movements that shifted her breasts as well. The twitch grew firmer.

  One hand slid up Grant’s stomach towards his chest. The palm caressed the muscles in small, slow circles. She crabbed the hand and used her fingernails instead. The light touch sparked more goose pimples, and she used her thumb and forefinger to tweak his nipple. Nobody has ever been able to explain why men have nipples, but right now Grant was glad they did. He could feel Avellone’s nipples harden against him. Something else grew hard as well.

  Her other hand caressed his stomach for a few seconds more, then slid down and to one side. It bypassed what she really wanted to touch and stroked his inner thigh instead. The result was electrifying. She teased him by sliding her hand up to the top, brushing his manhood before moving back down. Three more accidental touches. She was moaning quietly behind him.

  Then she took the weight of him and cupped it in her hand.

  This was where a porn movie would record gratuitous dialog—moans and verbal encouragement and talk that would provoke laughter instead of arousal. Terri Avellone didn’t say anything. She kissed his back, flicking her tongue across the taught muscles. She continued to gyrate against him. Her hands continued to diversify, one caressing his chest, the other kneading his manhood. It grew too big for her hand. Slowly she flexed her knees. Her entire body slid down him. She kissed his spine, one vertebrae at a time. Her breasts were pushed aside by his buttocks as they moved below his waist. She stopped, and he heard a throaty chuckle. He glanced over his shoulder and saw her looking at the base of his spine. She smiled up at him.

  “What’s this?”

  The tattoo had faded over the years but was still clearly visible now that the soap lather had rinsed off. A large red circle with a white line through it, replicating an English road sign. There was black lettering below it with an arrow pointing down.

  NO ENTRY

  He smiled at a private memory. The smile held a hint of sadness.

  “Old war wound.”

  “Well, at least we agree on one thing.”

  “Only one?”

  “No.”

  She leaned close again. Her top hand moved from his chest to his stomach. Her other hand simply squeezed and stroked. What she was holding wasn’t a dead weight any more. It had a life of its own and didn’t need holding up. Her voice became low and suggestive. “Cleanliness is next to godliness.”

  He turned to face her, his body still protecting her from the spray that had cleansed him. The soap was all gone. Water ran down his body like rivulets of sweat. Her hair was plastered to her head. Her body was gleaming. For the first time he saw what a magnificent woman she was. Tiny waist. Firm breasts. Taught muscles across everything. Strong thighs that were keeping her balanced now. He laid a hand on her shoulder and caressed the slender neck. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

  She didn’t. Her head rocked forward, and he almost exploded. Her hands caressed his buttocks. Her breasts caressed his thighs. It was his turn in the shower. He’d already decided it would be her turn once he took her to bed.

  Her turn took longer than his. There was no rushing. They had plenty of time. He explored everything that she had explored in the shower and more. The stolen wallet was forgotten. The kids from the city orphanage were history. The bullying fat man was no longer important. This was R and R of the finest quality.

  Afterwards they lay in each other’s arms, spent, quiet, and contented. Traffic noise was barely audible through the double glazing. The overnight flight began to take its toll. The soft pillows and comfortable mattress sucked him down. He drifted towards sleep half covered by the top sheet and still draped in a towel that was big enough to wrap around him twice. As his eyes grew heavy, he felt a familiar stirring in the back of his mind. He wasn’t sure if it was the strange surroundings or the lace curtains, but even before he was fully asleep he knew what was coming next.

  The lace curtains were threadbare and grey. If they bore any resemblance to the life of young James Grant, twelve going on thirteen, it was that they appeared to shift aimlessly in the unseen draft. Grant had been drifting aimlessly through life ever since he’d been sent to boarding school at an age too early to remember. The curtains were long and heavy, blurring the view from the tall arched window on the half-landing. The staircase doubled back on itself as it climbed to the upper dormitories. The carpet was threadbare too. Moor Grange School for Boys wasn’t an expensive boarding school.

  The curtains wafted open occasionally, revealing the sunlit beauty of life on the outside. Grant’s “road to Damascus” moment came in a much darker place. His first step on the journey from boy to man, or maybe it was his second. The slap and the cry and the bullying voices coming from the communal toilets.

  “Give us yer pocket money.”

  The bully was a fat lump of lard, a year ahead of Grant and three years ahead of the smaller boy he was picking on. He might have been a fat lump of lard, but fat carried weight when it was added to a slap across the face. The boy whimpered and dropped to his knees.

  “Come on. I saw yer mum give it to yer.”

  Another slap. This time from the bully’s accomplice, another juggernaut but with a smaller head. Bully Number Two appeared to consider himself the strong, silent type because he didn’t speak, leaving that to his more verbose friend.

  The boy cowered
away from any further blows to the head. “It’s all I’ve got.”

  “And it’s all I want you to give us.”

  Number One clicked his fingers, and Number Two dragged the boy up by the scruff of the neck and stuck his face into the nearest sink. He put the plug in and turned the cold tap on full, holding the boy underwater until he came up coughing and spluttering. Water splashed across the tiled floor.

  “All right. All right.” Number One clicked his fingers again, and Number Two released the captive.

  Grant closed the door behind him as he stepped into the toilets. “That’s very good. Can you get him to roll over and beg?”

  The two piggy-eyed sixth-formers turned towards the intruder. They weren’t used to being opposed. They weren’t afraid of throwing their weight around, not when it was two against one and not when the one was a skinny preteen whose voice hadn’t even broken yet. Number One was still the spokesman. “Mind yer own business unless you want a dunkin’ as well.”

  Grant looked at the two bullies and weighed his options. Weighing was an appropriate term because the sixth-formers outweighed him by four to one. They were taller and broader and fatter than the skinny featherweight. Grant hadn’t had his teenage growth spurt yet. He wasn’t strong, but he was determined, and he was fast. He reckoned that and his ability to size up situations would stand him in good stead. Speed and a wet floor would be his allies today. “Why don’t you let him be, and I’ll let you keep your teeth?”

  The bullies squared off against their impudent foe. The boy scurried backwards out of the firing line. Number One recognized the intruder. “Jimmy Grant, isn’t it? You still putting out for Mr. Reid at bed check?”

  Grant felt his cheeks flush but kept quiet. Number One did not. “He make you squeal like a pig, did he?”

  Grant didn’t know how these two had seen Deliverance. Probably the same way Grant and the other underage kids had. Sneaked in the back doors of the cinema on its latest rerelease. The implication was plain, though. “He didn’t make me do anything.”