‘I’m not in the mood for this, Evelyn.’
‘When did you ever do those things for me?’
‘Wipe your arse?’
‘You know what I mean. You know exactly what I’m talking about, you uncaring bastard.’
‘I did lots.’
‘Make a list one day. See if you can fill the back of a postage stamp.’
He ran a hand through his hair and scowled frustratedly at the floor. ‘Evelyn, I got things to do.’
‘Of course you have. When didn’t you?’ She strode to the door. ‘I’ve half a mind to go and fetch Samuel now, just so that he doesn’t have further contact with you for a while; but no, I won’t embarrass him in front of his new friends. I want him home tomorrow though, is that understood? I’ll allow him one more day away from his proper school, then it’s back—’
‘He told me he’s been suspended for a week, Evelyn.’
She stopped in the doorway and wheeled round. ‘I warned him not to tell you that. Oh, I can see you’re as thick as thieves already. Well, I’m not surprised, not surprised at all, considering you both lie, steal and bully. Two of a kind made from the same mould. I can promise you this: Samuel is going to change. No way is he going to grow up like his father. Do you understand me? No bloody way.’
He heard the front door being opened followed by muffled voices. Evelyn’s voice reigned terror up the stairway once more. ‘There’s another bimbo on the doorstep. Have you got the energy?’
The door slammed.
25
Enter Prunella this time, looking nothing like a bimbo.
‘Joe, can I come up?’
‘What makes you think I have a say in it?’ He went through to the kitchen and opened the booze cupboard, ignoring the brandy bottle that Cally had left on the table.
‘Joe?’
‘In here looking for the hemlock.’
‘Bad day?’ She stopped at the threshold as if too timid to enter.
‘So far. And there’s every chance it’s gonna get worse. D’you want to join me?’ He held up a tumbler.
‘Hemlock?’
‘Or whiskey. Gin if you want.’
‘No, I don’t think so. Why haven’t you returned my calls?’
‘You’ve been ringing me?’
‘For the past couple of hours. I’ve left messages on your answerphone. Freddy Squires has been trying to get hold of you, too.’
‘Any particular reason?’ He poured a stiff measure of Bushmills.
‘Freddy? None other than you haven’t reported in today and he’s got an assignment lined up.’
‘I’m not a staffy. I don’t have to “report” in.’
‘That’s fine with me, Joe. It’s Freddy who needs reminding. Have you been in an accident of some kind?’ She wandered into the kitchen, her eyes wide at his condition. ‘Every time I see you, you look worse.’
Creed waved a dismissive hand. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. You got a cigarette on you?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t smoke.’
‘No, you wouldn’t.’ He reached for his tobacco tin and makings and took them, along with the whiskey, to the table. ‘So are you here to add to my woes?’
‘I’m sorry if you’ve got problems, Joe.’
He looked at her in surprise. Judas, she’d said that as if she’d really meant it.
Prunella took a seat opposite him. ‘Was that woman who just left one of them?’
‘The red-haired shrew? Yeah, she’s one of them, but the least of them.’ He ran the rolled cigarette paper along the tip of his tongue, then sealed the tobacco inside. ‘Why are you here, Prunella?’
‘We appear to have lost our star diarist.’
‘Blythe?’
‘He’s the only one we’ve got. Unfortunately our ulcerated editor doesn’t like the idea that he’s been mislaid. Seriously though, it’s not like Antony to go off without letting anyone know where. He usually rings in three or four times a day with items or to check what’s happening.’
‘What makes you think I know where he is?’
‘We thought you might have passed him on your rounds. Besides, the last thing he was looking into had something to do with Lily Neverless, and as you were at the funeral the other . . . day . . . Joe, is something wrong? Why are you staring at me like that? We just thought – obviously very stupidly – that you might be working on something together. As I’m general dogsbody, I was nominated to try and contact either Antony or you. I drew a total blank on Antony, so when you wouldn’t return my calls I jumped in a cab and came over. I dropped by Antony’s place first,’ she hastened to add, then blushed for some reason. (If Creed hadn’t been so preoccupied he might have realised that Prunella had relished the thought of stepping inside his ‘den of iniquity’. They’ll surprise you every time, these quiet ones.)
‘What was he looking into exactly?’
She was puzzled by the gravity of Creed’s tone. ‘Something to do with Lily Neverless’ will. Apparently he asked our own legal department to find out who her solicitors were.’
‘And did they?’
‘Yes, I rang the solicitors and they told me they’d had an enquiry about their late client’s estate from Antony this morning. Quite honestly, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. He’ll turn up when he feels like it.’
Sure he will. Prunella was right – why the fuss just because Blythe had gone walkabout? So what if he did usually call in? He was probably lying under a table somewhere dozing the afternoon away after one champagne cocktail too many. Okay, so perhaps he wasn’t known as a big drinker, but what the hell? For once he’d let what hair he had down. Maybe he was even lying somewhere else with a male or female of his choice. Who knows? Who cares?
Prunella interrupted his thoughts. ‘I don’t think that stuff is doing you any good.’
‘Hmn?’
‘The Scotch. You keep losing colour.’
‘It’s whiskey, and it’s doing me a power of good. When it hits my gut it feels real – about the only thing that does today.’
‘Are you in trouble, Joe? Is there anything I can do to help?’
He could have laughed, but the mood wasn’t on him.
‘Will you go to bed with me, Prunella?’
He couldn’t believe he’d said it, but he had. What was wrong with him? His son was in terrible danger and here he was as horny as a goat. And it wasn’t only with Prunella: he had wanted to get it on with Evelyn – Evelyn the Untouchable, for Christ’s sake! Not just those two, either. When Cally had bathed his wounds in the bathroom he’d become aroused, only the combination of exhaustion, fear and anger quelling the uprising. Of course it wasn’t unusual for him to get lechy in the company of an attractive or semi-attractive female, but under these dire circumstances? What was wrong with him?
Then he understood, for (and not for the first time in the last couple of hours or so) a vision flashed into his mind. It was of the woman, Laura, kneeling before him, clothes disarrayed, her body ripe and lush, her hands moving erotically over herself. He couldn’t shake it; the image kept returning. As horrifically bizarre as it had turned out (and maybe because it was also so indecently bizarre) it was the most sexually intoxicating experience he’d ever had. At the time and in retrospect. Especially, it seemed, in retrospect. Christ, what was wrong with him?
His throat was dry. ‘Prunella, I . . . please?’
Whatever he was giving off, whatever frisson he had aroused between them, it was obviously not ineffective. She didn’t appear shocked, nor did she give him a definite no. ‘I came over to find out about Antony,’ she said, looking down at her lap.
‘You didn’t need to do that. You wanted to see me, didn’t you?’ Oh boy, the old ramrod was threatening to lift the table. How could you, you bastard? How could you get it on at a time like this? White thighs, milky smooth, long tapering fingers delicately touching, beautifully curved breasts so enticing . . . He closed his eyes, but the mental picture only becam
e sharper.
A redness flushed her neck. ‘You know I like you, Joe . . .’
He swallowed. ‘I like you too, Prunella.’ Deep red lips, glistening in the gloomy light, nipples taut and pink, so erect, so thrusting, cold, marble flesh spread on the floor before him . . .
‘You did say you’d share the champagne with me . . .’
‘I did promise that, didn’t I?’ Champagne? Where was the champagne Blythe had awarded him? Probably still in the back of the jeep.
She drew in a shallow breath, her small lips parting. There was a heaviness about her eyes. ‘I do like you, Joe,’ she repeated.
Other images tumbling inside his head. The terrible phlegmy thing that had collapsed over him, the tiny-headed phantoms skiting about the room, the darkness that contained nothing at all, the storm, the hurricane that had exploded from the room . . . her white hands feeling herself, reaching into the soft hair between her thighs, spreading her wetness on him . . .
‘Laur – Prunella . . .’
‘Yes, Joe.’
A question, or acquiescence? ‘Let’s—’
‘Yes, Joe.’
Creed rose from the table, leaving the unlit cigarette lying there, and walked – hobbled – around to her. His hand was shaky when he held her cheek and tilted her face towards him. The tension between them was so tightly sensuous that the very air seemed charged. He leaned forward and kissed her pale prim lips . . .
. . . deep red, full lips . . .
Prunella responded, her arms reaching around his neck, drawing him down so that their mouths were hard against each other’s. He felt her tongue dart between his lips, then retreat so that his own had to give chase . . .
. . . firm breasts, hips so voluptuously curved, legs so superbly long . . .
He brought her to her feet, the chair scraping back, their lips never losing touch, their bodies suddenly clenched together so that she felt his hardness, his huge incredible bursting hardness, against her stomach, and her fingers descended his spine so that she could hug him even tighter, pull him even closer, press her hips against him with firmer pressure.
His hand explored, found the small mound of one breast under her coat, ventured further, lifting the jumper she wore, tugging at the skirt beneath, feeling soft skin . . .
. . . lush flesh, so firm yet so soft . . .
‘The bedroom . . .’ he managed to gasp between frantic kisses.
She moved with him, but they only got as far as the hallway. He groaned aloud when he lifted her long pleated skirt and found instant access to Prunella’s naked thighs . . .
. . . white thighs white thighs white thighs . . .
. . . for she was wearing – Prunella, this demure, prim and proper Sloane-type – stockings and suspenders. Creed sank delightedly to his knees so that he could see what he felt, kiss what he saw. A shudder ran through Prunella as his tongue moistened her skin. She slipped off her coat and rested against the wall while Creed busied himself beneath her skirt. She felt the probing of his tongue through the flimsy fabric of her panties and was so glad that that very morning, and for no apparent reason, she had decided to wear her newest La Perla (how had she known, how had she known?). She squirmed at the delicate touch and even the wall at her back felt sensuous. Oh Joe, I know you’re a swine, everyone says you are, and I know you don’t honestly give a damn about me and you’d screw any female who has two legs and two breasts, but I don’t care, just do it to me, just do it to me . . .
Her knees were giving way and she was sinking down the wall, and when he slid the silky underwear down her legs she almost collapsed completely.
He let her come to him, encircling her waist with one arm and easing her passage to the floor; then she was lying beside him and his free hand had slipped the panties over her ankles so that she was free, naked, and open to him. He ducked his head again and the tip of his tongue resumed its exploration, this time with no barrier in the way. The hair between her legs was less dense, her skin less white and less rounded . . .
. . . than Laura’s . . .
. . . but it was glorious nonetheless and Creed buried himself in her so that Prunella cried out and dug her fingers into his shoulders and moved against him and clenched his head with her thighs and pleaded that he shouldn’t stop, he mustn’t stop . . .
But he needed more than just that. Creed raised his head, ignoring her moan of disappointment and pushing at her clothing, exposing her belly and then her breasts, loving the sight of those breasts as small as they were under their thin lacy wrapping. He groped behind her, found the catch and unfastened it so that the bra loosened enough to be pulled aside. His lips smothered the tiny nipples . . .
. . . those big, taut nipples, so hard and so hot . . .
. . . drawing on each one in turn so that they stood proud and eventually firm.
Prunella fumbled at his jeans, struggling for desperate seconds to press the stud button through its eye, the expansion of his own body making it more difficult; but soon it was free and the zip was sliding down so easily, and quickly he was in her hands, warm and soft-hard, and seemingly pulsating with urgent demand.
It was Creed’s turn to shudder and it ran through him in a warm wave. Now he was thinking of Prunella and nobody else; it was her body beneath his own and her body alone that filled his mind.
‘Oh yes, Joe, please . . .’
Please? Please what? Did she think he was going to stop? Did she really imagine she had to plead with him? He fell upon her and her legs spread around him. Although she was wet, she was not that easy to enter. The initial thrust caused a little shriek from her and he withdrew slightly before making his way more gently, passing the point of resistance more steadily so that the rest of the passage was smooth and easy. She gasped, gave another little shriek; but this was one of delight. Her hands clasped his bare buttocks and pulled him in further. Creed sucked on her neck and she tried to twist away (Prunella was still prim enough not to want those kind of bruises visible the next day). The tweed of her rumpled skirt scratched and tickled his stomach and upper legs, adding another, albeit slight, element of joy to the proceedings.
He felt the warm bubbling begin deep inside his loins, a frenzy looking for release, and his motion became more languid, more stretched, and more powerful.
‘No,’ she said, ‘not yet. Please not yet, Joe.’ Her limbs tensed solid.
‘Babe . . .’ His turn to plead.
‘Wait,’ she insisted. ‘This way, this way . . .’
What the hell was she doing? Hey no, she was pulling away, turning over.
‘Prunella . . .?’
‘This ’ay . . .’ She was having trouble speaking. Prunella crouched on elbows and knees, offering herself to him again.
He went in from behind with no problem at all, hoping he hadn’t misunderstood and was taking the right route – anal sex wasn’t his thing at all.
‘Bedroom,’ she murmured. ‘’ere’s bedroom?’
‘’own a hall,’ he replied, having difficulty with words himself now.
She began to crawl and he almost lost her. He quickly shuffled forward on his knees to keep up. Daft as he felt, he wasn’t going to spoil the fun at this stage. Besides, who could see him? Grin, solemnly watching as they passed by the lounge, didn’t count.
He fondled her pendent breasts on the way, resisting the urge to pull down on the left one for direction as they reached the bedroom door.
‘Through . . . there . . .’ he managed to say, almost out of breath.
They crawled in, Creed crouched over her, Prunella taking most of his weight. They made it to the bed and her upper body sprawled over it; she bit the duvet as though to muffle her own cries. It was easier for him now and he moved backwards and forwards in regular rhythm.
‘That’s so good,’ she sighed.
As his hands massaged her back, then her buttocks and the back of her thighs, he mentally agreed with her: it was soooo good!
‘Wait!’
He groane
d.
‘This way, Joe, this way.’
She dragged herself on to the bed.
‘Prunella . . .’ he complained.
But her legs were apart and she was waiting for him again, and she was so different, so alluring as she rested on one elbow, her hair tangled down over her face, a sleepy kind of lust in her eyes, her lips no longer prim but pouting and shiny, her breasts revealed, exquisite rather than small, and . . . and . . .
He lunged at her and was inside without even aiming. Her legs rose around him and he was racing to his climax and she was in the race with him and they hadn’t far to go and she was squealing in his ear and they were in perfect time and he was squealing too and everything was flowing . . .
And suddenly in his mind it was the woman, Laura, he was spilling himself into . . . and then it was Cally . . .
And finally, when he was almost through, it was Prunella once more.
26
They made love twice more after that – if that’s the right, term. ‘Went at each other’ might be more appropriate, for there was no finesse and certainly no fondness in these mutual acts of self-gratification. They followed on in quick succession (much to Creed’s amazement) and without diminishing vigour (much to Creed’s and Prunella’s amazement); there was very little dignity to the proceedings. Creed wondered at himself and it was the second coming, if you’ll pardon that expression, that he realised the stimulant was not the woman on the bed with him (although Prunella certainly played her part) but rather the bizarre episode in the disused office earlier in the day. To be more precise, the memory of Laura’s tantalizingly sexual display and the subsequent interrupted but erotic coupling; even the horror that followed immediately after – the slimy smothering by that membranous substance, which he’d had to tear and step through to the other side (could it be the ultimate rupturing of the maiden’s hymen by the entire male form as the excessive and unified penis? Dr Ruth might know) to escape suffocation – had added a perverse yet undeniably thrilling (in retrospect, of course) dimension to the carnality of it all. What had happened up there on the seventh floor had left lingering sexual images in his mind; the terror had not been forgotten, but oddly was less accessible to his thoughts than the dubious pleasure.