Authors: John Macrae
Her answer was as quick. "I was thinking that, too. I wonder where?"
"Do you ever go to the Bunch of Grapes?" A flare of remembrance widened her eyes. She had long lashes and, if you looked closely, the tiniest cast in one eye.
"Of course ... you were in there one night. And you went out in a hurry, I think."
She had a good voice. Not too la-di-da but she obviously didn't scrub floors for a living either. It went with the smart pale green blouse and secretarial grey skirt. A wide black belt with a simple buckle emphasised the slim waist, and underneath the heavy coat, caped across her shoulders, I caught tantalising glimpses of the blouse tight across full breasts. I felt a quickening interest. She was smallish, pretty, with the heady smell of an expensive scent clinging around her like a warm, invisible cloud.
She smiled up at me now, head cocked on one side, alive to my awareness of her femininity.
"Are you waiting for someone?" I nodded towards the door.
"No. I came in with a friend but she's had to dash off".
"Oh. Would you like to join me? Have a glass of wine."
She looked at me appraisingly, for what seemed a long time; then picked up her glass and handbag, and slid off the stool. Her eyes met mine again. "Yes. I'd like that."
Her name was Joy, and we shared another - rather better - bottle of white wine. She was an easy woman to talk to. She was twenty six, lived in a flat with two other girls and worked as a personal assistant to some wheel in the oil business. Her manner was witty, relaxed without being overtly sexual, and radiated a kind of seductive femininity that got straight through to me.
I felt better than I had for years - literally. I realised that here was the missing ingredient to complete my satisfaction at the Brixton hit. We talked, and laughed, for what seemed only minutes, but took lots of coffee, two bottles of Perrier water and turned out to my surprise to be over an hour and a half when I eventually glanced at my watch. I raised an eyebrow, and started to ask, "Shall we ... "
But Joy cut me short and just nodded smilingly, collecting her handbag. Her hand brushed lightly across mine.
On the way out, I let her lead up the narrow stone steps from the basement wine bar to the street. Her bottom wiggled invitingly and I gently put my hands on either side of her hips as she preceded me. "You've got a lovely figure, you know."
She stopped on the next step and turned. She looked flushed, but was smiling. "You're very sure of yourself ..." she started but I pulled her head down and kissed her. Her lips were warm and surprisingly dry; after a seconds hesitation she melted to let the wet, warm little minnow of her tongue slither into my mouth as I let the glow of our bodies flow together on the stair and pulled her close. She cuddled in naturally and happily, curling an arm around my neck as naturally as a kitten in a basket.
How long we kissed I don't know. A cough behind me and an 'excuse me' broke us up to allow an overweight business man and his overdressed wife pass up the stairs with sideways glances at us, and a barely suppressed wink from him. Giggling, we followed, holding hands, joined by a shared conspiracy.
From the wine bar it was a short walk to my flat. We strolled talking and laughing; every few yards stopping to kiss and embrace. A sour-faced woman walking an Airedale tutted at our depravity as she stalked by one of our hugs.
"Disgusting ..." we heard her mutter. Doubtless
her
lips were pressed disapprovingly together too. Giggling even more, we ran the last few yards, with Joy breathless and glowing like a schoolgirl.
"Wait 'till I get you inside," I growled. She laughed aloud "Can you wait that long?!
Once inside the front door I kissed her again. She pushed me away; her hair was tousled and her eyes shone. She looked beautiful and I wanted her. I was giddy with desire. "Do you want a drink or something?"
"No." She hooked a finger into the waistband of my trousers. "I'm going to seduce you.” She looked stern. "Where's this bedroom of yours?" I nodded to the door and she pulled me by the trouser band into the room
Once inside, she wrapped herself against me, kissing, and pressing her knee between my thighs. I started to try to unbutton her blouse but she pushed my hands away her tone mock reproving. "No ... I'm supposed to be seducing you." Her fingers pulled open my shirt.
"Not if I get there first" My hands returned to their task. From there it was a frantic race between us. I pulled the blouse from her shoulders, trailing kisses over her neck, her throat, her breasts, cupping the fullness of the lacy bra and drifting over her smoothly rounded stomach.
She pulled me up and said, "Wait," while her skirt and slip slithered to the floor, allowing her dark stocking tops to highlight the creamy skin of her inner thighs. Did women really still wear stockings, I wondered? I gently kissed and caressed each leg as I carefully unrolled each stocking in turn. Then I nuzzled her belly, pressing my face deep into the silken briefs, with their tiny pink rose buds. She stroked my hair, soft, kind, loving. "You're very gentle and slow, you know. For such a ... well, hard-looking man."
I looked up from the gentle hillock of her belly and its white briefs, over the jutting lace covered breasts, to her liquid, astonishingly big eyes, staring down at me. Then she pulled me carefully to my feet. I felt dizzy with passion and the blood pounded in my head as she slid her hands down to squeeze my bulge, watching me closely and smiling as the caresses reflected in my face, while she eased my pants away and bent to give me the warmth of her lips. The roaring of the blood in my head became louder than ever.
Something snapped. I pulled her head up sharply by the hair and dragged her to the bed while she squeaked with
fright. Th
e
n I ripped her delicate underthings away, and took her.
"Slowly, gently," she implored. But I had
no thought other than my own controlled, ruthless surgings.
"No," she cried, almost weeping, as I thrust finally, again, all pretence abandoned. "Oh please, no...gently....wait." But I didn't. I took her in a slippery, swe
a
ting welter of sheets and her tears, a biting, raging monster, as months of frustration and pent up feeling thundered through my pounding veins.
For a long moment I hung over her, panting, replete, all passion spent. She lay weeping softly bright scratches on her flanks, one shoulder bitten. Her brassiere was pulled half off, the straps ripped away.
She looked at me with horror, and burst into tears.
"Oh my God," I heard myself say. "What have I done?" And then I tried to hold her, to comfort her, while she sat and cried. I even went out and made two mugs of tea, and we sat like fools, staring blankly at each, cradling our mugs until the hurt, bitter tears ceased to flow.
"Why?" she asked, snuffling through the wet mask of disillusion and shock.
"Why? I liked you. I wanted you? Why?" The tears flowed again.
For the first time in years I felt pain. Deep, emotional pain, the pain that comes from hurting someone
unnecessarily
and you can't take it back, whatever you do. The damage is done. I looked away, unable to speak, choked and silent, hating myself. To my astonishment tears rolled down my cheeks, and, overcome with shame, I kept muttering like a fool, "I'm sorry; I'm sorry."
My father's old clock chimed in the hall in the long silence.
After a long time staring away, to my surprise a soft hand reached out and stroked my face and my ribs, with undeserved kindness. Despairing almost, I looked at her, trying to feel emotions like a normal person, trying to let her feeling reach out and touch me, trying to understand the shame of my own stupidity and lust. I choked, gulping, shaking my head in a silent shriek of despair.
Joy must have felt something of my anguish. A look of wonder, almost of comprehension came into her face. "You poor man." Her fingers traced the pink scar on my left ribs. "What's the matter? How did you do that?" The question was abstracted.
It broke the spell. "Oh," I lied lamely, "I fell and cut it on some broken glass."
She looked at me for a long time as I tried to regain control, to collect myself, then nodded disbelieving, her fingers probing the misjoined bones underneath the old wound, a legacy of the last days in
Iraq, long ago
, of another existence. Then she blinked back her tears and softly pulled my head down to her stomach. She cradled me close like a child and slowly lay back, relaxed, pleading, but cautious. She was eying me as if I was dangerous.
Shamed, I dropped my head and nuzzled the damp little bush. She held my head firmly, and stared at me for what seemed to be a very long time.
Then she said, "Please. But very gently. Please." She was like a little girl.
"It's all right, love," I said thickly. "It's all right now." As I delicately bent to my task she nodded slowly, lying back, eyes closing with pleasure, spreading her legs wide, stroking my hair. I was very gentle and very patient.
Joy stayed the whole night. We made love, dozed, told each other our life stories and explored one another's minds and bodies. Eventually she told me to stop apologising. I did. At four o'clock we were eating smoked salmon sandwiches, sprawled on the sofa, our legs intertwined. She looked around. "This is a funny flat, you know."
I followed her gaze. "Funny?"
"Yes. It's like nothing I've seen. Half like a monastery cell, and half like an advert for the good life. Its very ... well,
spare
, I suppose."
I looked again, taking it in through another's eyes for the first time really. "How?"
"Well," she paused "No plants. Lots of bare spaces on the walls and floor. Only a few pictures, although they seem good, expensive, I must say. A filing cabinet, like an office, alongside an antique bookcase. It's
just a
weird
mix
, that's all."
I wondered aloud if she thought it needed a woman's touch, and got a cushion hurled with surprising force at my head. Then she got up to walk around, my old dressing gown absurdly big and loose on her vulnerable body. She paused by the old bookcase. "Habitat, it's not," she muttered. "And your books!"
I looked across at my old friends. "Books? What's wrong with them?"
"Well, it's such an odd mix. All those books in Arabic. Did you do Arabic at University?"
I shook my head. "No. The Army sent me on a course."
“Oh… the Army.” She
read some of the other titles.
"'The Role of Military Force', 'Counter Revolutionary Operations', 'Encyclopedia of Firearms', 'Jane's Weapon Systems'. You're not still in the Army are you?"
I laughed aloud. "Good God, No! I left ages ago. No, I told you, I resigned. I work for an insurance syndicate now. On their specialised support and administrative side."
"Oh." She looked blankly. "Well, your books are specialised too. But you've got some beautiful CDs." She pulled out a
cover. "This is lovely music."
The square, rather mannish hands stroked the top of my old Dual stereo rig.
"It's William Boyce. The Eight Symphonies. Here." I handed her the CD box.
She wrinkled her nose. "Eight symphonies? On one record?"
I laughed. "They're very short. It's not like Beethoven. It's baroque. It's my favourite music. I've got a lot of baroque; especially brass. I used to play the French horn once. A long time ago. At school."
She looked startled. "I can't visualize that, somehow."
"Why not?"
"Well, you seem so ... well, aggressive, tough. Hard. To know so much about this kind of music." She came over and stood in front of me. "I just can't see you being interested in insurance, let alone something so ... soft and gentle as a French horn."
The dressing gown had fallen open. Without the bra her breasts sagged, full against her chest, their
aureoles
wide and pink. As the intoxicating smell of woman mingled with the last vestiges of her
scent, I r
e
ached out and stroked
her, at that most delicate of places, where a woman's armpits swell into her breasts. She looked down at me. "But I can see what you
are
interested in."
I followed her gaze, and collapsed laughing backwards on the sofa, pulling her down with me. Tossing her hair, Joy straddled my thighs and gently slid on top of me. "This is known as giving Joy," she smiled, eyes wide with pleasure.
"I'll bet you've said that before," I accused, as she began to slide
rhythmically
astride me, placing my palms on her breasts. I stroked them gently, feeling the nipples harden and her movements quicken.
"Oh yes, my love," she groaned. "But this time I really do mean it."
Then she looked at me sharply. "And you be gentle, mind....No more nonsense."
We kept the nonsense to the bare minimum.
An Invitation, London
That little bit of nonsense meant I was late getting up – well, you know what I mean..
Anyway, it was the first morning for ages that I didn't go for my run, and arrived late at the office. Joy had rushed for the underground, calling me names but insisting that I telephone her later. And I meant to, too. Is that 'commitment', I wondered? I'd obviously been reading too much Bridget Jones. Cosmopolitan would be proud of me. What would the mad psychiatrist Hepworth make of it all?
When I got in, Mallalieu immediately sent for me. Clutching the latest crop of printouts, photocopies and a worrying report from our 'Security Services' division that pointed out that the hidden cost of supporting our more delicate operations beginning to make their open i
n
surance
and commercial venture premiums uncompetitive, I went in. Mallalieu was looking cross and banged the 'phone down as he waved me to a hard chair.
"Bloody fool "'
"Who, me?"
"No. Those idiots in the FCO." Mallalieu's dislike of the FCO was deep and unaffected. He gestured at the phone. "Would I be good enough to provide a run down on our corporate operations worldwide," he mimicked in a surprisingly good imitation of the worst sort of FCO type using his master's voice. "'The new Secretary of State is most anxious to know some details of your operations, Mr Mallalieu.' Coffee?" He continued normally.
"Thanks - what did you say to him?"
"That we'd be delighted to help, welcomed any opportunity for new business and
I'd send him a glossy brochure
with our complete tariff. Oh yes, could SIS Ltd look forward to a lucrative government contract - if so, I might be able to arrange a special visit by our corporate hospitality massage girls'"
I took the
proffered
cup. It wasn't often that Mallalieu's sense of humour was engaged. I liked to encourage it. "How did he take that?"
Puzzled. 'Oh, there's no possibility of a
contract,
Mr Mallalieu. The Minister was looking more for a detailed report on your group's operations.' I told him I'd love to help him, but he would have to bear in mind that we were firstly bound by commercial confidentiality, secondly, preparation of such an in-depth study could be extremely costly." He drank his coffee with gusto, clearing a space on the desk for a thin green file with a black sticker on the front. "That shook the pompous little sod. 'Oh," he mimicked again, "I'm not sure that's appropriate in this case. The Minister particularly needs a brief on your activities. we've made no budgetary appropriations to cover this request. This is an official request from the Minister..."
"Appropriate - funding? A government Minister thinks he can just demand information? From a private company?" I spluttered.
"Yes, cheeky bugger. So I asked him why a Minister of the Crown thought he could demand a report, free, from a public limited company. What's the point of filing annual accounts and reports at Companies House? And did sonny-Jim think he could get it without even paying for it, as of right? So I let him have the choke barrel."
"How did it end?"
"I told him that I would send him an invoice for the time he’d wasted, raise a complaint with the Department of Trade and Industry, the CBI and then tell the newspapers about government interference in the City's business operations,
and
ask my MP
-
who incidentally is one of their lot, now
-
to raise a question in the House." He paused for breath, and beamed at me. "I don't think we'll get any more direct FCO requests over an open telephone. After all," he added virtuously, "What would a firm like this have to do with the FCO? We have our shareholders to think of!"
I couldn't help smiling. Tom Mallalieu didn't like the FCO at the best of times. We only dealt with them for a few second-rate, low budget contracts. Their budget’s always tight. After all, they’ve got all those luxury embassies to run.
"Now," Mallalieu turned to business. "I've got a job for you. But first of all, there's a fine old hue and cry going on over this ... " he pulled a computer message from his 'in' tray and scanned it. "Do you remember the shooting of those muggers in Brixton earlier this week?"
My stomach tightened. "Of course. It was in all the newspapers."
"Well, the Met's going daft. Harry Plummer's coming over to see me later. They're looking everywhere for this bloke."
"Which bloke?"
"The one who shot the muggers - they reckon it's the same man who killed Varley."
"What - the SAS bagman?"
"That's the one. You’ve seen the newspapers. Now they reckon it's the same Scots bloke who's going round topping hooligans. Black ones."
"Blacks? I didn't know you were prejudiced against blacks. I thought they were black and white?"
"I'm not anti-black," Mallalieu looked angry. "I'm just anti-hooligan. Black, white – pink or green. I just don’t like animals who attack old women and babies. At least the bloody skinheads and football hooligans only kick lumps out of each other. This lot ... " he looked disgusted. "Well, from what I can gather, they got what they deserved. Anyway, that's not why I sent for you." He opened the green file and looked down. The ticking of his clock seemed loud while he read; then he closed the cover and looked appraisingly at me.
"Well, how're you getting on?"
"All right - but you're the one who should be able to tell me, Colonel."
"No, no, I don't mean that. You're doing a perfectly reasonable job. No, I meant, how fit are you?"
"Fit?"
"Yes." Mallalieu looked exasperated. "Yes. Are you still keeping in shape? Are you still keen on Bull Pen work?"
Immediately I was on my guard. "I reckon so. Why? Have you got another of those day trips to Paris to make me feel more wanted?" I realised that it was impossible to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, but Mallalieu's Bull Pen remark wasn't funny. Things hadn't been right in the Bull Pen for the last six months and everyone knew it. There had been a change from the days of just a year ago.
The Bull Pen existed to do the hard-man jobs of SIS Ltd. Traditionally the four members were all ex-SAS or SBS and the spirit of the group had always reflected that ex-Special Forces background. The arrival of a smooth discard from the Foreign Office last year called Bellingham had started the rot. He’d been followed three months ago by an ex-Fleet Street reporter called Jonno Briggs, a huge blond-haired east Londoner who had been a sometime war correspondent, sometime Fleet Street photographer and sometime stunt-man. The more susceptible and giggly typists even alleged that he had once been a male model and had appeared in some magazine advertisements as ‘Mr Love Machine’, of all things. Looking at Briggs, I could believe it. The man was deeply in love-- with Jonno Briggs.
While the Bull Pen had never been exactly a hot bed of established virtues and values, it seemed now to have changed into a loud, hard-drinking, anti-establishment gang. That's what I thought, anyway. It had stopped being a
close-knit
team and become a group of big-ego individuals. I'd voiced my misgivings to Mallalieu on a couple of occasions, but he'd only partly agreed. "You've got to remember, times are changing. The accountants and the PR people think we should change our image. Ex-servicemen may not always be the best for our needs.."
I'd disagreed. "Who else is going to select and train that sort of quality for us?"
Mallalieu pulled a face. "Well, it depends what you want them to do. Anyway, we've had no complaints, so James and Jonno stay, although I do agree that Jonno can be a bit of a rough diamond. But they're on the team and that's final."
So, despite my misgivings, I'd had to suffer the pompous James and raucous Jonno in relative silence. I wasn't responsible for the Bull Pen, anyway; they worked directly to Mallalieu most of the time.
Recalling the conversation I wondered what Mallalieu had in mind. I hadn't worked on any of his private Bull Pen stunts for over eight months and I'd long since given up asking to go back. He looked ill at ease, fiddling with a ruler and re-arranging his files.
"No, this isn't another Paris trip, or sitting in a flat, either. The fact, we've got a job that needs a very special type of person to do it ... " his voice trailed off.
"So what's wrong with the Pen? That's why we pay them so much, isn't it?"
Mallalieu looked, if anything, even more ill at ease. "Look," he said, "I can't talk about this here. What are you doing tonight?"
An image of Joy popped into my mind. "Nothing."
"Good." Then he said an unusual thing. "Come round and have supper with me tonight, will you? About half past seven?"
Now, if there's one rule we don't break, it's the stay clear after work rule. There's no jolly company socialising or entertaining attached to SIS Ltd. The word has always been 'minimum socializing after work. Don't draw attention to yourself, or the firm.' It was one the hangovers from the secret, early days of the company. It was one of the things that I disliked about Jonno with his loud-mouthed boozing around his old Fleet Street cronies. He threatened our security.
I must have looked askance. Mallalieu looked up at me keenly. "I mean it. I need to talk to you."
I shrugged. "OK, Colonel. I know the address - I'll get a cab to Hampstead. What's the rig?"
"Oh, anything. A tie? It's just you."
I was even more mystified. "OK. I'll see you then. Is that it?"
"Yes." Mallalieu looked relieved. "Oh, and one other thing. Don't mention this to any of the others. Not just at the moment, anyway." I raised my eyebrows. "They don't need to know, that's why."
I got up to go. He stopped me at the door. "This is strictly a matter between you and me. You understand?"
Puzzled I went back to my desk. Still, one thing stood out - what with Joy yesterday and now Mallalieu's invitation for tonight, my social life was improving my leaps and bounds. I checked my stars in the paper; they were right for once.