by Jim Ody
Susie’s expression didn’t change, and she remained completely silent. How could she understand what was going on?
The gun felt very heavy on her lap. It is amazing what some men will get their hands on for you.
THE PLACE THAT NEVER EXISTED
Chapter Two
P aul opened his eyes to the sunlight flooding into the hotel room. Everything was crisp and clean, although thankfully not generic; their contacts in the hotel industry enabled them to stay here over a cheaper chain hotel. The aching in his cheeks made him realise that not only was he grinning, but he had more than likely spent the whole night that way. He glanced over, seeing the familiar contours of his new wife’s naked back and felt complete. Her honey-coloured hair still had a lot of the curls that had been painstakingly twisted to within an inch of perfection the day before. However, they now draped to one side over the pillow, showing the colourful tattoo of a swallow with stars all around and leading to the shapely body of curves. He was amused at her few bouts of self-consciousness, even though he’d told her on numerous occasions that hers was a body of perfection in his eyes. This wasn’t a lie. He’d been with bigger girls, and his ex-girlfriend had virtually no fat on her body, but Debbie had a good sturdy body that, due to the sports and physical activities she indulged in, was shaped with a little muscle under the padding. She really was his idea of a beautiful woman.
He could stare at her for hours, just wondering how he got to where he was now. A small murmur and she was awake, turning around so that the bed cover slipped off, revealing her breasts without a care. She was never bothered about revealing her breasts, as she was fully content with their medium size, but the slight bulge of belly and buttocks were a different matter. Some days, she almost paraded around with such ease, understanding his attraction to her would remain just as strong should she wear a large Hessian sack, or (and God forbid) an Oxford United football shirt. Okay, maybe not the football shirt. He had to have some boundaries.
“Hey you,” she said a little louder than a whisper. “How long have you been staring at me?”
“Most of the night,” he lied.
“Pervert.”
He grinned. “Is it perverted to be completely attracted to your wonderful wife’s beautiful naked body?”
“Good answer,” she replied, pulling back the rest of the covers to reveal the rest.
It was an hour before they made it down for breakfast.
Paul always enjoyed breakfast the most. There was always an acceptance to over-eating a breakfast with the premise this would lead to high energy levels that would be burnt off throughout the day. The expectations and assumptions at the time seemed valid and far from the fallacy that others paraded out as an empty statement or, let us not be candid, a downright lie.
They sat next to a large window overlooking a beautiful serene lake on the edge of the Cotswolds, a mere twenty-minute drive from their Wiltshire home. It was fitting they should stay in this fancy hotel, even if their wedding reception had been in the Thornhill Town Hall. Debbie worked in the tourism industry and had been given the stay free by her work. It also meant they had the best room and were treated like royalty—although it was standard practise to be treated this well, Debbie assured Paul.
Couples filled the tables around them speaking in hushed voices, their tanned skin moist with expensive lotions, and gold and diamonds were on display like badges of achievement.
On another day, Paul might’ve felt out of place; his wedding ring was silver and perhaps the perfect analogy of this. He liked the simplicity of his ring, its only message was I am married, not Look at me! I am rich, or This is one of many, don’t you know.
One guy was sat on his own with a large unlit cigar between his fingers simulating smoking it, even if he wasn’t. Somewhere in his early seventies, he was dressed in an outfit that was an impressive collection of layered pastels. A yellow shirt was semi-hidden by a baby-blue tank top, that should’ve been hidden, and his flat cap was white and matched his trousers. A thick gold chain clutched his wrist and matched the sovereign ring on his little finger. After catching Paul’s eye, he nodded then opened with a “morning, son” in a voice that was gruff, commanding, and not at all posh.
“Hi,” Paul replied awkwardly. He never engaged willingly in conversation with strangers. Whether this was something instilled into him as a child, or just his basic lack of a need to know everyone he met. Strangers weren’t always a good idea, he had mentioned on more than one occasion.
“That your wife, or is that who you are cheating on your wife with?” He grinned, his skin remaining smooth and lacking in the lines you would expect, from someone without the money for a facelift of regular Botox injections.
“This is my wife, Debbie,” Paul added. “We got married yesterday.”
“Congratulations, son. I thought you looked happy.” He swiped forward a liver-spotted hand that held one of Cuba’s finest as some sort of gesture. “I mean, no offence to your wife, but men don’t usually look that happy away with their wife.”
“Right,” Paul replied, not sure what to reply with. This was what he truly hated. Small talk. The back-and-forth charade of pretending that you are interested in them and not showing you really couldn’t care less, as the chances of ever bumping into them again are small to nothing, especially if you see them first from a distance.
“But, then again,” the guy carried on. “Your wife is a hell of a sight, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“I know.” Paul looked and smiled proudly at Debbie. She was spreading butter liberally onto her croissant, a grin forming on her lips.
“Mine, however…” He leaned over but raised his voice which seemed somewhat counterproductive. “Her best years were before a man landed on the moon! Haw-haw!” His laugh was loud and the nearest three tables all turned around to find out what the joke was. When they realised that it wasn’t aimed at them, they visibly eased back to their eggs Benedict and smoked salmon. The guy finished with a wheeze and a throat-clearing cough.
“I’m sure that’s not right,” Paul said, to quiet the man down if nothing else.
Just then a thick-set black woman in clothes that looked a size too small for her turned up. Her recently weaved hair pulled out the wrinkles in her forehead, making her look younger than she probably was. Her smile flashed on and then off as her features defaulted to that of a stern grimace. Clearly smiling burnt far too many calories.
“Your wife?” Debbie slipped out.
“God, no!” He laughed. “My wife is back at home, thinks I’m in Torquay with my golf buddies!”
“That’s awful!” Debbie replied, trying to add humour to her actual shock.
“Look at this, and tell me a little lie isn’t worth it!” His lady friend then decided to speak in a thick Jamaican accent, “Reggie, let’s leave deese people ta eat dare breakfarst.”
“Enjoy yourselves!” he said, and both Paul and Debbie replied with a “You too” as Reggie pawed at his girlfriend in a way that made them, and probably everyone else around, feel embarrassed.
“Okay then,” Paul said, returning to his bacon.
“So do you know exactly where we’re going today?” Debbie asked, taking a large bite of croissant. Her appetite was always big in the mornings too.
“Pretty much,” Paul replied. “I’ve got email instructions. I had a quick look on Google Maps, but the last bit of the journey is a bit vague.”
“Vague? I thought Sat Nav and the internet could locate you anywhere nowadays?”
“It’s all to do with trilateration…”
“Tril-a-what?”
“Have you heard of triangulation?” He took a big gulp of black coffee, momentarily enjoying the bitter liquid mix with the sweetness of the jam on the croissant.
“That’s the masts that pick up your mobile signal, right? They use them in movies to find out where fugitives and missing people are.” She had a small crumb on the corner of her lip that was balanced there like
it was taking part in its own extreme sport.
“Right. Well it’s like that, but instead of the large ugly signal masts, these are satellites in space. The round-glasses-wearing purists though say that there are no angles, and therefore it cannot be triangulation, and so conclude that this is trilateration. Don’t ask me to explain any more than that! I could, but I might be winging it a bit.”
“I won’t.”
“So this place is in some kind of ‘blank zone’, something to do with satellites moving slightly apart with the movement of the earth, blah, blah, blah”—he moved his hand in a circular motion, the raspberry jam almost jumping for freedom off of the side of his croissant—“creating a small range that weakens the signal enough for it not to be recognised.”
“Small range? What are we talking about, a mile?”
“Closer to ten miles,” he said. He finished his coffee and made a move to catch the waiter’s attention for another. It was a normal move in a movie, but he still always felt slightly rude when he did it in real life, and so always apologised first, before asking for a refill.
“Ten miles? What year is this? 1950?” She chuckled, not too worried. Paul always got them wherever they needed to be. He had a built-in compass that would guide them even if maps, mobiles, or Sat Nav let them down. They didn’t have a great deal of money for an expensive honeymoon, so this would be a little adventure. The sun was out, and it was going to be a week of hot sun. They were heading out to a cabin in the middle of nowhere that had its own picturesque lake you could sail, swim, or just relax by—or at least that’s what the email said.
“This is an all-you-can-eat breakfast, isn’t it?” Debbie said, glancing around at the counter full of bacon, eggs, hash browns, beans, black pudding, and everything else that you would expect.
Paul nodded, although he knew the answer was rhetorical, she had told him this very detail no less than twenty times before.
He watched his wife head off to the counter, watching her movements like some sort of sex-fiend. He couldn’t help it. Her tall body with a little added wiggle was a sight for sore eyes if ever there was one. He had been with skinny girls that barely ate a thing, who looked at cake either like they wanted to make love to it or with an intense hatred that bordered on irrationality. He had seen the clothes hang from their bodies, the fuss of shopping for smaller garments, and of course the hipbones, ribs, and clavicles too prominent to be arousing and almost painful to lie naked on.
Once again, he concluded Debbie was his ideal woman.
“Easy, tiger!” The now familiar voice of his friend at the next table exclaimed. “There are pornographic thoughts running through your mind, I can tell!”
“Yuh, only cause thee seem ting be true o’ yers, ye durty-ol-mon!” his lady friend scolded, before her dark brown arm slipped under the table, and Paul was turning back to his breakfast.
He thought that he may give it a few minutes before eating his sausage…
He smiled at that and then rubbed his chin, thinking of everything that they had been through.
And then his phone rang.
Still smiling and thinking erotic thoughts, he glanced at the caller.
His smile and his stomach both dropped at the same time.
It was her.
THE PLACE THAT NEVER EXISTED
Chapter Three
A s with all great British summers, there was an unexpected rain shower that appeared as if from nowhere and thankfully left just as quickly. The sun came back out almost apologetically, trying its best to dry up the wet sheen on the motorway. Paul to eased his foot off the accelerator of his bright Colorado Red Jeep Renegade. Debbie sat back with one foot up on the dash, her painted toes wiggling “hellos” at all of the cars they passed, and on the stereo, Alanis Morissette sung about her one hand which evidentially spent a short period of time in her pocket, while her other hand did all manner of different things. It was a clear sign that women can multitask, if not just for the subject matter of songs by Canadian singers.
“It’s a sad thing,” Debbie said, lowering her large sunglasses. “The demise of Ms. Morissette.”
Paul smiled to himself. Debbie loved music and loved even more the trivia behind it. “Okay, I’ll bite,” he said, still tapping the steering wheel to the beat.
“Alanis was the pioneer of Girl Power, not the bloody Spice Girls. Think about it. She was screaming out ‘You Oughta Know’ in 1995 months before the Spice Girls knew what they wanted.”
“Hmm.” Paul grinned. “You said demise? But I’m not sure the Spice Girls can be accused of that, can they?”
“Well, here is my point: Alanis was serious, she also had Meredith Brooks singing that song, ‘Bitch’, but the Spice Girls turned the ‘Independent Woman’ into some sort of cartoon-slash-comic book debacle. They had that God-awful film that made Cliff Richard’s movies look like cinematic masterpieces.”
“Interesting. But Alanis Morissette has still been releasing albums, I believe?”
“Yes, a new one this year, but that is not the point. Who knew? Only us loyal fans! Thank goodness for Beyoncé.”
“I didn’t know you liked all of that booty-shaking stuff.”
“Trust you to associate an independent woman with her butt-shaking!”
“I am nothing if not observant.”
“Clearly. And for your information, it’s not her music I like but what she believes in.”
“Strong black women?”
“Now you are being facetious.”
Paul drummed on the steering wheel before adding, “What about Madonna?” His glance towards his wife saw in her raised-eyebrows this was not an acceptable answer. Had he missed this gesture then the sound resembling, humph, would add the clarity required.
He grinned before Debbie then said, “If you say Miley-bloody-Cyrus, then this marriage is in serious danger of being annulled!”
Paul jumped into the fast lane to overtake a VW Golf that felt the need to sit in the middle lane for no apparent reason. “I was going to say Pink.”
Debbie mulled this one over before replying, “Pink? Hmmm, yeah, I’ll give you that one.” Then the conversation was lost as Elton John started singing goodbye to a yellow brick road, and the newlyweds were both singing along to it. Separate memories snapped to the forefront of their minds by this singular musical trigger. It was a song they had heard on the radio one day sat out in the garden together when their love was still new, and both of them connected with this happy memory, but also connected were two other separate memories. Debbie thought of a time as a child laid on the sofa. The 1973 hit had been on the radio as her father brought her in soup and surprised her with a doll that had been made famous on the television. The little things he did to put a smile on his little princess’s face. She remembered this time with warmth and comfort, and equally with the happiness that she later felt on that sunny spring day in the garden. Paul remembered the time from college in a smoky bar he frequented, slamming back Mad Dog 20/20 and pints of Diesel in true decadent student style, while feeding the jukebox pound coins to make the current girl of his desire sing and dance. She was a massive Elton John fan, and soon this song went from flirting in the bar, to raunchy dancing, to giggling and fiddling with bra straps, discovering that some unfasten from the front. The relationship would last a year before petering out through nobody’s fault, but somewhere within that relationship, this one particular song held tight the fun and excitement of their whole time together, locked in a seal never to escape and unleashed only to Paul, every single time he heard that song played. But if ever asked by Debbie, he would only mention the feel of grass, the bright flowers in bloom and her company on that lovely spring day in the garden.
“You want a coffee?” Debbie asked, when The Pixies were teaching them about numbers in a song about a monkey going to heaven.
“That’s a good idea. Taunton Deane Services is about sixteen miles away. I can almost smell the coffee in the air!”
“Hey, woul
dn’t it be funny if that guy from this morning was there?”
“What, Reggie?”
“That’s the one.”
“Only at the Services. Imagine if he was staying in the next house, he and his lady friend.”
“What a character!”
Before they knew it, they were pulling into the car park finally finding a space nearer to the petrol station than the actual Services.
Like a lot of the service stations nowadays you could get your Costa as a takeaway just outside, or you could go in and queue up. The couple decided to take the coffee away and utilise the cup holders that Paul had paid extra for.
“I’m just gonna pee,” Debbie said. “I’ll see you back at the car.” Paul nodded, holding both cups and the cakes they had suddenly decided they just couldn’t live without.
Paul looked ahead over the tops of all the cars to find theirs. He squinted as the sun was at its highest and not helping his vision one bit. This wasn’t helped by something smaller suddenly appearing out of nowhere right in front of him. It was only a small collision, but the child of about nine years old fell to the ground like he had been shot by some sort of terrorists and then proceeded to roll around like his arms and legs had been removed in the act.
“What the fu—” Paul managed to stop himself, noticing the child.
The child then stopped rolling and looked up. “You wanna watch where ya going!” he sneered, almost nonsensically.
Paul wasn’t sure that he had ever heard a child sneer before. He wondered whether this was the beginning of an insurance scam. Kids were cunning and wily nowadays.
“I could say the same to you, sonny,” Paul replied, not sure why he had felt the need to add sonny to the end.
“All right, no need to be a wanker, is there?” The response was shocking.
“Nice language!” Just then a woman appeared.
“Giles, are you all right?” She seemed ever so worried. Paul wasn’t sure why, the kid appeared to have bigger balls than expected of a child his age.