Dangerous Lady

by Cole, Martina

  She stared into her glass of wine. What was she worried about anyway? Michael wasn’t involved with anything like that. And drugs? Never!

  But a little nagging voice at the back of her mind kept reminding her of the way he had blown up the taxi rank after Anthony died. A little voice was whispering: ‘They all work for Michael now.’

  She pushed the thoughts firmly from her mind, forcing herself to concentrate on what Terry was saying. All the while icy fingers were touching the back of her neck - ghostly reminders of the past. Later on, when they left the restaurant arm in arm, she shivered. Terry pulled her closer to him.

  ‘I want you, Maura.’

  ‘I want you too, Terry.’ And she was surprised because she meant it. At this moment she wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.

  ‘Really?’ His voice was husky with longing.

  ‘Yes . . . really.’

  ‘Oh, Maura, you don’t know how much I wanted to hear you say that.’ He clasped her hand and pulled her to his car. ‘Come on, before you change your mind.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You’ll find out.’

  She felt the thrill of sexual anticipation sweep over her body, wiping everything from her mind except Terry, herself, and their need.

  Inside the car he kissed her, long and hard. He fumbled in his pocket and took out a key.

  ‘Do you see this?’ Maura nodded. ‘Well, it’s a key to a flat in Islington. I rented it today. Not for this, Maura, I swear. But to be nearer my job. All that’s in it is a bed and a camping stove, but it’s home for us . . . if that’s what you really want.’

  Maura loved him just for those words. He wasn’t trying to force her into anything.

  ‘I want to go to your flat in Islington, Terry.’

  He kissed her again and then started up the car. Tonight was his lucky night.

  On the way to the flat, Terry had stopped and bought a bottle of wine. Maura sat nervously on the edge of the big double bed while he opened the bottle and brought her a glass. She took it from him. The bedroom had large bay windows covered with grubby nets. Grantbridge Street was the centre of bedsitterland. Even now, record players and radios could be heard. Occasionally a shout or a loud laugh broke the gloom. There was no light in the bedroom, only the moonlight and the subdued glare of the streetlights outside the window. Maura was glad. She drank the wine and placed the empty glass on the floor by the bed. Terry walked out to the kitchen, talking as he moved.

  ‘It doesn’t look much now, I know, but you wait until I’ve finished it - decorated it, I mean. Hey, why don’t you help me? We could go to Camden Market together and pick out some furniture.’ He walked back into the bedroom with the bottle of wine. ‘What do you say?’ His voice was eager.

  Maura caught some of his enthusiasm. ‘I’d love it.’

  He refilled her glass and gave it to her.

  ‘Look, Maura, you don’t have to sleep with me, you know.’ His voice was caressing. ‘I’ll understand if you’re not ready.’

  She looked up. In the half-light he looked boyish. She traced the contours of his face with her finger.

  ‘I am sure, Terry. In fact, I’m positive!’

  He sat on the bed beside her and kissed her gently. ‘Well, as long as you’re sure.’

  He stood up and removed his shirt. Maura watched him, fascinated. The muscles of his arms and chest were rippling as he moved and she felt a hot flush creeping over her body. She took a deep breath and slipped off her coat. The room was not very warm and she felt goosebumps on her arms. Her dress fastened up the front and she began to undo the buttons. She could sense his eyes on her and felt a sudden bashfulness. She had never in her life undressed in front of a man - not even a doctor. She came to the last button and, plucking up all her courage, slipped the dress off her shoulders and let it drop to the floor.

  Terry watched her. His throat was dry and his breathing heavy. Standing there in the moonlight in her underwear she looked magnificent. Her breasts were huge - like giant orbs in the confines of her bra, spilling over the top like overripe melons. He couldn’t believe his luck. She was like a larger than life fantasy that had just come true. He dragged his eyes from her breasts to her long legs. He was surprised at how small her waist was. She was like some voluptuous painting by Titian. He could feel himself hardening.

  He slipped off his trousers and went to her. Putting his arms around her back he unhooked her bra, letting her opulent breasts free. He pulled the brassiere from her body and dropped it on to the floor. Instinctively her arms crossed over her chest. He gently pulled them away, staring down at her body. He groaned.

  ‘Oh, Maura. You’re beautiful . . . You’re so beautiful!’ He pressed his lips against her nipples and she jumped. She could feel them hardening under his tongue and was caught between pure ecstasy and an urge to run from the room. Her heart was hammering in her breast and her breathing was irregular. She could feel herself panting. He squeezed both her breasts together and licked and chewed on her nipples, sending delicious waves of euphoria through her. He pulled her gently on to the bed. They fell together, their arms and legs entwined. He loomed over her.

  ‘I love you, Maura. God, I love you.’

  If he never said it again, the way he had just expressed himself to her would last for the rest of her life. She felt his fingers hook into either side of her panties, and as she felt him pull them down her body she closed her eyes. It was finally happening. The mystery of man and woman was about to be unfurled before her. She bit on her lip, an exquisite agony tearing her apart. Her natural shyness was trying to overcome a new, bigger, and more intense feeling.

  Unaware that she had even done it, Maura opened her legs wide. As his tongue flicked over her thighs she groaned out loud. Slowly, he pushed his forefinger inside her. She was like a juicy peach.

  Terry was in a fever of excitement. Who would have dreamed she would be so fiery the first time? She was like an experienced woman, the way she moved her body and opened herself up to him. He loved everything about her - the way she looked, the way she acted - everything. He especially loved the smell of her.

  Maura felt him push himself up on his arms. She opened her eyes, and as he straddled her watched his swollen member trying to push into her. Her eyes opened wide. It was too big, surely? She pushed her elbows into the bed to pull herself up, but she was too late. She felt a tearing pain as if Terry pushed against some kind of obstacle. Then she felt a wave of dizziness as he slipped right up inside her. As he moved backwards and forwards she thrust her hips up to meet him at every stroke, a jumble of feelings and emotions raging through them both. Suddenly, she felt a shuddering somewhere in her bowels. It seemed to be slowly creeping into her groin and up . . . up into her stomach. She arched her back, and as she lost control in the final throes of orgasm felt Terry biting on her breasts. She called out . . . All self-consciousness seemed to dissolve in this all-encompassing feeling. She was aware that she was wailing and moaning, but she didn’t care. This feeling was too good, too exciting to let go of. She felt her legs grab Terry’s thighs and was trying desperately to push him further inside her.

  Above her Terry was watching her, fascinated. As he felt his own orgasm beginning to pulsate he felt her legs gripping him and drove his penis into her as hard as he could, bursting inside her like a dam.

  They lay together, their bodies bathed in sweat, their hearts beating a tattoo on each other’s chests. Terry kissed her gently, little tiny kisses, all over her face and neck. He licked her throat and tasted the saltiness of her.

  ‘That was fantastic, Maura.’

  She lay beneath him, shy again, amazed at her own feelings.

  ‘Thank you, Maura. For letting me be the first. And if it lies with me, I will be your last. You’re my girl now. You’ll always be my girl.’

  He kissed her again and was surprised to find that she was crying gently. He was immediately concerned. ‘I didn’t hurt you too much,
did I?’

  ‘No, you didn’t hurt me. I’m crying because I’m happy. That’s all.’

  He gathered her into his arms and held her tightly. He had promised himself that he would not get too involved with her, but at this moment he could no more have parted from her than he could have cut his own throat.

  Maura felt the heightened awareness that comes with lovemaking. That feeling of infinite perception that envelops lovers in its embrace. She was acutely aware that she had burnt her boats. That she now belonged to the man lying with her. That her family had taken a back seat in her life. But she was also aware that no matter how she felt, her family would never allow her to relegate them to second place. The fact that Terry was a policeman would be enough for Michael. He would never countenance her having an association with one. He would take it as a personal affront.

  She felt Terry’s hand running over her body, kneading her breasts and shoulders, and was caught up in a feeling of presentiment. They were doomed and she knew it. She closed her eyes tightly, praying to her God to take pity on them. To help them find a way out of the morass they had jumped into. She wished fervently that they might be allowed to be together, that nothing would happen to make them part. And even as she prayed and wished, she knew, deep inside, that it was all useless. But with the foolishness of youth, she convinced herself that somehow, somewhere, there was an answer to their problem.

  Finally, she abandoned herself to him once again, the moonlight playing on their bodies as they loved each other with a strength that surprised them both. Their whispering and low moans echoed around the empty flat, like ghosts that danced on the ceiling with their shadows.

  Maura had never dreamt that she could feel like she felt at this moment. She had indeed burnt her boats. But she smiled while she did it.

  Chapter Nine

  Benjamin Ryan pushed his wife out of his way. He was drunk as usual, but today, instead of his normal boisterous drunkenness, he was in a violent, vindictive frame of mind.

  Sarah watched him warily. Ever since Anthony’s death her husband had suffered these fits of depression. His face was bloated and red-veined. His large nose was reddened and bulbous. His dark blue eyes, inherited by all the children, were now listless, the whites a sepia colour, like an old photograph. He looked terrible. His once black hair was grey, hanging across his face in greasy tendrils. Sarah shook her head sadly. He was grey-skinned and the weight that had once given him an air of affability had dropped off him, leaving only a large beergut that hung offensively over his trousers. He stalked across the bedroom to her. Sarah put her hands up to her face through years of habit. The chances were that she was going to get a good hiding. She braced herself for the blows.

  ‘I want some money, Sar . . . I’m warning you.’

  His breath was sour and she tried to turn her face away from him. He grasped her chin with his hand and pulled her face towards him. He grinned at her, showing yellowing teeth. ‘What’s the matter then? Turning your face away from me these days?’ He squeezed her chin in his large hand, causing her to flinch. ‘That’s right, my lovely . . . You be scared of me, because if you don’t give me some of the money you’ve got stashed, I’m gonna beat you all around this room. Now where is it?’

  Sarah was trying desperately to pull herself away from him. He pulled his right arm back and punched her in the stomach. He used such force she fell to her knees, winded.

  He grabbed her hair, forcing her head up to look at him. ‘That’s just a taster, Sarah.’

  She nursed her injured stomach with her arm, feeling sick. She stared at her husband, and gathering all her strength she spat at him. She saw his lips draw back over his teeth.

  ‘You old trout! I’ll bloody murder you for that.’

  As his fist was raised to begin his beating she screamed, holding her arms over her head. His first punch hit her on her wrist, causing her to cry out in pain. Somewhere above the din she heard the bedroom door opening, then she felt Benjamin being pulled away from her bodily. It was Garry and Lee.

  Lee felt a rush of emotion he had never known before. Seeing his mother kneeling there while his father beat her caused him to lose control. He was aware that he was punching and kicking his father. He could feel the surge of adrenaline as his arms and legs came into contact with Benjamin’s body. He could easily kill this man who had fathered him. Eventually Garry pulled him away, forcing him to sit on the big double bed. His breathing was loud and noisy. The effort he had used on his father had exhausted him. He felt his mother’s arm go around his shoulder. He grasped her rough workworn hand. His knuckles were bleeding.

  Benjamin was too drunk to feel anything. He lay on the bedroom floor staring up at a picture of Our Lady’s Ascension into Heaven. Her pale blue and gold gown was swimming before his eyes. He could taste blood in his mouth. Running his tongue around his gums, he found that one of his few remaining teeth was loose. Garry looked at his father with a feeling of disgust coupled with distress. The older man’s woeful face was like an open book. All the setbacks, troubles, humiliations and causes for discontent were there for anyone who wanted to look. Only nobody ever wanted to. Even his own sons regarded him as an object of derision, tempered with a love that came more from duty than any feeling of filial affection. Garry sighed.

  ‘Help him up, son. We’ll put him to bed to sleep the worst of it off.’ Sarah’s voice was flat, resigned. Before the boys had grown up, she would have endured the beating; years of experience had taught her that it was preferable to giving him the money.

  Garry and Lee, calmer now, put their father to bed. Benjamin was pliable. He allowed his sons to strip him and bundle him under the covers. Within minutes he was asleep. The three went down the stairs together. In the kitchen Lee examined his mother’s arms and face. She shrugged him off.

  ‘I’m all right, Lee. Give it a rest now, for Gawd’s sake.’ She made one of her endless cups of tea.

  Garry took his and went back upstairs to his room. He placed the tea on his dressing table and went back to what he had been doing before his mother’s scream. He was making a car bomb. The main work had already been done in one of Michael’s lock-ups. Now he was perfecting the detonator. He took his glasses off the bed where he had left them earlier and slipped them on.

  Garry’s years of being the inventor of the family had paid off. Michael had taken his expertise and channelled it to his own advantage. Garry made everything, from Molotov cocktails to delayed-action devices for robberies or personal revenge attacks. His natural misanthropy and lack of interest in possessions gave him the perfect temperament for an explosives manufacturer. In Garry’s mind there was no black or white, just fuzzy grey areas that he could interpret to his own advantage. Like Michael, he was a psychopath. He could champion causes with a fervour that amazed those around him. He could also see two sides to an argument, could balance the debate in his mind or that of whoever happened to be interested. But there was another side to him that even his own brothers did not realise. He would not stand for anyone or anything getting in his way. He had no real feelings about anyone, except his sister Maura. He was incapable of deep feelings or emotion. If Garry had a girl friend, she was his property. He would be jealous and moody. The girl always seemed to think this was because he felt deeply for her, but Garry felt the same way about his car or his record player. It was his. Until the time came when he tired of it.

  The bedroom door opened and Lee came in. ‘Mickey just phoned and said that we’re all to meet him at the club tonight. Nine-thirty, OK?’

  ‘All right, Lee. Thanks.’ Garry carried on with what he was doing. Lee walked out of the room. The earlier trouble with their father was now forgotten. In the Ryan code, if you didn’t mention it then it had never happened. When Benjamin had slept off his drink and emerged once again into their world he would be treated with the usual haphazard affection.

  Garry had finished his detonator and smiled to himself happily. He began clearing away. His room was so tidy, G
arry would know if anyone had been in while he was out. He had everything strategically placed.

  Like all the rooms in the house, this also had a religious print on the wall and a small crucifix over the bedroom door. Garry’s religious painting was of Jesus’s entrance into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. Jesus sat on a donkey, the marks of the stigmata on his outstretched hands, his face as always serene with a hint of sadness. Around him were crowds of people holding their palm leaves, expressions of ecstasy on their faces. The print was in beautiful pastel shades of blue and pink. Picking up the detonator, Garry went to the picture. Holding the device under the Donkey of Christ, he laughed softly.

  ‘Bang fucking bang!’

  Jesus still sat there, the yellows and golds of his halo shadowed by Garry’s body, still serene and still sad.

  Mickey, Geoffrey and Roy sat in the offices above their club, Le Buxom, in Dean Street. All three were wearing the usual dark suit, brilliant white shirt and thin black tie. It was their uniform. Michael’s tie had a grey stripe going through it horizontally. It was his way of being just that little bit different. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out noisily.

  ‘So what else have you found out then?’ He stared at Geoffrey.

  ‘Plenty. He’s a bit of a rogue, is old Hanley. He likes the gee gees for a start, and he’s not averse to a bit of skirt now and again either. Both expensive pastimes for old Bill. He usually goes round to the wives of convicted criminals offering them a bit of consolation.’

  Mickey laughed. ‘In return for a bit of the other, I suppose.’

  ‘Exactly. He now owes us about three hundred quid. He was betting quite heavily in our South London shops. I tipped the lads the wink to give him as much tick as he wanted, which they did. Now we have him right where we want him. By the short and curlies.’

  ‘Good work, Geoff. Arrange for him to come and see me next week. Another face would be to our advantage. Especially a prat like Hanley.’