by Gary Kemble
‘Did you meet that woman?’
Harry flashed on Mistress Hel lying naked on his bed.
‘Yeah. Well, no. I don’t know. I met a woman.’
‘Harry, you’re the award-winning journalist, right?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Well . . .’
‘Her name is Lily Sweeney. Also known as Mistress Hel. She says she has nothing to do with the deaths. That men are basically led by their dicks and she can’t take responsibility for that.’
‘Hmm. She has a point there. Do you believe her?’
‘About the dicks, possibly. But the other stuff. I know it’s cliched, but I don’t believe in coincidences.’
‘Me neither.’
‘She, ah, she also caught me breaking into one of her client’s cars.’
‘What!’
Harry gave her the short version of the Don Clack stakeout.
‘Harry!’
‘Yeah, I know. So, she’s warned me to keep out of her way.’
‘That’s probably good advice. You stay away from her.’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Don’t!’
Harry laughed for the first time in a couple of days. It felt almost as good as the sunlight on his face.
‘What else is going on?’ she said.
‘Why does something have to be going on, Sandy?’
She didn’t reply. She knew when to wait.
‘Bec and I had a fight. Well, it’s more of a cold war. I got called out on a job on Saturday night, halfway through our dinner . . .’
‘Let me guess, to visit this Mistress Hel character?’
‘Yep.’
‘Harry . . .’
‘I know, but I had to go. I’ve texted her, called her. She’s not replying. She doesn’t want to see me.’
‘Again, this is the award-winning journalist? Apply as much effort to her as to your work, and you’ll sort it out.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Sandy sighed. ‘You’ve broken into some guy’s car, you’ve hidden outside some woman’s house. Maybe try that with Bec. Wait for her outside work, with the biggest bunch of flowers you can carry.’
‘I dunno . . .’
‘Harry. I don’t know if this is exactly what the spirits are telling me, but I feel like you’re at risk of losing her.’
Harry shook his head. ‘Is that the spirits, or you?’
‘Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.’
Harry sighed. ‘Well, I’d hate to ignore the spirits.’
‘They’ve saved your life on more than one occasion, if I remember correctly.’
‘Yeah. Fair call. Okay, okay . . . just stop nagging me about it.’
‘Sure. But I’m going to be asking you how it went next time we speak. Take care, Harry.’
Harry ended the call and returned to the table, which now felt colder, after being out in the sun. He picked up the laptop and moved to the front steps, balancing it on his knees.
He looked back over his shoulder to the hallway. No shoes. There were never any shoes.
‘She’s just got into my head, that’s all,’ he muttered, and returned to work.
Time dragged. His mind kept lapsing, and he’d have to rewind the audio and listen again. But it wasn’t Bec he kept returning to, it was Lily ‘I love it when you call me Mizz’ Sweeney. Her shoes outside his bedroom. No, not her shoes. There were no shoes. He wondered if she dated. Despite the cold, Harry found himself sweating. He forced himself to think of Bec. He would go out and get her some flowers. He’d suck it up. He imagined himself buying the flowers, taking them to her work, just as Sandy had suggested. But when he arrived at her work, somehow he was outside Mistress Hel’s place.
He moved the computer off his lap and returned inside. Had a shower to clear his head, but instead of clearing it he found himself thinking of what Mistress Hel would look like in the shower, water flowing down her perfect body.
He stared at himself in the mirror. ‘Stop it!’
Harry felt his tattoo burning again. He needed to sort this out. It was bullshit. Just some stupid crush. That’s all it was. It was this fascination with the unknown.
Harry paused, razor halfway to his face. He had a moment of clarity. The unknown. The best way of dealing with this was to make it known.
Harry finished shaving quickly. He didn’t want to lose this thread. It was the only thing that had seemed to make sense in his head all day.
Towel wrapped around him, he went to his room and found his wallet. Rifled through it looking for the card with the number scratched on the back. Reached for his phone. His heart pounded in his chest.
It rang ten times. Harry felt this absurd feeling of sorrow and panic that she wouldn’t answer.
‘Hello?’ She seemed to be talking through a smile. Deep, soft, yet with a firm edge. Harry had this weird feeling that she knew it was him, even though he blocked his number.
‘Lily?’
‘No . . .’
Harry felt another blast of panic.
‘This is Mistress Hel. Who am I speaking to?’
‘This is Harry. Harry Hendrick.’
Pause. ‘Harry Hendrick?’
He knew she was toying with him, yet he couldn’t control himself. ‘I . . . we . . . I saw you the other night . . . I’m the journalist . . .’ He felt like he was in primary school, asking a girl out on a date.
‘Oh, yes. Mr Hendrick. What can I do for you?’
‘What happened with Jeff Stafford?’
A pause. When she spoke again, there was an edge to her voice. ‘Sorry, who?’
‘You know who. He . . . he crossed you, or something. Wouldn’t do as you wanted, so you had him killed.’
‘Oh, Mr Hendrick. You really should move into fiction writing.’ Another pause. ‘Do you want to come see me again, is that what all this is about?’
Harry blinked. He saw her lying on his bed, naked. He saw her in her stockings, walking away from him.
‘Have you been thinking about me?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Well, I’m a busy lady, Mr Hendrick. You’ll need to make an appointment. It’s five hundred for half an hour.’
‘What!’
He felt as though she was smiling. ‘You heard me.’
Harry hissed in frustration. He was hard, in spite of himself. ‘Fine.’
Mistress Hel chuckled down the line. Harry felt sick. Sweat dripped off him.
‘You need to beg me.’
‘What?’
‘Beg. Me.’
Harry saw himself hanging up the phone. At the same time he said, ‘Please, Mistress, please will you see me again?’ He rubbed the back of his neck, where the tattoo now ached.
She sighed. ‘There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?’
‘I’ll be over in about half an hour.’
Mistress Hel laughed, so loudly Harry had to pull the phone away from his ear. ‘My! You are the eager one. I’m busy, Harry. A little tied up, if you get my meaning.’
He pictured her in her playroom. Somehow, he doubted she was the one who was tied up.
‘I’ll check my calendar, and I’ll text you when I know when I can fit you in, okay?’
‘Sure.’
The line went dead. Harry swooned against the bed, pummelled by a mixture of relief and dread. His towel slipped off his body.
He pulled his clothes on quickly, ignoring the desire burning in him. For the first time that day he could think clearly. He thought of Bec and experienced an overwhelming ache of warmth for her. He smiled, thinking of her response when he turned up at her work with the flowers.
By the time he headed out the door, the phone call with Mistress Hel seemed like nothing more than a bad dream.
CHAPTER 21
Harry waited outside Bec’s work, big bouquet of roses and cornflowers gripped in one hand. He’d changed into his charcoal suit and white shirt, because he knew Bec liked it. He wished he’d thought to
wear his coat, as he turned his back to the wind.
On the drive into the city he’d thought about Mistress Hel but there was none of the compulsion he’d felt before. The events of that morning seemed like a fever dream. Harry started to think about the prospective appointment with Mistress Hel, and his heart skipped, but then he pushed it away. It was just a follow-up interview.
Harry checked his watch. Men and women in smart business clothes streamed out of the building, checking their phones and reaching for cigarettes. Harry watched as Bec descended the escalator from the mezzanine level. She removed her glasses and put them in her smart leather attaché. Harry tried to gauge her mood but her face was impassive. As she reached the ground floor and headed for the doors, one of her colleagues called out to her. Bec turned and smiled, her face lighting up. Harry felt like he was on his first date. Not his first date with Bec – his first date ever. He took a deep breath to calm himself.
‘Showtime.’
He walked to meet her, holding the flowers out in front of him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
She took the flowers and smiled. Harry touched her arm, and she pulled him to her. They kissed, squashing the flowers between them.
‘I really am sorry,’ he said.
She kissed him again. ‘Oh, Harry.’
They parted. Harry felt warm, filled up. Bec admired the flowers.
‘They’re beautiful,’ she said.
‘Here,’ Harry said, carrying her attaché so they could hold hands. The day didn’t seem so cold anymore and, even though it was a Tuesday, the city seemed alive with possibilities.
‘Do you want to get something to eat?’ he said.
Bec pulled him to her again, her mouth brushing his ear. ‘How about we just go home and fuck?’
* * *
After clumsily kissing and staggering through her front door, Bec unbuttoned Harry’s shirt. He slipped his jacket off, letting it fall to the floor, and Bec yanked his shirt over his shoulders. Harry kicked the door shut and Bec pushed him against it. She kissed him hard on the lips, holding his arms. She smelt of perfume, sweat and excitement. Their mouths still joined, he grabbed her arms and they shuffled into the dining area, until she bumped up against the table.
Bec ripped the chair out of the way so hard it toppled and clattered on the floor. She spread her knees apart, her skirt riding up her legs, and pulled Harry to her. He could feel her heat, rubbing against him. She undid his pants. The soft material dropped around his ankles and he stepped out of them. He pulled down his boxers.
Harry felt the absurd need to apologise again.
‘Bec, I just wanted to . . .’
She silenced him with her mouth, then reached down, pulling her undies to one side and guiding him into her.
‘Jesus, you’re so wet!’ he said.
He slid into her as she leant back on the table, sighing. Harry drove his cock into her, again and again. He expected to finish quickly. But every time he felt he was close, he saw Mistress Hel in his mind. Guilt washed over him.
Bec came, grinding against him. ‘Come, Harry. I want your come inside me.’
Harry thrust hard into her, got to the edge, couldn’t finish. He pulled her up off the table.
‘Get to the bedroom,’ he said.
She walked to the bedroom, removing her blouse and skirt on the way, and lay on her belly. He followed her, slipping his shoes and socks off. He yanked her undies off and spread her legs. Harry was sweating, skin tingling, delirious with lust as he slid into her again. Bec writhed against him. Time and again, Harry hit the edge, but there was no release. Finally, exhausted, he pulled out, throbbing and hard.
‘I can’t,’ he said, sliding onto the covers. ‘Sorry.’
She faced him, still panting and gently slapped his cheek. ‘Don’t . . . ever . . . apologise . . . for that.’ She pulled him close and they kissed again.
They pulled off their remaining scraps of clothing and glided under the covers. Bec dozed a little, but Harry lay staring at the ceiling, his whole body vibrating. He rolled his shoulders to try to relieve the headache he could feel building in his temples. He lifted his head and looked down. Still hard. Jesus, it was like he was eighteen again. There was a dull ache in his stomach. Harry wasn’t touching Bec and yet he could feel her firm breasts, soft skin, her wet pussy. It was as if he was touching her all over, with every part of his body. He tried to think of something else.
He thought of Johnny, and everything he must’ve been through at the hands of Marcus Wilson and the other predators. He thought of Zak Godwin, eating pieces of mirror until it tore his insides apart. He thought of Anthony Gillespie, the hapless contractor who’d fried a friend because . . . because . . .
You need to beg me.
Oh shit.
But as soon as he thought it, the memory popped out of his mind, pushed away by thoughts of his beautiful girlfriend. He imagined her tying him down, riding him until he begged for mercy. Maybe that’s what he needed. Maybe that’s what all this was about.
After a while, Bec reached out for him.
‘Oh! What’s going on?’
‘I want you to ride me. Hold my hands and ride me.’
‘Oh. Okay. I’ll get some lube.’
She climbed on top of him, smiling. The light was fading out of the sky now. Shadows claimed the room. Bec slid over him, and he groaned in pleasure and pain. She leant her body close to his and pressed her breasts against his chest. He felt her heartbeat. She reached behind her and guided him into her.
In that first moment, the sensation was so pleasurable he thought he might come. His whole body tensed . . . then nothing. Bec reached down and held his wrists, then bucked her hips, slowly at first, then faster and faster. She closed her eyes, bit her lip as she focused on the sensation.
‘Is this what you want, huh?’ she whispered, then bit Harry’s earlobe.
‘Yeah, uh, yes!’
Bec rolled her hips back and forth, rubbing the head of his cock. Her nails dug into the soft flesh of his wrists. Time and time again he felt the muscles in his cock contract, but there was no release, only the increasing ache in his abdomen. Eventually, it was pure pain, and still he was hard.
Finally, Bec slumped against him, then slid off him, panting and sweaty.
‘You’ve worn me out!’ She trailed a finger across his chest. ‘It’s okay, you know. That you didn’t come.’
Harry couldn’t think of what to say. ‘I’m just stressed, with work.’
His phone buzzed. It was like a bolt of electricity passing through him. He jumped out from under Bec’s grasp and almost fell off the bed, reaching for his phone in his pocket. Bec laughed a little uneasily.
He looked at the phone.
I can squeeze you in next Tuesday.
Harry felt an insanely disproportionate feeling of release. Not coming. Something that transcended any physical feeling. He let out a shuddering breath. Felt on the verge of crying.
‘Harry? What is it?’
He shoved the phone back in his pocket.
‘Nothing,’ he said, realising too late that this was the worst possible thing he could say.
He reached for Bec, but she pulled away. She was backlit by the evening sky, a silhouette, yet he knew the expression on her face.
‘Nothing?’
‘It’s just something to do with work.’
She shifted away from him on the bed. He realised that he was no longer hard, but there was no relief there. It felt as though all the tension had been transferred to his abdomen. His head felt like it was being gripped by a vice.
‘The prostitute?’
‘She’s a dominatrix.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ Bec said, not sounding at all sorry. ‘I didn’t realise there was a difference.’
‘I’m trying to tee up another interview with her.’
Bec rolled onto her side and looked at him, frowning. ‘Did you not get what you need from her?’
Harry blinked. Remembered his d
isappointment when Lily Sweeney had opened the door dressed in casual clothes.
‘Something like that.’
His head pounded. Bec looked as though she was going to make something of it, then rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Just being stupid. Jealous.’
Harry felt guilt wash over him. He touched her face. ‘You have nothing to be jealous about. This woman is . . .’ Beautiful? Dangerous? Sensual? ‘. . . nuts.’
Bec rolled towards him, laying an arm over his shoulder. Her bare leg brushed his cock, which was hard again. She smiled.
‘Are you taking Viagra or something?’
Harry forced a smile. ‘No, it’s all you, babe.’
Bec closed her eyes. ‘Sorry, but this babe needs to sleep.’
She pulled him close. Harry closed his eyes, hoping for some relief from the pounding in his head and his gut. None came. Eventually, exhausted, he drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER 22
Harry took a deep breath, trying to quell the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he waited outside the headmistress’s office. The state school he’d been to had been all fibro and cinderblock. This place was sandstone and rosewood. The walls were lined with trophy cabinets, honour boards, thankyou certificates and oil paintings of past principals.
He yawned. The previous night had been one long fever dream. Bec riding him with his hands held over his head. Bec morphing into Mistress Hel. The handcuffs digging into his wrists until his skin was chafed and bloody. He’d woken up sweaty and hard. He’d tried to give himself some relief, but just ended up even more frustrated and sore.
‘Mr Hendrick?’ the secretary said, looking up from her computer. ‘Dr Rowe will see you now.’
Harry got to his feet, using his notebook to hide the fact that he was still hard. He opened the door and found Dr Agnes Rowe waiting for him. She was in her late fifties with silver hair pulled back from her face. She wore a smart pantsuit that was probably worth more than Harry had earned in the past six months. He thought of the bills still piling up on his fridge. Make that a year.
Like the antechamber, the office was all rosewood and lush carpet. There was the desk, a large picture window that looked out on the grounds, and a leather lounge. Outside, kids were playing football.