by Colin Davy
The Devil’s Reflection
by
Colin Davy
A Wild Wolf Publication
Published by Wild Wolf Publishing in 2019
Copyright © 2019 Adrian Chamberlin
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters, and incidents, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales, or any other entity, is entirely coincidental.
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Chapter One
A romantic evening with a beautiful and witty woman, followed by copious amounts of fulfilling sex. Always an event to savour.
He must try it sometime, Gary thought.
After waking suddenly in a strange bedroom, the events of the previous evening returned to him in glorious technicolour. Colourful true, but definitely not glorious. Or any sort of romantic triumph. This was one night to be filed under ‘Learn from and don’t repeat.’
He lay perfectly still, reliving the evening and unwilling to disturb the sleeping woman beside him. Not content with drinking for England, she’d spent the time slagging off her ex. Unwilling and unable to interrupt, he’d let her whinge, concentrating instead on the anticipated sexual banquet.
As always, his optimism had climbed to dizzy heights before crashing down to reality. Now in the light of day, he wondered if there was something wrong with him? Did he always expect miracles? Unreal optimism based on ephemeral sexual attraction?
Glancing at the sleeping woman, he decided lust was nearer the truth. The beautiful girl of last night remained pretty, but in the morning light, he only worried about getting away. Her mouth sagged a little, her breath coming in nasal tones, and the unusually warm July had left sweat coating her naked body. His mouth felt dry but that was his own fault – a symptom of his failed attempt to keep up with her wine-guzzling.
Leaning across, he examined her lower body. The pubic hair pattern needed more work, he decided. Or else she should have left it intact. The ‘now you see me, now you don’t’ inner lips evoked interest, but a couple of hours post-orgasm - on his part anyway – the anticipation had faded.
Although her dark hair sprawled over the pillow, and her face remained as attractive as ever, it lacked the angelic look he’d seen the night before. Back in those magic moments when expectation held sway. On a more philosophical note, she had a good pair of tits.
He wondered whether to wake her, but the heavy breathing had changed to snores, and she hadn’t been impressed with his performance earlier. He guessed her sighs had been frustration rather than satisfaction, and she’d worn the grim look of someone having to make the best of a bad job.
Best settle for giving her a goodbye kiss and, assuming she didn’t wake, try to sneak off.
Nah! Forget the kiss, she might wake and produce unconvincing excuses for why this would be the first and last night they’d spend together. Even worse, she might not make excuses.
So much for the experiment of a dating app. “Don’t knock it until you try it,” Scott had advised.
For once, he should have resisted giving into impulse – it never ended well. But a combination of alcohol and boredom had convinced him. One day, he’d learn better. Well now he’d tried it. A disappointment and no mistake. A short cut to sex perhaps, but they were an ill-matched couple. He’d waited for her to quickly announce that, but no doubt she’d hoped sex would compensate. A disappointment for her too, so an embarrassed goodbye would help no-one.
At least, his escape was easier than expected. She continued to sleep deeply and her snores must have been genuine, because he was able to dress and disappear without her stirring.
Scrambling into the car, he felt a wave of dizziness. Was he over the limit? She’d drunk enough to sink the Titanic but he’d only trailed in her slipstream. And as wine wasn’t his natural tipple, he’d been a long way behind.
Taking a long breath, he started the car. The evening had been a wash-out, and he should put it down to a disappointing experiment. An ‘it’s not me, it’s you.” verdict.
He should, but he suspected the failure lay with him. At heart, he remained a romantic, he supposed, and although Scott meant well, his suggestion had always felt artificial. He should have voiced his worries there and then rather than go along with it. Not only had he wasted his own time, he’d wasted the woman’s too. And despite the irritation, at his own behaviour, he felt a twinge of sympathy for her. He’d been neither good nor considerate company.
With a sigh, he eased the car quietly towards the motorway.
He checked his watch. Not yet five o’clock, and though the Sunday morning sun shone warm and bright, the M62 was almost deserted when he reached it. He didn’t need the dark glasses despite heading for Liverpool and the low sun, but he slowed a little when he spotted movement on the hard shoulder.
The movement turned out to be a young woman, and when he neared, he saw her holding out her arm with a thumb raised. The woman looking flustered and desperate, with no sign of a nearby car. As he drove past, he slowed a little more.
A hitch-hiker? On a motorway? Crazy. Far more chance of a patrol car stopping than a driver. Perhaps that’s what she wanted, it’s what she deserved. Yet the brief look of panic he’d seen on her face worried him, and checking the rear-view mirror, he saw her waving frantically.
Shit! Although he took his foot off the throttle, he remained in two minds. The woman last night had wasted his time and he wanted to hurry home and catch up his sleep. Let someone else deal with her.
No, he decided, the nagging doubt would follow him home if he left her stranded. He’d stop briefly, if only to check he wasn’t taking his bad temper out on an innocent victim.
Braking slowly and pulling onto the hard shoulder, he watched her walk firmly towards him. Tall and slim with medium-length red hair, he put her age around the mid-twenties, a little younger than him. As she neared, he added another five years. She could be in her thirties.
She slowed as she neared, but whether through caution or tiredness was hard to tell. Hesitating at the passenger door, she waited until he opened it before leaning cautiously into the car and thanking him.
He nodded. “You’re welcome. What happened?”
Taking a hurried breath, she stared at him. Her distinctive blue eyes gave him a thorough examination before she finally nodded. Her face was very pale and when she continued to breathe heavily, he felt a spark of alarm. “I need a lift,” she said. “Please, it’s important.”
A strange accent, and he decided she wasn’t British-born. “Why?” he asked.
Ignoring him, she sidled into the passenger seat and began to fiddle with the seatbelt.
“Hey!”
She ignored him. Her clothes were well-cut if old-fashioned. Her green skirt reached to the knee, and she wore a tight green top that looked expensive and covered her small breasts without revealing much cleavage. Sweat beaded a face that wore no make-up, and he decided she was reasonably attractive without being a stunner. “Did you have an accident?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then wh
y are you here?” he asked. “Did you break down?”
She looked up. “Can I explain while we drive, please?”
He had little choice now she’d virtually imprisoned herself in his car, but he felt annoyed for getting in this position. A scam of some sort? It would serve him right. Yet the area remained deserted except for a large lorry thundering the other way. And her appearance didn’t suggest a prostitute. But who could tell? “Where did you come from?” he asked, letting his irritation show.
“When?”
He tried not to frown, her English might not be great and she suddenly sounded apologetic. “Just now,” he said in a softer tone.
Her smile caught him by surprise. A wide, relieved smile that showed perfect white teeth. Sitting back in the seat, she seemed to relax more. “It’s the where I’m going that interests me.”
An expensive call-girl? He doubted it, unless she specialised in unusual and illegal pick-ups. To be brutal, he thought she looked too ordinary and too respectable to be on the game, even if the exotic accent suggested otherwise. But he gradually relaxed, she looked calmer and no longer so threatening.
This pointless guesswork was going nowhere. Whatever had landed her here seemed destined to be a secret. She was obviously unwilling to explain her reasons for hitch-hiking, and that might be for the best. Yet her willingness to climb into a random car driven by a complete stranger was worrying. “Where to, then?” he asked.
“I’m a Southport girl,” she said.
He doubted that. Not with that accent, whatever it was. More like New England mixed with Dublin and Sydney. And if it was fake, it was well done. “Are you an actress?” he guessed.
She smiled and shook her head. “You’re cold, guess again.”
“A prostitute?”
He expected a reaction, but she took it calmly. “Anything but,” she said. “And you’re very cold now.”
“I give up.”
“Not yet, but you will.”
“Sorry?”
“I said you’ll understand soon.” When she turned to face him, he saw a fierce determination he’d not noticed before. “Please trust me,” she whispered, and for a second her face softened. Dropping a set of keys in his lap, she waited for him to pick them up. “Put them in your pocket,” she said. “I’ve no bag and I’ll only forget them if I put them down in here.”
“What …” He trailed off and squeezed them awkwardly into his left-hand pocket, thinking it was easier to comply than argue. No handbag? Had she been mugged?
“Thanks,” she said. “Thanks for trusting me, the last two drivers just accelerated past.”
After nodding, he began to drive; he was in no hurry, he supposed, but dropping her off would mean a longish detour up the M57. Could he compromise and drop her in Liverpool? Hardly - the trains wouldn’t be running for a while. The buses? He couldn’t remember the timetables. Sod it, he may as well take her to Southport, what could go wrong? She might accuse him of rape or sexual assault? He doubted it; there were much safer ways to earn money and she didn’t look or sound flaky.
But she did look worried, staying silent and curling back into the seat as if for protection. And she looked washed-out, her natural pallor reinforced by fatigue, and her sparse orange eyebrows disappearing into the snowy hinterland of her forehead.
As he neared Junction seven, they passed a tall white statue on the right.
“What’s that?” she gestured, screwing up her eyes and leaning forward.
“It’s a statue.”
She frowned. “It looks a bit … odd.”
“It looks innocuous close up,” he said. “But from a distance … yes, I know what you’re thinking.”
She looked back at him.
“It’s called the ‘Dream’,” he said. “There’s a face on the shaft if you get close enough, but the locals call it the ‘Dick of the North.’” When he checked her reaction, he saw only a tightening of her lips.
As he reached the M57 turnoff, she seemed to relax more and he found he did too. When she began to hum a tune slightly under her breath, he thought he recognised it, but the title wouldn’t come to mind. “We’ll be there in a few minutes,” he said. “Where exactly do you want dropped?”
She smiled. “I’ll tell you when we get nearer.”
“OK.”
This time, her smile reached her eyes. “I’m not taking you far out of your way, am I? Where do you live?”
“Liverpool,” he said. “The Duncan Docks”
“Oh, good, you can come back on the dock road.” Looking sideways, she watched him carefully. “My sister lives in one of those converted flats,” she said. “She moved in a month or so ago.”
“Oh.” Now he was committed for the next few minutes, he didn’t want to encourage too much conversation.
She took the hint, sitting quietly for a few minutes but when they approached the Fazakerley turn-off, she turned to face him. “It’s over-rated,” she said.
“What?” he asked. “Fazakerley?”
“No,” she said. “Sex. It’s over-rated. Not gender, I’m talking about casual sexual intercourse.”
He was startled; as much by the change of subject as by the polite terminology, but both caught him on the hop. He felt his stomach hollow out. What was coming?
She smiled again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to shock you.”
Yes, you did, he thought. That’s exactly what you wanted, and she’d succeeded. Had she smelt last night’s guilt on him somehow? Or had she been a recent victim of a sex attack? That could explain her current predicament. Staring into her eyes, he saw no pain or guile, only curiosity, but she’d made him feel uncomfortable. “Why say it then?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Idle conversation.”
Not that idle, he thought.
She sighed. “Sorry, I suspect I’m getting my words mixed up. I’ve not lived in this country very long.” She looked across at him. “Did it sound rude?”
“Not at all,” he lied. “A little unexpected, that’s all.”
“Sorry,” she repeated. “But it’s true, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“Casual sex is always unsatisfactory.”
He said nothing until he could overtake a couple of lorries who’d decided to hold hands up the slight slope ahead. “I can take it or leave it,” he said and saw her give a nod of confirmation.
“I thought so.” She sounded both confident and accusatory.
That annoyed him. Shallow he may be, but he hoped he wasn’t that easy to read. “I can drop you here if you’d prefer,” he said as they approached Switch Island.
She shook her head. “Southport itself will be grand,” she whispered.
Was she Irish? But that was no Irish accent he’d heard before.
“Tell me about yourself,” she said.
He looked around in surprise. “Not much to tell,” he said.
She gave a short laugh of derision. “I doubt that.”
Taking Dunning’s lane, he headed for the A565. Not much longer to put up with her ramblings, he hoped, she might be harmless but she was a touch barmy. Had she been dropped on the motorway by an irritated driver? “Why are you so interested?” he asked.
She turned to face him again. “If you’re going to be lusting after me for the foreseeable future, I need to know more about you.”
Eh? He was taken aback, but she must be joking, he finally decided. She wasn’t ugly, but then again, she was no calendar model, and he suspected she was a little older than him. When she smiled brightly and her eyes sparkled, he realised she wasn’t serious. But she was distinctly unsettling.
“Don’t be worried,” she said. “I know my limitations.”
Now he felt guilty. Even if he’d made no audible comment, she must have noticed his expression.
“Some people don’t like me,” she continued. “But they don’t tell me why. Is it my looks?”
“I doubt it,” he said quickly.
She stared fo
r a moment before nodding. “Thank you.”
Perhaps he was getting used to her now. But luckily, she became engrossed in her own thoughts until they neared Southport. There, she suddenly stirred. “Excuse me,” she said softly, before leaning gently forward and stretching her hand towards his trouser pocket. Reaching it, she probed inside.
He jerked back a little. “Careful” he called and tried to move away. “I’m driving.”
When she burrowed deeper inside, he instinctively swerved before managing to steady the car. “What are you doing?” he snapped.
She ignored him, gripping her keys and brushing her fingers against his testicles through the cloth. “Got them,” she said, pulling out the keys.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he shouted, feeling his cheeks warm.
“We’re nearly there,” she said quickly. “Slow down at those traffic lights.”
“Oh, I see.” He felt his face warm further and she must have noticed.
“Sorry,” she whispered “Did I touch your todger?”
He turned in surprise, yet she seemed completely untroubled. As if she was his partner and they regularly swapped such talk. And to be anatomically exact, she was wrong, but he decided there was little point correcting her. “I was driving,” he said. “You caught me by surprise. It could have been dangerous.”
“Ah, diddums,” she said.
He felt his face warm again. “Where to now?” It came out as a brusque order, but she only smiled
“Left at the lights” she said. “Then slow down.”
He followed her orders, stopping finally with relief.
Ducking out the car, she turned back to hold his stare. “That was very kind of you,” she said. “You’re a good man …” She waited patiently.
“Gary.” It was instinctive.
She nodded. “You’re a good man, Gary. My name’s Maria, now give me your phone number because I need to thank you properly.”
“No need,” he said. “I was happy to help.”
“No, give me your number,” she said firmly. “You do have a mobile?” When she opened the door again to lean into the car, he gave her the number without thinking.