by steve higgs
‘Ben. What’s up?’
‘Nothing man, everything is sweet at my end. Shagged a totally hot Swedish chick last night and she was still in my house when I got in from golf, so I gave her another seeing to and then tossed her out. Let her get a shower first though.’
‘So, considerate.’
‘Nah mate, it was so I could get her phone and erase my number from it. She took it last night when I was chatting her up.’
‘But, she knows where you live Ben. Won’t she just come back when she discovers your number is not in her phone?’
‘They never have done before. It is of course possible, I suppose.’
‘You make me sick, Ben. I spent last night sat on a client’s sofa waiting for a Poltergeist and before that I watched a couple of episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer as research. Nearest I got to sex last night was when Bull licked my nose.’
‘When were you last at the gym?’
‘Er, Tuesday, no Wednesday evening.’
‘Were there hot girls in the gym?’
‘There are always hot girls in the gym, Ben. Going to the gym makes them hot generally.’
‘And did you approach any of the hot girls? Poor lonely ladies with nothing better to do on a Wednesday night than to go to the gym, hoping desperately that they can hone and tone their bodies to the point where a man, maybe any man, will take an interest. Did you try to save them from the perpetual struggle they must engage in just to make themselves attractive enough to warrant a man’s attention? No, you didn’t. You left them to suffer didn’t you, you bastard? Those poor girls had to drag themselves home again all alone. You could have spent the night making one of them feel special, helping her get clean again after the sweat of the gym.’
‘I don’t think it works like that for anyone but you, mate.’
‘And that is why you fail my little Padwan.’
‘Ben what did you call for?’ I asked impatiently.
‘To tell you I shagged a totally hot Swedish bird.’ clearly exasperated as if I was being particularly dense. ‘Anyway, get to the pub, I’ll be there in ten minutes.’ He hung up.
Git.
‘Boys! Get your collars on.’ I hollered through the house. I listened for the onrush of feet across stone floor.
Nothing.
‘Boys!’ I called again as the lazy little monkeys had failed to move. ‘Come along chaps it is pub o’clock.’ I called as I went through to the lounge to find their two tails still poking out of their bed covers. I hustled them up and out into the garden. Better to pee in the garden than the pub. Collars on, the three of us went out the door.
Friday Night at the Pub. Friday September 24th 1937hrs
The pub was a couple of streets over from my house on the main road through the village. If I went directly there it was less than five hundred metres and would take perhaps three minutes. It was a pleasant evening though so I took a long route to the pub as it meant that the chaps could exercise themselves and would arrive at the pub ready to curl up in a corner and sleep.
Bull and Dozer knew the way to the pub, which they demonstrated by increasing their pull on the lead as we neared it. They dragged me the last few yards through the car park, not that I was exactly kicking and screaming, and I pushed open the door to pass over the threshold and into the warmth of the Dirty Habit. I had taken time to make sure the dogs were walked and we arrived at 1937hrs which was neither early nor late.
Natasha was behind the bar as usual. Friday night was her shift and the chaps were already sat in the right-hand corner, their pints in varying stages of emptiness.
‘Alright, Fellas?’ asked Big Ben of the dogs, leaning down and ruffling their fur. This was usual routine for the dogs so I left them with the guys and headed to the bar.
‘My round, chaps.’ I announced as I passed them. Always good to make sure you get a round in early I find. Besides I had been trying and failing to chat up Natasha the bar maid since I moved into the village. She was busy serving a round to a waitress whose name I could not remember, but who would be taking drinks through to the restaurant area of the pub. I waited patiently and tried not to notice the four inches of cleavage Natasha was showing.
Natasha was something of a conundrum to me. She was intelligent and well-spoken, but so far as I could make out her only job was pulling pints in the pub and since she never talked about herself other than to tell you how she was feeling whatever other income or career she might have was a mystery. She always wore her tops low, her boobs high and regarded men that noticed them with a look that made them feel lower than pond scum. Furthermore, she was a delightfully willowy and well-polished size eight which only made her chest look larger. I found it hard as a single heterosexual man not to stare.
Anyway, at this point I realised I was in fact staring at her boobs and not being in any way surreptitious about it. I glanced back up at her face to find that Natasha was now staring at me and did not look as pleased as I might have liked.
‘Like them do you, Tempest?’ she asked, referring to her boobs.
Bugger! What is the correct response here? Bugger that. What is a response that will get me served, while maintaining a slim chance that I might still get a shag one day?
‘I’m not sure I have ever noticed them before, Natasha,’ I hazarded, scrambling for a safe position, ‘I generally find myself captivated by your fantastic eyes and rarely see anything south of them.’
Placated somewhat by my response, or perhaps just so disinterested in me that she didn’t actually care what I said, she took my order. She did smile though which I though meant I had dug myself out of the mire a little at least. I waited patiently for the drinks to be served which afforded me the chance to check my phone for messages. None. Not sure whether I felt this was good or bad, I decided to put the damn thing away and leave it there until I got home.
I glanced across at my drinking buddies sat around one of the small tables. The pub was old and beautiful, poorly lit in places, but typical of village pubs all over England. It sat on a corner on the main road running through the tiny village of Finchampstead, just outside Maidstone in Kent. After so many years in the Army living away from England there had been a yearning to return to the joys of village life and the simplicity of a good pub. This one had been in the same spot for centuries, surviving against competitors as other pubs had opened and subsequently closed over the many years. In the eighties, the small village had three pubs, but only the Dirty Habit remained despite the village population increasing when a new, small estate was built. The origin of the pub’s name was a play on words due to the Friary located just about a mile away between this village and the next.
I got back to the table with three pints of Kronenberg and returned to the bar for an ale and a cider. I took a spare chair and pulled it up between Jagjit and Ben.
“So, what now mate?” asked Jagjit. Jagjit and I had gone to School together, met on our first day still aged four and had attended each other’s Birthday parties until we left School. I joined the Army and left the country, Jagjit had stayed where he was and was still there every time I came home on leave. When I finally came home for good it was he that organised my homecoming. When I say homecoming I of course mean that we went for a curry and had a few pints. Jagjit worked in some kind of sales and judging by his cars and house he was making out okay. His parents were still alive and he lived with them. He had been married briefly before the lady in question ran off with his cousin and he had moved back home at that point. That was more than a decade ago and he steadfastly refused to entertain getting married again much to his mother’s annoyance. He had four siblings though and each had multiple children so I was not sure what her issue was. Much like Big Ben, Jagjit had offered to come on jobs with me and then, after I had not taken up his offer, he began pestering me. I think maybe Big Ben had made the stake outs and occasional confrontations sound more glamorous or adventurous than they are, but he wanted to join in so I had relented and Jagjit had helpe
d out on a couple of cases so far.
Across from me sat Hilary, whose actual name was Brian Clinton, but… well, it’s obvious really. He had been Hilary for so long that even his wife called him it. Her name was Suzanne and she very definitely wore the pants in their relationship. I wondered sometimes if she wore the penis also. Hilary was allowed out on a Friday night though because his wife said so. I had met him in the pub a couple of months ago and he was a solid member of the Friday night crowd now. Hilary was tall and thin and his hair was starting to recede, he was wearing an outfit probably provided by his wife that was designed to make him look as unattractive as possible while still being modern and almost trendy in appearance. His top was a Ralph Lauren polo shirt but in a colour that could best be described as portaloo blue. His jeans were probably expensive also, but looked too big for his skinny waist so the cinched-in belt gave the appearance of a potato-sack tied with string in the middle. He worked in telemarketing, a job in which he was clearly capable as he was some kind of senior manager, but one which he had never had anything positive to say about. His face bore a perpetually morose expression but he had the driest sense of humour I had ever encountered.
Finally, there is Basic. James Burnham is called Basic because God only loaded him with the basic package. He could breathe and walk and perform basic tasks, but that was pretty much it. He lived with his mum and we liked him because he made each of us feel like Stephen Hawkins’ brighter brother. He had shaggy black hair that hung down past his ears at the front and sides and back, his clothes were generally dirty because he tended to spill on himself, but he was clean enough because his mum looked after him. He had found employment stacking supermarket trollies when he left school and had been doing it ever since. Like Jagjit and Big Ben, Basic had asked if he could come along when I needed muscle. Muscle was something he had, as if nature had compensated for his lack of IQ with an abundance of strength. More Quasimodo than Adonis, Basic looked like he could have been the world’s greatest cave man and might be able to break rocks with his head. Just like with Jagjit, I had relented and brought Basic along with Big Ben and I a few weeks back when the extra person seemed an appropriate step. I worried afterwards what the person I had tracked the case in question to, and thus needed to have a word with, had thought as he opened his door to me with my two henchmen flanking me one on either side.
The conversation was paused when I returned with the beverages, but it never takes Ben long to turn it around to who he shagged last night.
‘Has anyone else noticed that African girls have really spicy tasting fanny’s?’ asked Big Ben as if that was a perfectly normal question. This drew a laugh from me and Jagjit but not Basic, who probably just didn’t get it, nor Hilary who had had just put his drink to his lips and snorted the sip he was taking in reaction. Unperturbed by Hilary still coughing beer Big Ben pressed on with his anecdote. ‘I met a girl from Uganda last week and had her come to my place for sex on Tuesday night. She was pretty good, so I let her stay over so I could shag her again in the morning, but then I was lying in bed Wednesday morning waiting for her to wake up and I was thinking that I had never eaten African food and never had a relationship with an African person so decided that if I licked her fanny it would somehow be bridging a cultural gap or something. Dunno, but it made sense at the time so I went for it. Well the first thing I noticed was that her pubes were trimmed nicely, but that the effect was like a brillopad. It was like I was rubbing the tip of my nose on a brillopad. It would have been perfect for getting the carbon off of weapon parts. The second thing was that I couldn’t get the taste out of my mouth.
Natasha approached at that moment clearing glasses so Big Ben picked up his pint and took a swig rather than continue his soliloquy on African minge flavour. The rest of us followed suit. Hilary had stopped choking and was wiping regurgitated liquid off of his hands, chin and the table in front of him looking as glum as ever.
Natasha moved further into the pub and Big Ben restarted. So anyway, she left after a spot of breakfast but after two cups of coffee, brushing my teeth three times and eating a bacon sandwich with extra brown sauce I can still taste her. I went to Tesco, bought mouth wash and gave that a go. I had convinced myself, after a further cup of coffee, that the taste must actually be gone and I was now imagining it. Then Vicky turned up, because we had planned to have lunch and sex, and when she kissed me she said’ You taste spicy. What have you been eating? So, I conclude gentlemen, that African girls have spicy fanny’s.’
‘I have to admit.’ I volunteered ‘That I have no experience from which to base an opinion’.
‘Me neither’ said Jagjit.
‘Sounds horrible.’ was the opinion given by Hilary. I suspected that Suzanne either didn’t go for oral sex, or really did but had instructed him to never speak of such things.
‘Hilary, it’s not horrible.’ said Big Ben. ‘Licking a fanny is bloody brilliant. Girls twitch and moan and they are generally so thankful afterwards that you can pretty much do what you want with them. You should give your Mrs a lick once in a while. It might give her a whole new attitude.’
‘Ben, I do not appreciate you talking about my wife’s vagina. It is the font from which my children have been born and is to be considered a non-topic.’
‘Mate. Seriously you need to stop worshipping the pussy. This is the crux of all your woes. That and the fact that you got married in the first place. Marriage crushes a man’s soul.’ This was not the first-time Big Ben had elected to rant on the poison of marriage.
‘You have no respect for women Ben, that is your problem.’ Hilary shot back.
‘I do respect them though. I respect them enough to tell them up front that I intend to ruin them for all other men and never call them again. Quite often they laugh because they don’t believe me, but what can I do about that? The way I see it, no relationship can last past six months and still be interesting. If I could get away with it, I would have them sign an agreement on the first date stating that we automatically break up at the six-month point if the relationship makes it that far. It would do away with daft aspirations of holidays in the sun, or gifts of jewellery just because they are a year older. Relationships go stale.’
‘How would you know, Ben?’ asked Jagjit ‘You have never had a girlfriend that lasted more than a few weeks.’
‘That’s not true. I dated a girl for three years once.’
There was a brief moment of silence while we tried to take in this revelation. ‘How old were you at the time, Ben?’ this from Hilary.
‘I was ten when we broke up, but don’t tell me it doesn’t count. I have had my heart broken just like everyone else and so now I have learned my lesson and it can never happen again.’
I needed to chip in my opinion. ‘I’m on the fence with this. A lot of what Ben says is true, relationships do lose their spark and the rampant sex bit does diminish.’
‘Is that true, Hilary?’ asked Jagjit. ‘You are the only married one here and no one else managed to score more than a couple of years when they did marry.’
We paused to give him time to answer, but as he opened his mouth to reply Big Ben butted in. ‘Come on mate, tell us when she last took it up the bum.’
Big Ben was laughing as he said it and didn’t duck as Hilary threw his beer mat to hit him in the head.
We all laughed.
Hilary picked up his pint for a swift draught ‘Ben, you are without doubt, and being completely fair to you, a complete and utter twat.’
‘You really are.’ Jagjit and I agreed
‘Acknowledged. But it does not appear to be affecting my chances. Hey. Natasha. How about a shag?’ he asked as she passed him on her way back to the bar with empty glasses.
‘I’d rather fuck a dog, Ben. You disease-ridden man-whore.’ Natasha dumped the tray of glasses on the bar and came back to pet the dogs. ‘Ben is a disease-ridden man-whore, isn’t he Bull?’ she cooed into his ear, cradling him on her ample chest and kissing his head.
‘Isn’t he? Yes, he is.’
Natasha placed Bull back on the floor and patted Dozer once more before going back to the bar and the customer waiting there. I watched her pert bottom wiggle away from me with a tinge of longing.
The conversation turned to work and rugby as it usually did and the beer continued to flow.
Call from Mrs Cambridge. Saturday September 25th 0730hrs
By 0730hrs on Saturday morning I had finished a good fifty-minute-long workout at the local gym and was heading home in the car with my muscles warm and twitchy. I had trained alone, which is less favourable and less enjoyable than training with a motivated partner, but very few wish to join me that early on a Saturday. Most of the people I knew would be still in bed and staying there for a lie in. I had no set hours though, just tasks that I needed to complete and avenues to pursue in order to solve cases so I could a lie in anytime I felt the need.
I got a shower and threw on a pair of jogging bottoms and a zip-through hoody. Breakfast was rolled oats in skimmed milk and a banana which was boring but healthy and the slow release carb would keep me going until mid-morning. The boys vacuumed up a bowl of kibble each and ran out into the garden, tiny legs feverishly propelling them across the lawn to chase away the pigeons. Content that they had secured their territory from aerial invaders they snuffled off across the grass and into the shrubbery to look for frogs.
There were still a lot of people on my list of people to interview, however the phone rang before I could consider whom to speak with first.
‘Blue Moon Investigation Agency. Tempest Michaels speaking. How may I help you?’ Professional, right?