by John Molloy
“Now, my slave, you do my bidding, remove all your clothing.”
He stripped to his underwear and stood and watched her as she removed her remaining vestments. Her stockings she rolled down and bending over, pulled them full length from each foot and draped them over the back of a chair. Her pale blue panties were slid down her shapely bottom in ever so slow and delicate movements, eventually being stepped on and kicked across the floor. Henry was naked now, torturously aroused and with the toy whip hanging from his hand. She took a step towards him rubbing her naked thighs against his she spoke not a word but dropped her bra to the floor. She took the whip from him and striking him soft blows across his buttocks bade him to lie flat on his face before the fire. She straddled him and with the warm scented oil from the bottles sprinkled liberally over his tanned muscled back and shoulders, she began her massage. Her small gentle but firm hands moved gracefully and firmly on his smooth unblemished skin; rippling muscles that felt erogenous to her touch. She moved her sensuous Mount Venus on his buttocks then fell moaning and crying onto his back. He could feel her hot panting breath on his neck. Then she rolled off him and lay on her back looking into his eyes. Then he got up to kneel, bent over her and stroked her glossy silken hair from her face. She pulled his head to her left breast; the hard protruding nipple in his mouth tasted to him like some sweet, hard ripened fruit. She stopped him mounting and entering her as she tightened her legs together. He stroked her body, now soft and smoothed by the scented oil. He moved to her naval kissing and licking her hot flesh and pulled her pubic tuft playfully with his teeth as he moved to her expectant lips. She squealed repeatedly like a willingly snared rabbit and after a while, she slowly drew his head away. He pulled her to a sitting position and sat before her. She glared at his erect manhood moving herself onto it and directing him into her. She screamed as he entered her, pulling her buttocks in two handfuls. She clung to him as her tongue probed and teased his mouth, then drawing back and putting a breast up to his mouth, she moved in a slow rhythmic motion until he felt her stiffen and claw his back.
“Now,” she shouted, “slap me hard,” he slapped her buttocks and she screamed, “harder” until she fell limp and he drove into her, releasing what seemed the flow of his life-force.
They lay exhausted before the hot flaming fire, in a soft embrace, eyes closing and opening to view the flickering and dancing shapes cast by the fire flames and fluttering candles. They were in a wonderful world of unreal dimensions; a world that can last for only a short time, and must fade away like a wisp of morning mist in the stark reality of being.
Henry spent much of the next three days at Vera’s: reading the daily papers and lunching out. Shopping, going into exotic shopping arcades he’d never dreamed existed. In the afternoon he’d light the fire before Vera arrived home. On the third day her breath was white steam in the chilled air as he opened the door to greet her.
“How was your day,” she murmured, rising on to tip toes to kiss his lips.
“Fine now that you’re home.”
She looked slightly concerned.
“Any news from the Yard?”
“Yes, I have a meeting with Vincent, Tom, and the Deputy Commissioner in the morning. They should know more about the importance of the ring and also have some news about his impending court appearance where his defense will be asking for bail.”
She took his hand and led him to the warm room. Seating him before the blazing fire, she went to the drinks cabinet.
“How about a glass of port before dinner?”
“Yes please. You know Vera, you’re a treasure.”
She handed him the generous glass of vintage port.
“I’m your little treasure, and you are my hero.”
He raised his glass.
“We’ll drink to that.”
Henry felt a strange mixture of relief and trepidation as he walked to Scotland Yard the next morning; it was bright and sunny with the frost still lingering in sheltered places. He went to Vincent’s office and Tom arrived in behind him. Vincent was standing with a file in his hand.
“Just a backup in case we’ve missed anything.”
Tom was also carrying his file on the case.
“And here’s my back up, he exclaimed, as he held it up.
Vincent noticed Henry’s silence and nervousness.
“Right, we’ll go and meet the demigod himself.”
The door to the Deputy Commissioner’s office door was ajar; Vincent knocked and walked in followed his two colleagues.
“Please be seated gentlemen.”
He sat at the desk which was covered with papers and open files. He pushed some of them aside but picked up one marked ‘important’. He looked at the three men before him. The wretched news he was about to convey was already apparent from the hang-dog expression on his face as he took a deep breath and exhaled loudly.
”I’m afraid the news from The Crown Prosecution is disappointing,” he paused, “and that’s an understatement.”
Henry shrugged his shoulders and fiddled with his tie, rubbing it between the fingers of both hands. He stared at the Deputy as a criminal would stare at a jury.
“I have their decision on the importance of the ring as evidence. They know when and where it was purchased. And they know it was bought by Henry. That has been verified by the shop in question. But the crucial part is where it was manufactured. That design of ring was, and still is being manufactured right here in London; it’s being made at a small jewelry workshop in Chamber Street. The workshop has given us the numbers for this particular ring sold by them over the past five years; they’ve sold precisely 640.”
He looked at the three glum faced men. “They’ve been sold all over Britain and the Republic of Ireland, as well as in Europe and Australia and New Zealand.”
He stopped and waited for a response, but they just sat there, dumb and dumbfounded.
They all realized that the defense would also have this information and proving beyond doubt that this particular ring belonged to Shirley would be a virtually impossible task. They also realized that however compelling, the evidence held on the killer for crimes he committed outside of British legal jurisdiction, would be inadmissible in a British court of law.
“The rest of the case against him; he being on the ship in the port the night Shirley was murdered, the fish hooks and his other vile defilements of the young girl would not, in their estimation, rate enough to even bring a case against him. It would be dismissed by the judge as purely circumstantial – not hard evidence. However, the parts of the anatomies would be held with other evidence collected at the crime scenes, and however long it takes, all will be done to bring him to justice at some future date. This has been made a priority by the head of the Crown Prosecution Service, who sends his deepest condolence to you, Henry. He also congratulates the three of you for such a fantastic operation. Knowing the extent of Tukola’s depraved crimes, he is deeply upset that justice can’t be served, and is angry that more young girls’ lives will be at risk until the killer is brought to justice.”
Vincent clasped his hands between his knees and in a voice straining with stifled emotion, and speaking to no one in particular, he looked up and said, “How can this be called justice - this bastard will be free and on the streets of London tomorrow?”
Tom rolled the file into a tight tube and tapping it on his knee, he blurted, “where does the law start and where does it end?”
After a few moments of bewildered silence, the Deputy Commissioner laid his two elbows on the desk and leaned over to be closer; as if by doing so it would give more consolation to the hurt and despondency permeating the room.
“I can’t begin to feel the disappointment that you’re feeling; especially you Henry. I assure you that we did our best but it just wasn’t good enough. To think of that beast walking free tomorrow is such a travesty of all that is right and just.”
Henry stood. “I want to thank you for everything,” and lo
oking at The Deputy, “but especially my two colleagues here for their great help particularly when I was away on that hell ship.”
Somehow holding in his emotions, he shook hands with the three men in the room, turned and walked out.
His last evening in London was spent with Vera; he took the train back to Runcorn the next morning. Although offered, he flatly refused to take a much needed recuperation break and reported for work the following Monday.
Henry often reflected, particularly in his darker moments, that his experiences on the Rangoon could best be described as, ‘the misadventure of a lifetime…’
~~~~~~
Forty Years Later
The End of the Beginning
Sadly, Vera’s past heartache and Henry’s continued anguish meant their relationship could never last. Vera retired to her family estate where she took up painting and had limited success with her contemporary work. She spent much of her time hidden away in her bedroom writing melancholic love poems.
Oswyn went on to get his master mariners ticket and became senior captain in the company. The shipping company was taken over in the mid-eighties and he then retired to the family plantation in India. One of the plantation staff served life for the murder of Nilima.
Lord Percy Welland suffered a stroke and was rendered a helpless man for five years before he died in1975. His wife Centaine still lives on at Thurrock Hall and believes she sees a ghost of a young girl walking the corridors at the witching hour of midnight.
Gary Conrad stayed on at sea and became chief steward, eventually settling ashore after marrying a wealthy widow who owned a hotel. He now lives most of his time in the South of France.
Sean Sweeney stayed at sea and is due for retirement. He never married but spent his leave time helping out in India with the street children. He intends to see out his remaining years working with these children in Calcutta.
The captain of the Rangoon took retirement and he and his wife went to Colombo and found Pippa’s mother. On their first emotional meeting he returned her diamond ring. They tried to tell this broken-hearted woman about her beautiful daughter’s death. The captain and his wife bought a house outside of Colombo where they lived with Pippa’s mother - their helper and companion. The captain passed away peacefully, but both old women still live there with their memories; content, resigned and strengthened by sharing the burden of their losses.
The Beginning of the End?
Although recently retired from the police force, Henry Carter can never stop being a cop; and he can never stop being eaten away by the injustices done to his beloved niece and all the other poor victims of Tukola’s murderous reign. He is hoping that if he can finally catch up with the killer, new technology not available in 1958 will lead to Tukola’s conviction and exorcise the demons that still dwell in Henry’s troubled soul.
Please Read On
Part Three
No Pleasure Cruise
Chapter Thirty-Three
Havana, Cuba – 2000.
As Henry Carter walked along Havana’s historic seafront he looked like any relaxed tourist enjoying his retirement. He was a lean fit man, still sporting a full head of blonde but slightly graying hair. He had well chiseled features with eyes once warm and loving but now cold blue like arctic pools.
He pondered how little had changed in Cuba since1958; he mused about the new millennium, especially how during the last five years it had given the sense that humanity was going over a mountain and into a new state of existence. But nothing has changed. Even all the scare-mongering that crashing computers could cause world chaos was a storm in a teacup. He often thought during the lead up to the new century, whether he would live to greet the year two thousand. Silly how it must seem now, three months into the millennium. At the time his concern was very real, now he put it down to retirement nerves.
Henry strolled along The Malecon, thronged with vibrant young people enjoying a carnival atmosphere; happy voices and laughter resonating to a background of Latin American music. There were quite a number of young girls seeking the attention of passing tourists, an aura of love and lust that brought his world of loveless solitude into sharp focus. There were times he regretted never having had a lasting relationship, but he had seen others in his job whose marriages had crumbled under the strain of long hours and demanding conditions.
The wrenching from his life at a young age of someone so precious had probably accounted for much of his disillusionment with humankind. The torment that had eaten away at his heart and mind for so many years had left a void of dark despair that he looked set to take with him to his grave. But his despair had now suddenly been thrust from its dark cavern into a bright open arena with the development of new DNA technology. He would seek out this evil to his last breath, and extract retribution against the monster that had ruined so many lives, including Katherine his only sister who died at a young age, dispirited and heartbroken.
He walked up the beautiful Prada and came to the small open space with its water features and palm trees. The fading light played on the statue of La Manzana de Gomez filtering through the palms in shafts of rose pink. The early evening was hushed in a brief solitude as taxi’s sat idle outside the hotels and the marble benches were vacant except for a few young couples holding hands silently, happy in their precious love zone. An old man sitting like a statue bent over rolling a cigarette, looked up as Henry approached. He observed with patient sad eyes the stranger standing bathed in an ethereal shadow of a soft rose hue. He offered Henry his tobacco pouch.
“You like a cigarette?”
“Thank you.”
He held the soft pouch in his hand and politely asked the old man, “Do you mind if I sit with you?”
He tapped the seat with his bony hand.
“You are very welcome to join me.”
The old man smiled a broad smile showing perfect white teeth and a light seemed to flicker in his dark brown eyes; his gray hair was groomed and fully enhanced what was once a very handsome face. His coffee-colored skin was a wonderful example of the mixed breeding of the Cuban people. He seemed to be of Spanish origin, with white northern European and African genes vying for a place in his DNA mix.
Henry proffered his hand.
“I’m Henry Carter from England.”
“Please to meet you, Henry. My name is Enrique Cardero.”
He struck a match and lit both their cigarettes.
“You come to Cuba for vacation?”
Henry inhaled the mild tobacco and felt relaxed as he let the blue smoke slowly release from his mouth and nostrils.
“Yes, I am here on vacation. But I am also here on a bit of business which will take me to some of the other Caribbean islands.”
“Si, it’s nice to be doing business. I once had a business which I loved. My father grew tobacco and I was the oldest son, so I took over the farm when he got old and I also grew tobacco. It is very good land and grows the finest tobacco; you are smoking it now. I still go there a few times a year to see our old home and farm and I take back tobacco with me which I cure for myself. It is a very skillful business curing tobacco.”
“When did you leave your farm to live here in Havana?”
“I didn’t leave my farm. I had to go when the state took all the farms in Cuba. I worked there for some years but I had to live in a small house provided for workers. You see, I was not considered by our new government to be suitable to manage the farm. Maybe I did not support the revolution enough, I will never know, but it is best not to complain or I might not get my state support.”
“Do you live near here?”
“Si, I live not far away. I am waiting for my son to finish work and we will walk home together. He works as a bar manager in the Hotel Inglaterra just here,” he explained, pointing to a large building across from where they were sitting.
“That’s the very hotel I’m staying at. Maybe we should go there and have a drink.”
Enrique looked down at his shabby but sp
otlessly clean dungarees and pulled at his worn blue stripped shirt with his fingers.
“I could not go into that hotel with my old clothes. By law we cannot go to tourist hotels, the door man would not allow me in and it might embarrass my son.”
“I’m sorry Enrique, I did not mean to… I mean I didn’t know.”
“It’s alright Henry I don’t feel offended. I remember the good times when I could go into any hotel or bar, but those times are gone. I had lots of money to spend and my wife and family had a good life, she died a long time ago, she could not get used to our new life of just living, or should I say, existing. She was from a very wealthy family who owned two thousand acres of land and her father was not too pleased for her to marry me with only one thousand acres. All the people working on my farm had a good life and wanted for nothing. Sure, there was poverty in places, but not so much that it could not be remedied with some good and proper government. We did not need the drastic socialist policy of our Comandante and his rebel friends. You see Henry, one cannot speak too much for fear of being reported to a member of our local committee for defense of the revolution - and they are many. My son, he got a good education and is a pediatric surgeon but has no place to practice; all the hospital places are full so he works in the hotel. If he could go the U.S. he could have a good life, but it is not so to happen.”