by Rod Glenn
Her knickers followed, leaving her naked and breathless on his bed. Han descended upon her, licking her inner thighs and tracing a line towards her exposed mound.
She moaned, gripping the sheets as he delicately savoured her sweet taste and greedily breathed in her musky aroma.
She cried out softly and gripped his head between her thighs.
Slowly, he progressed up her body, kissing and tasting every part of her. Moving to her stomach and across her breasts, lingering at her hard nipples. Her chest then neck followed as he worked up to her eager lips. Then the tip of his erection brush against her.
Clawing at his back, Lisa begged him to enter her.
Their mouths touched and his tongue slipped inside her. She could taste herself on his lips and it only served to fuel her desire.
As he eased inside her, she moaned further still and drew him in deeper. He buried himself all the way into her, until they were pressed tightly together, clutching each other like they would remain forever entwined. Then, slowly and deliberately, he withdrew almost to the tip.
She quivered, her mouth trembling and her body arching, as he slowly penetrated her once more.
They moved together unhurriedly for several minutes, savouring every second of their joining, before their needs grew beyond control, forcing urgency into their thrusts.
They came together, kissing and moaning, their bodies glistening and intertwined.
Holding each other, they tenderly kissed and whispered like forbidden lovers. After maintaining the embrace for some time, Lisa gently and reluctantly slid from under him and started to dress in silence.
Han sat up to watch her, resting on one elbow. The bed suddenly felt empty without her. Slipping the jeans over her bare backside, she shoved her knickers into a pocket and said, “I wish I could stay, but I’ve got to get back to Haley.”
Han smiled and was surprised by the genuine affection in it. “I understand. Thanks for your company – I really needed it.”
Lisa paused with one shoe on and the other in her hand. She looked closely into his eyes and tears started to well in her own. “Are you the real deal?”
Han matched her stare with a growing intensity, before saying, “Yes. Yes, I am.”
A Slovakian exporter, Larry, his wife and her lover.
After a brief rattling of keys, the front door swung open to reveal Larry Herring in shorts and a sweat-soaked Northumbria University t-shirt. He stretched both calves several times on the raised stoop, before stepping inside.
The modest two-up two-down was in silence. Janet was out shopping and Kerris was in school. Larry had taken the morning off from the surgery to deal with several chores. One such chore was a package wrapped in grubby brown paper and tied with string. It had arrived in the post that morning to his private post box in Rothbury.
Grabbing the package from the foot of the staircase, he strode through to the kitchen. Popping the package on the breakfast table, he crossed to the refrigerator and retrieved a carton of grapefruit juice.
As he poured himself a drink, his eyes wandered back to the package. It was silent and unmoving, but something appeared to trouble the doctor when he glanced at it.
The post mark was Bratislava, Slovakia.
After gulping down the juice, he trotted upstairs for a shower.
The cool shower refreshed and invigorated his tired limbs from the five mile run, but the cleaning ritual was perfunctory, his mind ensnared by more important issues.
He dressed in jeans and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt, depicting their 1970 UK tour. After slipping on some sandals, he padded back downstairs and headed straight for the package.
Pulling up a chair, he sat and turned the package over in his hands several times. The troubled frown returned to his features as he examined every inch of the innocuous looking parcel.
After what seemed like an age, with a slight tremor in his fingers, the doctor snipped the string and carefully tore open the paper packaging. He eased one hand inside and rummaged through shredded packing paper until his fingers touched upon a slim, cylindrical object.
Holding his breath, he withdrew it. The small vial was all but empty, apart from a few of drops of clear liquid in the bottom. There was no label and no instructions or accompanying letter.
Still not daring to breathe, Larry carefully held the vial up to the light between thumb and forefinger. It could have been a drop of tap water or Evian or dragon’s tears, but Larry knew exactly what it was. He had been waiting for it for three weeks, and many months more in actually sourcing a trusted, anonymous supplier, using the computer in the local library in Rothbury.
Larry had never listened to the gossip hounds when it came to the whispers of his wife with Steve Belmont, but then there had been that fateful night when he had returned early from the pharmaceutical conference in Newcastle. That night he was supposed to be staying overnight to catch up with a colleague over a few drinks on the Quayside. Unfortunately (or fortunately), Jim Pembroke had left early on hearing news of his mother being rushed in to hospital with a suspected heart attack. She had died early the next morning.
He had called from the hotel before leaving, but there had been no answer. Probably down the Miller’s or round nattering to Loretta, he had thought.
February had been a cold and wet month and that evening had been no exception.
The Ford Escort splashed through the muddy puddles that had collected on Main Street throughout the day and evening. The rain was still falling, but had lost most of its earlier fervour, allowing Larry Herring to reduce the windscreen wipers down to their lowest setting. The absolute darkness was only pierced by the rare light from a veiled window.
It was closing on ten PM when he turned onto Bell Lane and then into the car park behind their home.
He climbed out, feeling weary, but relieved to be home. After popping the boot to retrieve his haversack and Barbour jacket, he walked around the side of the house towards the front door.
As he reached the side window, he noticed the light on and two figures caressing in the lounge. His heart skipped a beat and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
Peering through the slim gap in the curtains, Larry witnessed, with utter horror and disgust, Janet and Steve naked in the middle of his living room. They were both standing, kissing and touching each other’s sweaty bodies, with Steve’s hard on brushing against his wife’s naked thigh.
Then, as if it could get any worse, it did. He saw his wife kneel down in front of that prick and take it into her filthy mouth.
His head suddenly began to swim, as if he had stood up too quickly after having several too many brandies. Staggering away from the window, a wave of nausea swept over him. Instantly, he emptied his stomach of the beef stroganoff, brandy and coffee that he had consumed earlier, onto the gravel path.
His quiet sobbing and retching went undetected for several minutes as the gentle rain continued to fall on his back and around him.
After wiping his mouth he composed himself then walked slowly back to the car. He threw his bag and coat back into the boot and turned the engine on.
He sat there with the motor idling for several minutes as the windscreen slowly misted, his expression blank, haunted.
Then, after switching on the fan, he eased it into gear and turned the car carefully around in the small car park. He then drove without a word out of Haydon and back to Newcastle.
Tears streamed unchecked down his face periodically on the long drive back, blurring his vision and twice almost sending him into a ditch. But he made it back, checked in, threw his bag into the room and went straight to the bar. He stayed there till eight the next morning, having gone through a full bottle of Hennessy XO at fifteen pounds a glass.
He finally drove back to Haydon at midday with a thumping head and several times over the limit.
Janet greeted him with a hug and a kiss, trying to force her tongue into his mouth, but Larry broke it off before she could manage it.
Remaining inhumanly calm, he managed to ask about her evening with even a little amiable smile on his face. And this year’s Oscar goes to … Doctor Larry Herring for his loveable-dickhead-arsewipe role in the ‘Janet and Steve Affair’.
She had lied, of course. Had a couple in the Miller’s then back to the house for a quiet night in front of the telly. Did you, dear? Ah, that’s nice … bitch. And Kerris asleep upstairs, was she? No more nightmares? Good … whore.
After that day, Larry had remained the doting husband and had given his ‘wife’ dozens of opportunities to come clean. Clean? That would be a laugh after having that Steve Belmont’s cock in her disgusting mouth.
But she never did, so after a while he had found himself spending more and more time at the library, searching the internet for a certain poison, a poison that would be totally undetectable in an autopsy. His search had led him to Saxitoxin, also known as Shellfish Toxin, and then to an unscrupulous supplier in Eastern Europe.
Just one milligram would kill the average human stone dead within seconds when taken orally or through injection. As the bitch-whore was no ‘average’ human, he purchased two milligrams.
So, this was the stuff that would kill his wife and the mother of their only daughter. Looking at the small unassuming vial, he considered that last statement, as he had many, many times since learning of his wife’s infidelity.
He still loved Janet, as much as it pained him to admit it, but the hate had grown far, far stronger. The disgust burned inside him like molten lava, eating away at his insides; consuming every happy memory of their years together, every reason to stay his hand. So, killing Janet, although difficult, had not been impossible to come to terms with. What he had struggled the most with, and struggled still, was that Kerris would lose the mother whom she loved dearly.
There was a battle raging within his head and the final victor had yet to be decided.
He slipped the vial into his pocket, then collected the packaging and headed out of the back door to the public rubbish bin in the car park. After shoving the packaging deep into the bin, under crisp packets, cans and old newspapers, he trudged slowly back to the house, with the vial still resting against his hip.
Guess who’s coming to dinner.
Han and Lisa crunched up the gravel lane towards the Bryce family farmhouse. The evening sky lent a soft red hue to the broken white clouds, and the warmth of the day still lingered. The air was still and fragrant with a myriad of wildflower and woodland aromas, but as they approached the farm, these gave way to the far fresher smell of manure.
Lisa was fidgeting nervously, constantly adjusting her short denim skirt and blouse. Her cheeks were flushed, and only part of that was due to the walk.
Han glanced at her and smiled. Sighing, he said, “You look fantastic, hun. Stop fretting.”
Lisa stopped abruptly and, defensively, said, “This is a big deal for me. I don’t do dinner parties.” Her annoyed tone vainly tried to disguise her anxiety.
He turned to face her. Swapping the bottle of red wine to his other hand, he placed the free hand on her flushed cheek. “John’s a good bloke, and Sally’s supposed to be nice too, from what I’ve heard. It’ll be fine.” He kissed her soft lips then added, “It’ll be a laugh.”
Lisa let out a deep breath and said, “Wey, if they suggest charades I’m getting the hell out.”
Han laughed and gave her a brief hug. “I’ll be right behind you.”
John Bryce swung the front door open on the first knock. Grinning, he said, “Welcome! Welcome!” Then, cocking his head to one side, shouted, “Sal, Han and Lisa are here!”
“How about letting them in then!” his wife called back from the kitchen with an exasperated tone.
“Brought you a bottle, big fella,” Han said, shaking his hand.
Bryce took the bottle and glanced at the label. “Canny, you shouldn’t have. We’ve got enough to sink a battleship already, so I hope you’ve got your drinkin’ heads on!” He led them past a cluttered study to a spacious lounge. As Han and Lisa sat next to each other on one of the two old and cracked Chesterfields, Bryce went to a glass fronted wall unit with a flip down shelf. Dropping the shelf, he opened the glass doors to retrieve a corkscrew. As he uncorked the bottle, his wife appeared.
Sally Bryce was a tiny, frail looking woman with loosely tied-back mousy hair. She had piercing blue eyes that were framed by the gradual onset of crow’s feet. Wiping her hands on a tea towel, she offered them a warm smile and said, “Hi, Han, nice to meet you finally. Hi, Lisa, how are you, pet?”
Han rose, quickly followed somewhat timidly by Lisa.
Sally waved a hand at them. “We don’t stand on ceremony here, pet. You two make yourself comfortable.” Feigning impatience, she turned to Bryce and added, “John, you big lug, get our guests a drink before they die of thirst.”
“Aye-aye, divvent get your knickers in a twist.”
Rolling her eyes, she said to her guests, “I’ll be right back. I hope you both like lamb.” With that she whisked off back to the kitchen.
Pouring the wine into four glasses, Bryce said, “Anthony’s staying round his mate’s tonight, so it’s an all adult night. We haven’t had one of them in years!” He chuckled at that. After handing out the over-filled glasses, he raised his in an impromptu toast. “Here’s to a crackin’ night.” On reflection, he added more sombrely, “We could all do with it after recent events.”
Raising his own glass, Han looked from Bryce to Lisa. She smiled back at him and now looked a little more at ease. Hesitantly at first, she took a sip of her wine, and then proceeded to take a big gulp. He glanced at the dark liquid in his own glass for a moment, then followed suit.
Beat the Parents.
As August fell by the wayside, a warm September settled upon Haydon. Police activity relating to Mandy Foster’s disappearance faded and, one by one, the posters disappeared from the lamp posts and notice boards. The two prying detectives, Wright and Mitchell, seemed to have drifted off into the ether. Even the nightmares had become less frequent.
Erika Foster became more and more reclusive, rarely venturing out. Her husband began spending a lot more time in both pubs, alternating between the two when things got a little out of hand. He drank and, as the night wore on, he would become steadily angrier, until he would snap. Anyone who happened to be nearby was likely to be on the receiving end of his temper.
Ron’s increasingly erratic behaviour came to a head one night in the Miller’s. As the evening progressed, Ron became louder and more animated, attracting concerned glances from several patrons. If he saw any of them, he chose to ignore them. He knocked back a pint and shouted for another.
His face furrowed, Bryce said, “Take it easy, mate.” He glanced briefly to Duncan who was stood beside him at the bar.
Duncan offered an apologetic shrug. After a lip-biting moment, searching for the right words, he said, “I think I’m about ready to call it a night. What about you, Ron?”
Ron spun to glare at him, wavering slightly. His eyes were bloodshot and the dark growth on his chin – several days past the stubble stage – lent a pale tinge to his features. “Nah, divvent go yet, man. Loretta can wait.”
There was a flicker of a cringe, then Duncan said, “Erika needs you, mate.”
Ron waved a dismissive arm and turned back to the bar, leaving Duncan and John staring at each other. Wordlessly, they exchanged their concerns.
A young man, lost in an over-sized duffle coat with a spotty forehead, squeezed past Duncan to get to the bar. In the process, he knocked Ron’s shoulder. Big Joe was now, reluctantly, pouring fresh pints for them.
Ron spun round to confront the person who had stumbled into him.
Not suspecting trouble, the lad in his late teens hardly spared him a glance, but muttered, “Sorry.”
Ron’s face reddened. “Sorry?”
“Ron, leave it,” Bryce said, tensing immediately. Big Joe glanced up from the hand pump, sensing trouble.<
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The young man turned to him. Seeing the drunken man’s growing anger, he at once said, “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to knock you, like.”
Even in his drunken state, Ron was easily capable of grabbing the lad by the scruff of his jacket. He yanked him towards him and snarled in his face, “Sorry isn’t good enough, you cheeky little prick.”
Both Duncan and John lunged for him, dragging them apart.
His eyes wide and his voice shaking with terror, the lad cried, “Get off us!”
“Ron!” Big Joe bellowed, discarding the half-filled pint. His voice silenced the entire pub in an instant. “Get off the laddie, NOW!” He rushed round to the other side of the bar to join Duncan and John who were struggling to free the frightened youth.
“Got nee respect!” Ron shouted, shaking him roughly. Spittle flew into the lad’s contorted face.
Big Joe reached them, puffing and panting. He grabbed Ron’s shoulder. Ron, reacting, rather than thinking, lashed out, catching Big Joe across the chin with his elbow. The blow brought tears to the landlord’s eyes, but he maintained his grip, and in a calm, sincere tone, said, “Ron, pal, it’s time for yer to get yourself away home to Erika. She needs yer.” The last three words came out almost as a plea.
Bryce and Duncan both relaxed their grips of his arm and coat. The fury ebbed away, leaving Ron looking tired and dejected. He released the young lad, who immediately backed away to his two friends who had been observing nervously from a safe distance.
“Take him home,” Big Joe said, patting Ron gently on the shoulder. His chin was reddening from the blow, but he appeared not to notice. He glanced in the direction of the three lads. “I’ll get you three lads a drink on the house, eh?”
Duncan and John escorted Ron out of the Miller’s and down Main Street. They had walked only a few yards from the door when Ron stopped and turned to look at them. His eyes were wet with tears. His voice was heavy with emotion as he said, “I-I’m sorry.”