Wicca

by James Follett

  She partly inflated the condom and watched for the slightest sign of deflation.

  `For fuck's sake get on with it,' moaned the youth she was sitting astride in a patch of tall fronds of Ellen's asparagus ferns. `Ellen will go ape if she catches us.'

  Sarah rolled the condom into place. But unlike the condom, the boy's penis had suffered some deflation so she expertly aroused its interest with short strokes back and forth over the glans with one hand while running her thumb up down the underside with the other hand, ending each return stroke by squeezing the base of the penis to trap the blood.

  The boy lay back with his eyes closed. `Fucking hell, Sarah -- you've got a fabulous pussy.'

  `I haven't started yet, you pillock.'

  `What are doing then?' He tried to tip his head forward but Sarah knocked him back.

  `Wanking your corpus spongiosum.'

  `My what?'

  `Sorry -- don't know its proper name. The big vein under your cock.'

  Eventually the boy's erection was good as it was likely to get at this stage. Sarah was an old hand at this business and knew that he would stiffen in his resolve to please her once she got the thing in place and her vaginal muscles got to grips with the problem. She smeared saliva on her vulva, eased her hips forward and down, working his glans back and forth to spread the juice about a bit before the final positioning and sinking down.

  They both groaned in unison. Sarah began pumping her hips, slowly at first and then with increasing frequency as the boy's penis swelled rapidly to its full potential. She leaned forward, taking her weight on one hand while vigorously stimulating her clitoris with the other. She climaxed almost immediately with this beat-the-dreaded-PE technique she had patented, but the boy spoilt the moment by trying to kiss her and fondle her breasts. He received a sticky-fingered slap for his temerity -- Sarah hated intimacies when she was screwing. She straightened and leaned back, eyes closed, while making circular motions with her hips to increase the pressure on her clitoris.

  She opened her eyes and gasped when her second orgasm came, and then opened them wide because Malone, kitted out in tight shorts and sweatshirt, was jogging along the nearby path. She ducked down but knew the police officer had seen her.

  `Bugger.'

  `What's up?'

  `Shut up. Keep still. I'll do the talking.'

  `What talking!' The boy writhed but Sarah kept him pinned down.

  `Hallo, Mr Malone.'

  `Good morning, Sarah.' Sarah was in no position to pull her skirt down from around her hips so she contented herself by sitting tight with her hands folded demurely in front of her crotch, school blouse and tie crisp and neat. Her companion took one squint up at the figure against the sun and clapped his hands over his face to hide his agonies of embarrassment. He groaned in despair.

  `Sorry if I interrupted anything, Sarah. I've come by to see Ellen if she's in.'

  `I think she is. I hope she is.' Sarah paused, and decided that introductions were in order. `This is Detective-Sergeant Mike Malone. This is a friend, Mr Malone.'

  `I guessed he might be.'

  The hapless boy gave another groan and wished a hole would open and swallow him. In a way his wish was being partly granted because Sarah was gripping him with Rottweiler tenacity to prevent his escape and keep him still.

  `Isn't he supposed to be gardening?' Malone inquired. `No. No. Don't answer that. Sorry to have disturbed you both. I'll be on my way. Carry on.' He turned and disappeared through the trees.

  `Christ,' said Sarah wistfully as she began pumping again. `Isn't he just gorgeous? He really is the most shagable bloke I've ever met.' She added by way of encouragement, `I reckon his is bigger down than yours is up.'

  `I should be getting back to work,' the boy complained.

  `I haven't finished yet.' She lifted her hips just a little too high and squeezed just a little too hard with the result that her companion's now unenthusiastic pecker was expelled from its prison with a soft plop. `Oh for Christ's sake!' she complained, looking down at the wretched object. `What fucking use is that to man or beast?'

  But Sarah, ever resourceful, determinedly ground herself back and forth on the hapless lad's flaccidity to build an erection of sorts that provided two unsatisfactory orgasms of sorts.

  `Anyway,' she said, standing and stepping into her panties. `What is your name?'

  `I've fucking forgotten,' moaned the shattered boy.

  Chapter 28.

  THERE WERE LOUD CHEERS from the crowd when Prescott stepped onto the platform erected beside the water hyacinth sewage treatment plant. His two blackshirt bodyguards, armed with a shotgun each, stood behind him, their eyes alert, scanning the throng.

  The secondary treatment plant had been built on a flat area of common land south of Pentworth. It was a very simple structure that consisted of a long, brick-built tank, 200 metres long, 10 metres wide, but only 300 centimetres deep. Floating on the 2000 square metres of formerly foul water was a magnificent carpet of water hyacinth -- half a million of the impossibly blue flowers, giving off a wonderful scent as they fed greedily on the pollutants in the water, purifying it and growing at a prodigious rate in the process.

  `In Florida they call the water hyacinth the "beautiful nuisance",' Prescott's voice boomed over the loudspeakers after he had welcomed everyone to the simple opening ceremony. `It spreads at a tremendous rate, choking waterways if it's not kept in check. The wondrous spectacle you see here are the progeny of a few plants cultivated by an enthusiast to keep his aquaria clean. By this time next year the government hopes that three more such treatment works will be completed.' He looked quizzically at a man in overalls. `All ready, are we?'

  `All ready, Mr Prescott.'

  `Very well, ladies and gentlemen. I declare the Rother Water Hyacinth Treatment Plant open!'

  The crowd gathered around the discharge valve as it was opened and cheered lustily when sparkling, clean water gushed into a culvert that bore the water into a ditch. A man at the other end of the long tank opened a valve to admit polluted water at the same rate to maintain the level. When the out-flowing water became discoloured, both valves would be shut to allow the hyacinth to work on the new charge of polluted water. Prescott held a tumbler in the outlet stream and raised the full glass above his head so that everyone could see it. The water was so clear, it was almost invisible.

  `Looks good!' he declared, and sniffed the tumbler's contents. `Smells good!' He drank the water in one long swallow. `And, by golly -- it tastes good!'

  It was an effective theatrical gesture; the purpose of the treatment plant was not to provide drinking water, but to ensure that water returned to ditches and waterways was pollutant-free.

  Prescott returned to the microphone to tell the crowd how hard the government was working to improve their lot. He said his farewell and hurried back to Government House in his methane-powered, armoured Range Rover to a meeting with Vernon Kelly. The chairman of bank group was being entertained by Diana Sheldon in his office. He brushed aside Prescott's apologies for being a few minutes late.

  `Miss Sheldon and I listened to the opening on the radio, Mr Prescott. A worthy project, I must say.'

  `A cheap, worthy project,' said Prescott, settling at his desk. `Just a big, shallow tank with an inlet valve and an outlet valve. The biomass of the dead hyacinth will be used to produce alcohol. Unfortunately not all government projects are so cheap therefore we need a loan.' Prescott refilled his guest's sherry glass, poured one for himself, and added, `But we can't afford the extortionate interest rates being charged by the banks.' Such plain speaking made the banker uncomfortable. `I hardly think four per cent is extortionate, Mr Chairman.'

  `It is when you're paying out a paltry one per cent on deposits,' Prescott replied. `And grabbing most of that back in trumped-up, invented bank charges.'

  `We have an unexpected high level of deposits, and the banks have few outlets for investment.'

  `In other words, we need to get the eco
nomy moving?'

  `Yes -- but the opportunities are so limited, Mr Chairman.'

  `Well you haven't missed any opportunities to raid your customers' deposits to keep the banks' economy moving,' Prescott observed.

  `The banks are just like any business making a charge for it's services,' Kelly replied.

  `Not like any business, Mr Kelly. All businesses present invoices -- you just swipe the money straight out of accounts.'

  `We try to be of benefit to our customers--'

  `We've got a scheme in mind that will benefit everyone,' Prescott interrupted. He placed an unusual telephone on his desk. The base unit and handset were a glossy moulding in green, but in place of buttons, there was a lever-operated plunger that fitted neatly into a recess.

  `Selby Engineering produced that,' said Prescott. `Moulded papier mache, would you believe. Smart, eh?'

  Kelly, mystified, agreed that it was.

  `A modern version of the old-fashioned hand-cranked phone,' said Prescott. `Making automatic phones is beyond our capabilities, but Tony Selby says his company can make manual switchboards to serve over 1000 lines. And he's confident that he could gear-up production to make 1500 phones like this one over a three-month period.'

  `1500 phones?' Kelly queried, a little less mystified now.

  `One for every household and business plus a stock of spares.'

  `Well, if it can be done,' said the banker cautiously, masking his astonishment. `It would certainly generate the revenue.'

  `A free service like the kiosks,' said Prescott pointedly. He held up his hand to silence the banker's protests. `If it's free, we would have no trouble recruiting pensioner volunteers to man the switchboards. A free service means no staff tied up in disputes over bills or chasing unpaid bills or bogged down in accounting. The benefits to the community would be incalculable -- particularly in rural areas. A telephone system requires hardly any energy to run. A small methane-burning generator would be all that's necessary to keep the exchange's batteries topped-up. Once the network's up and running, maintenance and operating costs would be reasonable. Around 8 fulltime staff. But the installation costs will be high. We can use many of the existing lines but our plan for a free connection and phone installation for every dwelling and business is going to be expensive to set up.'

  `I'm surprised we've got the cable,' Kelly commented sourly.

  `It's amazing just how much copper wire there is in a washing machine motor. Kilometres of the stuff. We need to crop some pine plantations to free-up some Forestry Commission land so we'll have plenty of poles. A surplus in fact.'

  `You seem to have thought of everything.'

  `Good planning,' said Prescott smugly. He had omitted to mention that the only reason the service would be free was because Selby Engineering had said that it would be difficult to make reliable billing meters, and manual logging would be cumbersome, therefore he had decided to make political capital out of the problem. `Except you haven't thought through how to finance it,' said Kelly pointedly.

  `I have in mind an undated loan at a fixed two and a quarter per cent. Interest repayments only. Like building society permanent interest bearing shares.'

  Kelly had no taste for a loan at a derisory rate of interest that would never be paid off. He began to see what was behind Prescott's thinking. He was losing support in the rural areas. This way he would be going some way to redress the grievances of the country at the expense of the banks. What Kelly didn't realize was that Prescott's plans went even deeper than that. The new exchange would be sited in the Government House annex that was being knocked through into Mothercare. Manual exchanges allow for easy eavesdropping and would tighten his grip on the community.

  `You don't look too happy,' said Prescott.

  `There are other ways for the government to raise money.'

  `Such as? And you can forget bonds.'

  `Well... Get the radio station to take ads, then privatize it. You could do much the same with the bus company, the laundries, water, and the supplies centre. The post offices.'

  `Yes -- but those services are paid for out of people's income taxes, transaction taxes, and property taxes. We'd be selling them something they already own.'

  `It's been done before,' said Kelly.

  Prescott looked doubtful. `Well -- perhaps it's something to think about in the long term. In the meantime I'm keen to get the phone service off the ground.'

  `I will have to bring the matter up at the Joint Banks Committee meeting.'

  `Ah, yes. I hear their credit card scheme is nearly complete.'

  `All it needs is the government's green light,' said Kelly cautiously, scenting trouble.

  `I can't see that being withheld, Mr Kelly,' said Prescott expansively. `And think what a boost a phone system would be for credit card sales. Telephone ordering. Confirmations of purchases, etcetera. You could even close a few branches and go in for telephone banking. Of course, I don't wish to anticipate the reaction of the Joint Banks Committee but I should imagine that they'll be only too delighted with my proposals.'

  Kelly gave a noncommittal grunt. Prescott beamed and raised his sherry glass. `Let's drink to the success of both our schemes, Mr Kelly. Your papier mache moulded credit cards and my papier mache moulded telephones.'

  Chapter 29.

  THE FIRST THING MALONE noticed as he jogged into Ellen's rear garden was the fresh coat of paint on the inside of the open back door. Hardly out of breath despite the long, uphill slog, he bent to examine the door and was puzzled. It had certainly been in need of repainting, but not with emulsion. Also no attempt had been made to scrape away the original paint where it was cracked and lifting. Nor had the jamb or the outside of the door been repainted although it needed it. He doubted that Ellen was slapdash -- quite the opposite he considered.

  He saw a paintbrush bristle embedded in the fresh paint and teased it out with a fingernail for a closer look. It wasn't a bristle, it was a fine, short black hair that one would expect in a small watercolour brush. But no one in their right mind would repaint a door with an artists' brush. Besides, the flat finish on the door had been achieved with a roller. Then he discovered more of the black hairs, and that new screws had been used to reset the mortise lock.

  Some chewed-up holes in the middle of the door caught his attention. Obviously fresh because they were filled with the emulsion and not grime like some of the cracks. When he stood back he saw that the holes formed an inverted T pattern.

  In his remarkable mind he formed an impression of the horror that may have taken place here. An impression that hardened to a certainty when his gaze swept the garden and he saw a patch of recently-disturbed soil beneath an apple tree, a spade leaning against the tree, and a few drops of what could be dried blood on the doorstep. The clincher was the legend EX2218, just discernable under the new paintwork when he held the door at a certain angle to catch the light. The fear that he had been nursing for Ellen's safety for so long became a hard knot.

  `Hallo!' he called out in loud voice, and rapped hard on the door. `Hallo! Anyone at home?'

  He went through the still room to the workroom just as Ellen came through from the shop. She was wearing a white laboratory coat and little else judging by the tantalising gaps between the straining buttons. Her initial surprised expression, tinged with fear for a fleeting moment, changed to a genuine warm smile.

  `Hallo, Mike. Checking on my lousy security? I have to leave the door open to let some air through. Especially when I'm brewing up eye of newt and tongue of bat.' There was bitterness in her voice as she gestured to a stainless steel catering urn that was simmering on a charcoal burner.

  `How are you, Ellen?' As he expected, there was no sign of the cat feeding bowl he recalled seeing on his last visit.

  `Fine. Fine. Keeping busy. So what is this nice surprise in aid of? Business or pleasure?'

  She didn't look fine. The rich lustre seemed to have gone from her hair. Her wonderful eyes were drained of their customary vital
ity and yet, to Malone nothing could impair her loveliness.

  `Bit of both, really,' he replied. `I've come to crave some information and a favour. Hope you didn't mind me coming up the back way. It's quicker than going round the town.'

  `No -- of course not. It's lovely to see you. How about some tea? The water's boiling. I'll go and shut up shop for bit.' She was gone before Malone could object.

  `I don't want to interfere with business if you're--' He began when she returned. `What business?' she interrupted.

  `Oh.' Malone was nearly lost for words. `Like that, is it? I would've thought you'd be inundated.'

  `I am. I'm working all hours keeping the hospital dispensary supplied. But I don't get so many customers through the door now. Not town, anyway. Country -- yes.'

  The answer added to Malone's mounting concerns for Ellen's safety. `Why is that do you suppose?'

  `Sorry, Mike. I'm forgetting my manners. You look whacked. Grab a seat.'

  Malone sat. He repeated his question while Ellen busied herself at the urn.

  `It's hardly surprising really,' she replied, working the plunger on the burner's air reservoir. There was a hiss of escaping compressed-air. The charcoal glowed white. `The town has the hospital on its doorstep -- dishing out my medications at a subsidised price. Also town people can check with the dispensary from phone boxes before making a trip. Country folk don't have that advantage. They've got used to coming to me, so they keep coming to me.' She paused. `And these idiots sacrificing chickens in church porches and churchyards don't help. Years ago my mother used to run this place as an occult shop. Quite a few people still remember it. The radio said that another church had been vandalised in the night.'

  `A private chapel at Tillington,' said Malone. `The usual blood, feathers and bits of chicken scattered about. Which is one of the reasons why I'm here. Do you have any idea who could be behind these attacks, Ellen? The chapel was the ninth. The thing's getting out of hand.'