After a great day, all three children fell asleep in the car.
Amanda had arranged to drop them off at Sandra's and Michael would pick Emma and Jacob up from there. Sandra and Mary planned to go to the cinema and for a burger supper.
Adam couldn't wait to get his hands on Amanda—it had been torture all day.
They barely made it through the front door before they were groping and tearing at each other's clothes.
They made love on the stairs and afterwards, Adam carried her to the bedroom where he gave an encore performance—this time much slower and controlled.
He gazed at her sleeping, her head on his chest—blonde hair fanned out beneath her, long eyelashes flickering, her cheeks more drawn and pinched than usual. His breath hitched at her unassuming beauty. This woman was well and truly under his skin.
They both slept, waking a couple of hours later to make love once again.
"I'm starving," Amanda said afterwards, settling into the crook of his arm.
"I could go get the last of the picnic from the car."
Amanda shuddered. "No thanks, it's been in the hot car all day."
"Oh yeah. Do you fancy Chinese?"
"Oooh, I'd love some Chicken Chow Mein."
"Your wish is my command, little lady." He kissed the tip of her button nose before hopping from the bed and throwing on his jeans and t-shirt.
"Hmm, you going commando?" She giggled, chucking his white cotton boxers his way.
"Less for you to remove when I get back." He lay beside her again on top of the duvet and groaned. "You sure you need food?" He nuzzled at her throat.
"Afraid so, stud. You can't wear me out like that without sustenance." She shrugged away from him.
"Spoilsport." He groaned again and got to his feet. "Keep the bed warm. I'll be right back."
Twenty minutes later, he stepped from the car, his arms laden with delicious smelling brown paper bags. He kicked the door shut and awkwardly hit the lock button on the key-ring.
There was a stillness in the air as the last of the day's sunshine fell away. Stepping onto the garden path, Adam was startled by a movement to the side of him.
A dark clothed figure took to his heels, heading for the path at the side of the house.
Adam dropped the bags and gave chase.
"Hey!" he yelled. "Police. Stop."
The assailant crashed into the wheelie bin at the side of the house, sending it flying. A mixture of good-luck and nifty footwork prevented him crashing to the concrete too, but he'd been slowed down sufficiently.
Adam launched himself bodily, landing on top of the man and forcefully turning him onto his back. With one hand he held the guy’s two wrists above his head, with the other he pulled off the black woollen hat.
The back door opened and Adam turned to see Amanda standing in the doorway, still fastening the tie of her silky robe. She stifled a scream, raising her hands to her mouth.
Adam closed his eyes and sighed before re-focusing.
"Andrew Kidd. I'm arresting you for the murders of Dennis Kidd, Annie Duncan and Brian Crosby …
The End
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Netta Newbound, originally from Manchester, England, now lives in New Zealand with her husband, Paul and their boxer dog Alfie. She has three grown-up children and two delicious grandchildren.
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Mind
Bender
Netta Newbound
Junction Publishing
New Zealand
Copyright © 2015 by Netta Newbound.
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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
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Mind Bender/ Netta Newbound. -- 1st ed
To my three go to girls – Sandra, Susan and Serena. Where would I be without you?
Chapter 1
Oliver Bertram smiled to himself as he parked his top-of-the-range Jaguar estate in the garage of his three-bedroom semi in Pinevale, London.
He paused at the internal door, knowing what to expect. Celia, his wife, had never been any good at keeping secrets from him. Over the past few weeks, he’d walked in on several hushed phone calls. Last week, he even caught her trawling through his old photo album. She closed the album quickly and pulled the newspaper across the top, but he’d already clocked it. She was planning a surprise birthday party.
Then, in case he was in any doubt, the cool mini-fuss she’d made of him this morning was a dead giveaway. She didn't even buy him a proper present, just his usual aftershave and socks—but no real present.
He slowly turned the handle wanting to toy a little with whoever was on the other side of the door. Who would be there? Maybe his older brother, Bruce, all the way from bonnie Scotland, but he doubted it. Bruce hadn't been back this way since their mother died five years ago.
The door swung open to silence.
Oliver smiled again as he entered the dark hallway. He dropped his keys onto the hallstand and hooked the strap of his computer bag over the newel post before heading through to the lounge, also in darkness. This was another giveaway. Celia didn't work and always made sure the house was lit up and welcoming for when he got home.
"Hi, Seels. I'm home," he called.
Nothing. Not even a snigger from behind the door or sofa. They were good.
He flicked a switch by the door, and the light illuminated the empty room.
"Celia?" He walked through to the open-plan kitchen, scanning the room to see if any dinner or a note had been left for him. He could see neither.
Prickles started at the nape of his neck.
"Where the hell is she?" he muttered, combing his fingers through his short, dark hair.
A loud crash as the front door opened caused him to jump out of his skin.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry, babe." Celia breezed into the kitchen, her hands filled with shopping bags.
He noticed she was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, not party gear.
Pissed off, and more than a little offended, he didn't say a word as he took several bags from her and placed them on the work surface.
"Come here, birthday boy." Celia pulled him into her arms, kissing him deeply. "You smell nice. Still no ciggies—I can tell."
"Where've you been? I’ve been worried," he said, thawing a little.
"Gosh, you won't believe the kind of day I’ve had. Old Mrs Bellamy, two doors down, had a heart attack. We didn't know it was a heart attack at first, or I'd have just called an ambulance ..."
She was off, gob going ten to the dozen. Oliver zoned out, waiting for her to get to the point as he played
with her shapely arse.
"... and so it spoilt my plans. I meant to have your favourite meal on the table for when you arrived home, and I didn't. I'm sorry."
"Don't fret. So, what are we having?" His voice still sounded a little tight and forced, and he knew she'd pick up on it.
She pushed away from him and began unpacking the flimsy plastic bags. "I've ruined it. I wanted it to be special, and now it's all ruined." She flashed him a watery gaze.
As always, he felt his bad mood dissolving at the sight of her tears.
"It's okay, babes. I was worried about you. That's all." He reached for her chin and tipped her face up to meet his.
"But what about your birthday meal?"
"Stuff the birthday meal. Let's go out."
"I'm not ready." She held her hands out as though for inspection and looked down at her clothing.
"Then get ready. It won't take you long. I'll unpack this little lot. Go on. Get yourself changed."
He turned her towards the door and playfully tapped her bottom, then sighed as she ran up the stairs.
Well, how wrong was he? He'd been certain she was up to something, but whatever she’d been doing had nothing to do with his birthday.
Oh, well, it was his fault. He'd insisted she wasn't to make a fuss, said it was just another birthday. But it was his fortieth. Everybody says that on their fortieth, though few actually mean it.
He threw the tray of fillet steak and stack of vegetables into the fridge, put the cleaning products in the cupboard under the sink, and the pack of toilet rolls on the bottom step of the stairs to take up to the bathroom later.
He poured himself a large rum and coke. "Happy birthday to me." He raised the glass towards his reflection in the window before taking a gulp.
Twenty minutes later, Celia appeared looking stunning. She wore a simple black dress that gave just the merest hint of the curves beneath, sheer black stockings and high heels. Her shoulder length curls were tied in a knot on top of her head.
"Mmmm-mmm, happy birthday to me," he said again, pulling her into his arms. "Can I open my present now, Mummy?"
She slapped his hands away. "Patience, tiger. We're going out. I'm starving." She chuckled and ducked out of his arms.
"Spoilsport."
He grabbed his keys and followed her to the internal garage, hanging back a little so he could check out the twitch of her arse with every sexy step. As he got to the car, he needed to adjust his semi-boner.
In silence, they drove to Fletchers, their usual restaurant.
"Katie told me they're trialling a new menu," Celia eventually said.
"I hope the meatballs are still on. That's all I can say."
"All you think about is food since you gave up smoking." She laughed happily.
"It's not all I think about." He raised and wiggled his eyebrows at her.
Celia flung an arm across his chest playfully. "You!"
"Anyway, back to the meatballs. You're sex mad, you are," he said, shaking his head.
Celia rolled her eyes and gave her own head a shake. "Whatever.”
"Don't laugh. I'm serious. I’m having meatballs or nothing—and I'll tell Jimmy that."
Jimmy Fletcher, the owner of Fletcher’s restaurant, was Oliver's best mate from school. Celia and Jimmy’s wife, Katie, had found themselves thrown together initially, but a close friendship had soon developed. For years they were inseparable, until Jimmy and Katie started a family. Then they stopped mixing in the same circles.
Jimmy was either working or changing nappies, nowadays.
Oliver and Celia only got to see him when they popped in for a meal. Katie and Celia kept in touch via Facebook, and they caught up for the occasional coffee, but the relationship wasn't the same. Oliver thought Katie felt guilty for producing two healthy babies after all Celia’s miscarriages. Of course, Celia had been envious at first, but she was genuinely happy for their friends.
"Hey, guys. Did you book?" Jimmy asked, jovially, as he met them at the door.
"Yeah, right, Jimbo. We never book."
"Nah, honestly, mate. We're chocca."
"Can't you squeeze us in? We don't mind waiting in the bar," Oliver said. Fuck, this night was going from bad to worse.
Jimmy scrutinised the large black book on the desk in front of him, his eyebrows furrowed. He kept shaking his head and making tutting sounds.
"Ah, let me just check something. Wait here." He walked through the door to the dining area.
"I'm sorry, baby," Celia whispered.
"Don’t be silly. It’s not your fault." He put his arm around her waist and rubbed the dimples at the base of her back.
Jimmy reappeared. "You're in luck, buddy. Follow me."
"I owe you one, Jimbo," Oliver said, slapping his friend’s back.
As they followed Jim to their table, a man, wearing beige slacks and a blue checked shirt, walked towards them.
Oliver stepped to the side to allow the other man to pass. "Sorry, buddy," he said, glancing up at the man.
His stomach flipped. It took several seconds before the information would compute in his brain. And then the whole restaurant got to their feet shouting, "Surprise!"
His brother, Bruce, pulled him into a man hug. Oliver couldn’t speak. He was in total shock.
They'd got him. Well and truly got him.
Everyone was there, including Katie and the two little kiddies. He almost choked on his drink when old Mrs Bellamy raised her glass to him from across the table. She looked remarkably chipper since suffering her supposed heart attack. The only person missing was his dad, who had been crippled with arthritis and bedridden for the past three years.
It took half an hour before his heart returned to a normal rhythm. Celia had a permanent grin on her face. He still couldn't get over the way she'd duped him. Her performance deserved an Oscar.
When they arrived home he was exhausted, but that didn't stop him from showing Celia his appreciation, and twice more during the night.
*
Saturday morning, Oliver awoke surprisingly early, considering the amount of rum he'd put away last night.
“You stay in bed, babes. I’m going to make your favourite. Blueberry pancakes,” he said.
“Ah, thanks, honey. I’ve got a bit of a thick head.”
“No bloody wonder. You were necking them back a bit.”
“Says the pot calling the kettle black arse!”
Oliver belly-laughed. “I’m sure that’s wrong, but I like your version best.”
“What time are we going to the nursing home?” she asked.
“I told Bruce we’d be there 11am. He’s got a long drive, so I can’t see he’d want to hang around for too long.”
*
After the initial shock, his dad seemed overjoyed to see his eldest son. They spent a lovely couple of hours together, but before long Bruce had to tear himself away. And, as always, they promised to catch up more often in future.
Oliver and Celia stayed a while longer, but his dad could barely keep his eyes open.
“We’ll get going now, too. Leave you to have a rest before dinner,” Oliver said, getting to his feet.
“Oh, Kenny, I almost forgot. Did Ollie tell you his news?” Celia asked her father-in-law.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“He quit cigarettes over a week ago. And he promises he won’t start again.”
His dad gripped Oliver’s hand tightly, tears filling his old, wrinkly eyes. “You don’t know how happy that makes me, son.”
"Get away with you, you silly old sod!" Oliver said, his own eyes welling up.
"I'm proud of you, especially since your mum died of lung cancer. I always worry about you."
His father’s bony fingers still squeezed his hand and felt surprisingly strong.
Oliver smiled and thanked him. He could’ve told them both what a doddle he'd found it, but he rather enjoyed the praise.
*
On Sunday morning, Oliver began
the weekly clean of his pride and joy—the Jaguar Estate he loved almost as much as he loved his wife.
While vacuuming, he thought he heard his mobile ring, but it stopped before he could get to it, and the caller had withheld their number.
Oliver shrugged and continued cleaning.
Afterwards, he lifted the bonnet to top up the oil and wiped his hands on a rag. His phone rang again.
This time he got to it.
"Hello?"
He listened, nodded, and then ended the call. Closing the bonnet, he hopped in behind the wheel and sped away, leaving the garage door wide open.
Across town, on a side street next to Pinevale Common, he parked and retrieved a purple sparkly bag from the boot. Then he proceeded towards the first bench to the right of the gate.
A well-dressed, grey-haired man sitting on the bench watched him approach.
"Pop goes the weasel," Oliver said.
The man nodded, picked up a briefcase from beside him on the bench and handed it to Oliver.
Oliver took the briefcase, placed it at his feet, and then, reaching into the purple bag, pulled out a handgun and pointed it at the other man's chest.
The man didn’t move. He just stared at Oliver who fired. Once—twice—three times.
The man slumped sideways on the bench.
Oliver returned the gun to the bag, put the bag inside the briefcase and headed back to his car. He seemed oblivious to the chaos around him. Women and children were screaming and running to get out of his path.
He drove straight to a burger restaurant on the high street close to his house. He ordered a double cheeseburger and slid the briefcase underneath the cubical table. Not eating, he waited ten minutes before leaving.
As he pulled back into the garage, Celia opened the internal door.
"Where have you been?" she asked.
"Nowhere. Why?" Oliver climbed out of the Jag.
"What do you mean, nowhere? I've been looking for you."
Psychological Thriller Series: Adam Stanley Boxed Set: Behind Shadows, Positively Murder and Mind Bender Page 41