Catch The Stinger, Before It Stings You!

by E. R. Pomeransky

  His eyes followed the curves of her slender body, brushed lightly with a hint of a tan. Her legs long, perfect, her belly taut.

  ‘I love your hair,’ he smiled, inspecting her glossy auburn locks.

  ‘Demelza did it for me. She used to be a hairdresser.’

  ‘She’s very good. How does she get it to shine like that?’

  ‘Products.’

  ‘I see. Well, I suppose I’d best put on my shorts if we’re sunbathing.’

  ‘Think you should just put on your birthday suit.’

  ‘Doubt Abigail would approve.’

  ‘Oh, fuck her, she’s a moody old bitch,’ Katie complained, following him into the bedroom.

  Suddenly she pulled him towards her, pressing her soft, full lips against his. How good she smelt, her perfume filled the room. He went to undo her bikini top but this time there were no slaps. The top fell to the floor revealing her naked breasts. They were smaller than he would have liked, just a handful and no more.

  Dropping his head down onto her nipples like a baby, he pushed her onto the bed and ran his tongue down her naked body until his mouth reached her bikini bottoms. Pulling them down, he sank his mouth into a bed of black hair, sucking, biting and licking.

  ‘Oi love you,’ she sighed, as she laid her head back on the pillow, her long, slim legs wide apart.

  Guthrie did not reply, instead, he slithered up her body, replacing his tongue with his penis.

  Nestling his face into her neck he slid in and out and in. Harder and faster, thrusting, sliding as the sweet moans came from her soft, warm lips.

  *****

  Afterwards, they relaxed on the rocks beside neighbouring Crab Rock. The cat had joined them, snuggling up between Katie’s feet. The tide was slowly coming in, lapping gently against the lower level of the crocodile tail of rocks on which they lay. They focussed their attention on the surfers trying to catch a wave or two, arms out, legs astride, floating - flying until they crashed, the surf drowning out any hopes of a smooth ride.

  Katie closed her eyes as she soaked up the sunshine, her golden hair on fire as it streamed in wisps across his stomach.

  Guthrie also closed his eyes, thinking about their love making, it had been good, so good. Yet, he was curious as to why she had initiated it after all her previous Papal inflicted arguments. He had found even stranger the absence of a hymen in his virgin lover. But none of it mattered as he lay under the sun, falling into a perfect sleep.

  ‘Bejesus, Gut, you have your 6 pack back,’ Katie woke him from his slumbers ten minutes later.

  ‘I was having a dream.’

  ‘Were you dreaming of me?’ she laughed, her fingers tracing the lines of his ribs where muscles protruded.

  ‘No, Plato.’

  ‘Oh, wasn’t he the one in the cartoons of Popeye?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think so.’

  She continued to run her finger down his chest, her long hair shading him from the sun.

  ‘You are a beautiful man, Gut, my own Brian Boru.’

  ‘So is that my new name?’

  ‘Yes, it is my angel name for you, Brian Boru. You have the spirit of that great Irish hero.’

  ‘This hero sometimes wonders why you spend more time with your friend Demelza, than here at Lobster Rock.’

  ‘Well, take last week for example, she wanted me to go with her to church to see the priest, you know about baptising the baby,’ Katie explained. ‘But the priest didn’t get home until the next day because he’d been to Lourdes and the plane had been delayed.’

  ‘Maybe you have a secret lover,’ he laughed.

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ she laughed back. ‘Demelza and oi are having a lesbian relationship; we hide our children in the cupboard when anyone calls.’

  Pulling her down on top of him, he held her tight against his chest.

  ‘Oi wish we could stay like this forever,’ Katie sighed.

  ‘Get a bit cold.’

  ‘No, Gut, oi mean just lay here forever and forget about the debts.’

  ‘What debts? I can pay them for you. You really don’t have to worry about anything. I’m here to look after you.’

  ‘Oi do love you, you know. Oi’ve never met anyone like you before.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he kissed her not quite knowing how to respond. Love was a tiny word with huge implications; he was unable to return the sentiment.

  ‘Gut, oi wish oi could explain it all to you, so much to tell. You see, growing up for me wasn’t so easy, everything was mapped out. Oi suppose you would call it a preordained life.’

  ‘Were you expected to join a convent or something?’ He now wondered if she had been a nun, that would explain her former frigidity.

  ‘Did you have a happy childhood?’ she asked, failing to answer his question.

  ‘Yes, very happy.’

  ‘There was a programme on TV once, something about give me a child before they are 7 and oi’ll give you the man, or something like that,’ she said. ‘It’s true you know, parents, children’s’ homes, teachers, whoever raises the kid can really fuck them up for life given half a chance.’

  ‘Were you brought up in an orphanage?’

  ‘No, not exactly. Oi met this boy when oi was only a kid, a family friend. Daddy wanted me to marry him when oi grew up.’

  ‘But you didn’t?’

  ‘Don’t let me spoil anything,’ Abigail suddenly interrupted, causing Katie to jump up. ‘I’ve bought us all fish and chips. I’ll put them on the table.’

  Guthrie responded with a grunt of thanks, silently wishing she would crawl off into a pit somewhere. He had told the police he did not need protection, least of all from someone like Abigail who had seemingly moved herself in permanently. But they had insisted.

  When he lay back down on the rocks to catch a couple more minutes of sun before going in, he noticed that Katie had been crying. Gently, he pulled her down on top of him.

  ‘I wish I could kiss away your tears,’ he said, kissing her forehead as she lay in his arms.

  She began to play with his crucifix.

  ‘Perhaps we should go to Mass together,' he suggested.

  She shook her head, causing a storm of fiery gold to sweep across his chest.

  'Oi never go to confession, too much to confess,' she whispered.

  ‘Would you like to tell me what you were going to say before Abigail appeared, I’m a good listener?’

  ‘Our Lady knows everything. She prays for us sinners - Now, and at the hour of our death.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The July evening held a certain ambience, now that the tourists had returned to St. Ives like migratory birds.

  Pubs were heaving, cafés and restaurants packed to the hilt, and gift shops bursting at the seams.

  The bright light from the shops intermingled with the street lights, bathing Wharf Road in an orange, golden glow. Out on the harbour the sunset had submerged into the black waters.

  The men met in a small harbourside wine bar near the Sloop Inn. High stools with quilted velvet seats were lined up against the bar. It had a continental feel. Pine tables with triangular cloths and small candles were scattered around the room with chaotic precision, beneath the glossy prints hanging on the pine walls.

  ‘Have you heard about Ada Beckerleg?’ Detective Inspector Brian Pendeen asked, as placed the tray of drinks down on the table where DC Gerry Brown and Guthrie sat having a smoke.

  Guthrie shook his head, glancing about to check that the other diners could not overhear.

  ‘She’s been rushed to hospital with suspected sarin poisoning.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Guthrie’s jaw dropped open.

  ‘Yes, she’s in intensive care,’ Gerry added.

  ‘It seems that Mustopher Kaleel disappeared and the wife, Vivienne, went looking for him. And while she was away the old girl saw a bird trapped in their greenhouse.’

  ‘How could she get into the garden; the wall is too high?’

&nb
sp; ‘Apparently she had a key; seems like they had once been on friendly terms.’

  ‘Oh, I wish I’d only known, could have taken a look inside myself,’ Guthrie complained.

  ‘Anyway, the doctor at Treliske said that she appears to have accidentally spilt some contaminated water onto her skin,’ Brian grimaced. ‘Think it was in a jug or saucer that the bird was perched on.’

  ‘How can she get poisoned from water?’ Gerry asked.

  ‘My sources tell me that sarin mixes easily with water,’ Brian explained. ‘Food even.’

  ‘So you mean she drank it?’ Gerry asked incredulously.

  ‘No, of course not, but according to the doctor, even if it just got onto her skin or clothes she would have got sick or probably died. Lucky for her it was diluted to a miniscule amount.’

  ‘Who found her?’ Guthrie asked.

  ‘Interestingly it was the Kaleels’ daughter. She’d found the bird dead outside the greenhouse, and luckily noticed the old girl inside on the floor.’

  ‘So what are her chances of survival?’

  ‘Actually, very good,’ Brian tried to lift the mood. ‘I’ve done a bit of research, and it seems that all nerve agents can be chemically deactivated with a strong alkali, such as sodium hydroxide.’

  A waiter suddenly approached them to take their order. They stopped talking about Ada Beckerleg and concentrated on the menu.

  Outside on the wharf tourists were milling about thick and furious, buying up the merchandise like ravenous seagulls. Others were standing outside the Sloop Inn glued to their pints, smoking, laughing, and watching the pretty girls go by. The tide was going out, the harbour chock-a-block with small boats tied up for the night, caressed by the moonlight dancing over their wooden decks.

  Suddenly, a figure appeared from the shadows of the wharf. Clad in Wellington boots and hooded jacket, the figure pulled out a handgun, and then entered the shallow waters heading towards a tugboat.

  ‘Abigail okay?’ Gerry enquired, after they’d finished their pasta.

  ‘She’s fine. But Katie wanted a break from her tonight. She’s gone to see a friend in Hayle.’

  ‘Will she be safe?’

  ‘She took a taxi.’ Guthrie recalled how he had offered to drive her but she’d declined. ‘She goes there quite a lot to help out, it’s hard having new-born, I suppose.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like a great romance,’ Gerry teased.

  Of course, Guthrie knew Gerry was right. It did not make for a great romance but he wasn’t complaining, he needed his space. The last thing he wanted was a whining woman asking where he was going and when he would be back.

  They chatted some more as Guthrie confided a little of what he knew. He would save the best for the finale.

  A loud bang could be heard in the distance, except no one heard it, not really. The lifeboat might be out training, or a ship was in distress letting off a flare, but more likely a motorbike’s exhaust.

  ‘I fancy a latte and a slice of gateau,’ Gerry confessed to the waiter. ‘Anyone else fancy a dessert?’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind an ice cream or something,’ Brian replied. ‘What about you, Guthrie?’

  Guthrie scanned the menu. ‘A clotted cream trifle looks good; think I’ll have that.’

  The waiter wrote down their order and then hurried off to the kitchen.

  ‘Do any of you remember that old song, went something like - Eifle trifle o diddle eyeful, trifle, trifle o diddle dee?’ Brian asked.

  ‘No, but you were born long before us,’ Gerry teased. ‘I remember going to see the Stones when I was 17, my mum went mad.’

  ‘My mother wouldn’t even let me grow my hair to my neck, always had to have a crew-cut. What about you, Guthrie, did you have lenient parents?’

  ‘Depended on what my mother’s mood was that day, I suppose. But I got away at 18 when I went to university, so it wasn’t so bad, could do what I liked then.’

  ‘What about, say when you were 17 or even 15?’ Brian quizzed.

  Gerry laughed, ‘Brian, are you training to be a shrink or something?’

  Guthrie grinned. ‘Well, it was during the early 70s, T Rex and rock concerts were around, so I nagged my mother to let me go, and she did.’

  ‘Oh, you were lucky, my mother wouldn’t have let me go,’ Brian complained.

  ‘In my first year at uni I took Piran with me to the rock festivals, you know, so he could mix with the plebs for the first time, ha-ha.’

  ‘Have you seen him much since you’ve moved down here?’

  ‘No, sadly we’ve both been too busy,’ he said guiltily. ‘I did meet up with Olivia a couple of times. I’m Godfather to their daughter.’

  But before they could continue prying into his private life their desserts arrived.

  It was getting nippy as Guthrie made his way back home, passing the Lifeboat pub that was full to heaving. As he glanced across at the harbour he noticed that the tide had gone out. His gaze suddenly hit on several police officers standing below one of the boats. Lighting up a cigarette he decided to take a stroll down the slipway into the harbour. The seaweed deposits on the wet sand reminded him of his childhood holidays in Clacton, sitting on the beach below the pier popping the blisters with his brother and sisters. He had no memory of his father.

  ‘We’re waiting for our governor and an ambulance,’ one of the officers told him after seeing his identification.

  ‘Who’s up on deck?’

  ‘A corpse. Someone’s blown his brains out, we’ve been told to wait here to show them which boat.’

  ‘Can I go on board?’

  ‘Suppose so, just don’t touch anything.’

  Guthrie climbed up the slippery rungs onto the deck. He did not have to look far. Slumped over the wheel was the skipper, his skull was shattered. Pieces of bone and brain tissue were splattered around the helm, like some Tate Modern horror show. The blood slowly seeping away from the corpse and along the deck towards the starboard.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was raining heavily by the time he arrived back at Lobster Rock late that following evening. He had spent most of the day with Katie in Plymouth. On their way back across the Tamar Bridge he had suggested her spending the night with him, but she had replied that Demelza was expecting her. Unimpressed, he had driven home in a bad mood.

  ‘Odd that she stays out so much,’ Abigail mumbled with a mouth full of chocolate, as she lay sprawled out on the couch. She had read him the riot act the moment he had entered the house, for sneaking out that morning without telling her. Guthrie resented her being there at all, so the last thing he wanted was to have her tagging along with them around Plymouth.

  ‘Perhaps she is seeing another man.’

  ‘Thanks for that. So what have you been up to today?’

  ‘Well, I took MacKenzie for a walk on the beach and then a couple of colleagues popped round for lunch, and then I watched some TV.’

  Now he was infuriated. How dared she invite her cronies into his home? The very least she should have done was to ask if she could invite guests. They had probably gone through his belongings, passed round his photos of Stella and goodness knows what else.

  ‘Anyway, I got a gift today.’

  ‘Yes, the chocolates, I noticed.’

  ‘No, they are just from my husband,’ she grinned up at him like a Cheshire cat who had got the cream. ‘But an anonymous admirer sent me a lovely box of toiletries – talc, soaps, bath salts, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Nice for you, think I’ll go and take a bath,’ Guthrie grunted, heading towards the door.

  ‘Help yourself to one of my new soaps if you want. Funnily enough, the picture on the box is of violets, isn’t that a coincidence?’ she giggled. ‘Yet I’ve no idea who sent them. Came special delivery by the Royal Mail.’

  Suddenly, Guthrie turned to face Abigail.

  ‘Where are they?’ he demanded, his voice dropping an octave.

  ‘In my bedroom, why?’

&
nbsp; ‘What sort of fucking protection did you think you could you offer me?’ he yelled. ‘Firstly, you know there is no delivery on a fucking Sunday, so weren’t you a bit fucking suspicious?’ He banged his fist hard against the wall. ‘And you know we are investigating contamination of fucking violets!’ Within a flash, Guthrie charged up to her room and removed the offending box.

  Racing back downstairs to the kitchen, he grabbed a can of coke from the fridge, and almost ran out of the house before he throttled her.

  After giving Brian a call on his mobile, he dropped off the offending toiletries at the local police station for collection, and then jumped on the back of his Harley.

  By the time he reached the roundabout at Lelant he was soaked. Suddenly he changed his mind about joining the A30 dual carriageway, and instead, rode onto the back road, the B3301. It was difficult to see through the torrents, although he could vaguely outline the estuary now empty of birds. They were probably sheltering nearby, he surmised, glimpsing across at the river. The boats were securely moored as if hibernating, whilst being barraged by the weather.

  As he rode further along, the sea was no longer visible, hidden behind the shops that lined Hayle’s main thoroughfare. He had read that the entrepreneur, Peter de Savary, had proposed to develop Hayle some years earlier, but from what he understood the man had failed to attract funding. Now thinking back to what Piran had said when they had met for lunch, about how Cornwall needed a Cornish version of Disneyland, perhaps he was right after all.

  The further he rode the rougher the road became. The black tarmac, invaded by holes and large puddles, resulted in frequent drowning. It was not until he reached Gwithian when the rain stopped. Parking up near a wooden bench that overlooked the wet, seaweed strewn beach, Guthrie lit up a cigarette. There was no one else in the vicinity, but it was gone midnight after all. Retrieving the night vision goggles from the pocket of his leather jacket, he placed them in front of his eyes.

  St. Ives looked tranquil through the goggles. The wet puddled streets were now mostly empty. Everything was so still, like a musical box that had suddenly been unwound. Only a couple of boats out at sea, probably fishing boats, he conjectured.