The Once and Future Con

by Peter Guttridge

  I groaned.

  "Not a chance."

  "Suit yourself."

  Bridget studied her nails.

  "It's the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to me. And only now do I realize why it happened."

  "Now you've got to tell me-you can't give it a build-up like that then walk away."

  "The why? Because it's clear that Faye was forcing herself to make love with me when all she could think about was her brother."

  "I don't want the why, I want the how."

  "The last time I confessed everything about Faye you fell asleep."

  "You were rambling. You're a journalist-you know to put the sexiest bit at the top of the article. So tell me."

  "You'll laugh."

  "I sincerely hope so."

  "Okay," I said, sighing. "Faye came round to my flat in Summertown in a very strange mood. I shared it with four girls but only one of them-Ros-was in. She let Faye in as I was on my way to the loo. I took Faye into the bedroom and almost immediately she jumped on me. She was being very passionate but there was something about it that seemed a bit forced. After a couple of minutes lying tangled on the bed she'd started tugging at my zipper.

  "Come on then," Faye said, her voice tense and urgent.

  "What?" I whispered.

  "You know what. You've always wanted to."

  "You sure?" I said, rearing back to look at her face. It was flushed, her eyes filmy. I could smell drink on her breath. She gave a jerky little nod.

  "Honestly?"

  "For God's sake, Nick, stick it in!" she said through gritted teeth.

  I excused myself for a moment.

  "Loo," I mumbled. Well, I was bursting. I was also nervous.

  To be honest I'd only had one full sexual experience before and I don't think the girl I slept with thought that had been particularly full."

  "Is that it?" had been her succinct remark.

  I knew that in the bathroom my flatmates had put, as a joke, one of those sprays men are supposed to use to prolong the sexual act. They make you go numb or something. The sprays, not my flatmates-so far as I knew, which, sadly, wasn't far at all. I also thought, since I didn't know what Faye and I would be getting up to, I should freshen up a bit.

  I dabbed my aftershave on my cheeks and under my arms. As an afterthought I pulled the waistband of my underpants away from my stomach and poured the rest down there. It's the kind of mistake a man will only make once in his life. I don't think I've ever felt pain like it. The alcohol in the aftershave felt like acid. Choking back my screams, legs crossed, hopping from foot to foot, I tried to wash the aftershave off in the sink. Given my height and the shape of the sink, this wasn't easy.

  "Where have you been?" Faye said sharply when I finally got back to my room. She was lying on the bed, looking distinctly like a sacrificial virgin, her body was so taut.

  "Are you sure you want to do this?" I said, sitting beside her on the bed and casually putting the spray can on the floor. She gazed at me.

  "I'm sure. I'm just nervous."

  "Me, too," I said.

  We undressed rather formally, sitting on opposite sides of the bed.

  "What's that?" she asked when she heard the quick hiss of the spray canister.

  "Deodorant," I said, pushing the can under the bed.

  Naked, we embraced. She clung tightly to me and put her lips to my ear.

  "Hurry, Nick, hurry," she whispered.

  That was my problem last time, I thought but didn't say. However I did as she requested.

  And got stuck.

  I'm sorry there was no way to say that delicately. Faye tensed-oh how she tensed-and suddenly I couldn't move. At all.

  Faye had gone totally rigid. Arms clasped tightly round my shoulders, legs stiff against my thighs, every other muscle-and I do mean every-taut.

  I now know this is quite common. It's even got a name: Honeymoon Disease. It's just nerves. Problem is, to relax those nerves requires a trip to the hospital and an injection of a muscle relaxant. As I was soon to discover.

  "I can't, Nick, I'm sorry, I can't," she gasped.

  "It's okay," I said. "But could you just ..."

  She couldn't.

  Ten minutes later I began to realize we had a problem.

  "Can't you make it go down?" she said impatiently.

  "Apparently not," I said into the pillow, quietly impressed by the potency of the spray. I could hear Ros moving about outside. 1 knew if I was going to enlist her help it would need to be before she smoked her first joint of the evening.

  "I think we need a doctor," I said. "Let me call Ros."

  "No bloody way," she said.

  It was another twenty minutes before she reluctantly agreed.

  Ros circled the bed.

  "Wow," she said.

  "I don't think you two have been formally introduced," I said to Ros, twisting my head to see her. "Faye this is Ros, Ros this is Faye."

  "This is formal?" Ros said.

  The doctor wouldn't come out. While we were waiting for the ambulance my other flatmates-Sally, Angela, and Ruth-arrived home.

  "Wow," they said, pulling up chairs to join Ros, who was sitting by the bed.

  "Hi, girls, I don't think you know-"

  "I think we can skip the introductions," Faye hissed. "Don't you, Nick?"

  The ambulance arrived soon after.

  Bridget was howling with laughter. When she'd finally ground to a halt, breathless, she got up and climbed onto the bed. She reached round behind my head and cupped it, her face in front of mine. She looked at me intently. Her voice was gruff.

  "C'mere, you big lug."

  My view of the heritage business is shaped by Robert Hewison's The Heritage Industry (Methuen 1987). I've tried to make the history in this novel-particularly in my account of the discovery of Arthur's grave-as accurate as possible. I have made good use of the summary of arguments about this 1191 discovery presented in Glastonbury by Philip Rahtz (Batsford 1993).

  Peter Guttridge is the Royal Literary Fund Writing Fellow at Southampton University and teaches creative writing. Between 1998 and 2002 he was the director of the Brighton Literature Festival. As a freelance journalist he has written about literature, film, and comedy for a range of British newspapers and magazines. Since 1998 he has been the mystery reviewer for The Observer, one of Britain's most prestigious Sunday newspapers. He also writes about-and doggedly practices-astanga vinyasa yoga.

  No Laughing Matter

  Tom Sharpe meets Raymond Chandler in this humorous and brilliant debut. Meet Nick Madrid and the "Bitch of the Broadsheets," Bridget Frost, as they trail a killer from Montreal to Edinburgh to the ghastly lights of Hollywood.

  ISBN: 0-9725776-4-5, ISBN13: 978-0-9725776-4-9

  A Ghost of a Chance

  New Age meets the Old Religion as Nick is bothered and bewildered by pagans, satanists, and metaphysicians. Seances, sabbats, a horse ride from hell, and a kick-boxing zebra all come Nick's way as he tracks a treasure once in the possession ofAleister Crowley.

  ISBN: 0-9725776-8-8, ISBN13: 978-0-9725776-8-7

  Two to Tango

  On a trip down the Amazon, journalist Nick Madrid survives kidnapping, piranhas, and urine-loving fish that lodge where a man least wants one lodged. After those heroics, Nick joins up with a Rock Against Drugs tour where he finds himself tracking down the would-be killer of the tour's pain-in-the-posterior headliner.

  ISBN: 1-933108-00-2, ISBN13: 978-1-933108-00-1

  Returning to his hometown was something Billy Bagwell always dreaded. But he felt he owed it to Tina, the object of his childhoodsexual obsession, to see her off properly. Even in death she could seduce him to her. Upon his return to Wood's Hole on Cape Cod, Billy's past with his old friends-especially his best friend, present day Catholic priest Zal-floods his mind with classic machismo and rite-of-passage boyhood events. But some of their moments were a bit darker, and all seemed to revolve around or involve Tina ... moments that Billy did
n't want to remember.

  This psycho-thriller carries Billy deeper and deeper into long-repressed memories of thirty-five-year-old crimes. As the days grow darker, Billy finds himself caught in a turbulent tide of past hornoerotic encounters, lost innocence, rage, religion, and lust.

  .. the perfect book for those who fancy the darker, grittier side of mystery. A hit-you-in-the-guts psychothriller, this is a compelling story of one man's search for truth and inner peace."

  -Mystery Scene

  "Gritty, psychosexual exploration of motives and behaviors that's both a real page-turner and an insightful portrayal of a half-dozen characters in a tightly knit fishing community...." -New Bedford Standard-Tirnes

  ISBN: 0-9725776-5-3 1 ISBN13:978-1-933108-05-6

  by Baantjer

  DeKok and the Geese of Death

  Renowned Amsterdam mystery author Baantjer brings to life Inspector DeKok in another stirring potboiler full of suspenseful twists and unusual conclusions.

  ISBN: 0-9725776-6-1, ISBN13: 978-0-9725776-6-3

  DeKok and Murder by Melody

  "Death is entitled to our respect," says Inspector DeKok who finds himself once again amidst dark dealings. A triple murder in the Amsterdam Concert Gebouw has him unveiling the truth behind two dead and their housekeeper.

  ISBN: 0-9725776-9-6, ISBN13: 978-0-9725776-9-4

  DeKok and the Death of a Clown

  A high-stakes jewel theft and a dead clown blend into a single riddle for Inspector DeKok to solve.While investigating a jewel theft DeKok is called to check out the death of a clown found floating in a raft down the canal, an enormous knife protruding from its back. The connection of the crimes at first eludes him.

  ISBN: 1-933108-03-7, ISBN13: 978-1-933108-03-2

  DeKok and Murder by Installment

  Although at first it seemed to be a case for the narcotics division, it soon evolves into a series of sinister and almost impossible murders. Never before have DeKok andVledder been so involved in a case whereby murder, drug smuggling, and child prostitution are almost daily occurences.

  ISBN: 1-933108-07-X, ISBN 13: 978-1-933108-07-0

  A. C. Baantjer is the most widely read author in the Netherlands. A former detective inspector of the Amsterdam police, his fictional characters reflect the depth and personality of individuals encountered during his thirty-eight year career in law enforcement. He was recently knighted by the Dutch monarchy.

  Praise for the Inspector DeKok Series

  "Along with such peers as Ed McBain and Georges Simenon, []3aantjer] has created a long-running and uniformly engaging police series. They are smart, suspenseful, and better-crafted than most in the field."

  -Mystery Scene

  ... an excellent and entertaining mystery from a skillful writer and profound thinker."

  -Midwest Book Review

  "Baantjer's laconic, rapid-fire storytelling has spun out a surprisingly complex web of mysteries."

  -Kirkus Reviews

  "This series is the answer to an insomniac's worst fears."

  -The Boston Globe

  "DeKok's maverick personality certainly makes him a compassionate judge of other outsiders and an astute analyst of antisocial behavior."

  -The New York Times Book Review

  "It's easy to understand the appeal ofAmsterdam police detective DeKok; he hides his intelligence behind a phlegmatic demeanor, like an old dog that lazes by the fireplace and only shows his teeth when the house is threatened."

  -The Los Angeles Times

  "Shrewd, compassionate and dedicated, DeKok makes a formidable opponent for criminals and a worthwhile competitor for the attention of Simenon's Maigret fans."

  -Library Journal

  Sam Hill steals cars. Not just any cars, but collectible cars, rare works of automotive artistry. Sam's a specialist, and he's made a good life for himself.

  But things change after he steals a pritno 1965 Thunderbird. In the trunk, Sam finds a corpse, a police informant with a bullet hole between his eyes. Somebody set Sam up. Played a trick on him. And Sam, a prankster himself, can't let it go. He must get his revenge with an even bigger practical joke, one that soon has gangsters gunning for him and police on his tail.

  entertaining, amusing .... This tightly plotted crime novel packs in a lot of action as it briskly moves along."

  -Chicago Tribune

  "Brewer earns four stars for a clever plot, totally engaging characters, and a pay-back ending ...."

  -Mystery Scene

  ` ... incredibly entertaining ..."

  -Baltimore Sun

  ISBN: 1-933108-02-9 1 ISBN13:978-1-933108-02-5

  When a contract killer bumps off a high roller in a LasVegas casino, a tangle of romance, gambling, and gunplay follows. The killer, Lily Marsden, is a mysterious and cold woman who is a true professional. But soon, the casino owner, his henchmen, the victim's two brothers are on Lily's trail.

  Throw in some local cops, a playboy, a new widow, a rug merchant, a harridan, and a couple of idiot gamblers named Delbert and Mookie, and the mixture soon boils with intrigue and murder. Add a dash of romance as a strange magnetism develops between Lily and Joe, dust the whole concoction with Steve Brewer's trademark humor, and you end up with Bullets-a crime novel you won't soon forget.

  "Brewer has created a passel of unique and hilarious characters and thrown them into a page-turning plot that had me laughing out loud despite a hail of bullets."

  -Chicago Sun-Times

  .. a creative, wacky and wonderful crime novel full of intriguing characters, a corkscrew plot and enough fast-paced action to satisfy even the most jaded reader. ... a book so good it's tough to put down"

  -Lansing State Journal

  ISBN: 0-9725776-7-X I ISBN13:978-0-9725776-7-0

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