HOPE . . . because that's all there ever is.

by James Crow

  Standing with her hand on the nozzle as the pump thumped and droned, Rose noticed that the only other cars on the forecourt were a black BMW, and at the pump behind it a grey Mitsubishi 4x4. A woman in her forties was filling the BMW, while a younger woman was filling the 4x4, both of them smartly-dressed. Through the BMW’s tinted rear window Rose saw a shadow of a man in the back seat. When she went to pay, so did the two women.

  Rose browsed the magazine rack, allowing the women to pay before her so she could observe and listen. She picked up nothing from them inside, but when she watched them return to their cars the man emerged from the back of the BMW and started talking to the women. He was tall, dark, muscular, mid-forties, dressed in a brown leather jacket, blue shirt and dark trousers. He wore trainers, which Rose thought odd. He went to the BMW’s boot, pulled out a case, closed the boot. One of the women dropped some keys into his hand. The man got in the 4x4 with the case, the two women into the BMW. Rose went quickly to the counter, paid cash, and hurried back to her car. Silly intrigue, of course, but this was the stuff of imagination. She had witnessed something out of the norm, possibly even an affair. The tall dark stranger had two mistresses and now it was time to return to his wife on the farm, or maybe he was a Government agent on a secret mission. Whatever the case, if she could follow them for a while, who knew what could happen next.

  4

  Pete steps outside into darkness and white mist. The air smells clean, the loch is almost still, its slow undercurrents telling with the lightest of laps at the shoreline. A magpie chatters somewhere, followed by rustling close by. Pete looks to a nearby silver birch when the sound comes again, and a woman steps out from behind it.

  Her nakedness surprises him. Pete’s glad it’s still dark. She takes two steps towards him on feet that make no sound. He sees her face clearly now. Despite her smile, she’s ugly, stick-thin and scrawny. He can see the silver birch through her ghostly form. The birch’s bark makes her breasts appear wrinkled. Pete knows the twisted face. It’s Moira Muldoon, a prozzie from Moxley village. She hangs out in the alley near the pub’s backyard that backs onto the river. If you fancy a wank after a few jars, Moira will take you behind the low wall and toss you off into the river for a fiver. Pete was never a customer, of course. He smiles at the apparition, ‘Do you know I’m coming?’

  The wrinkled Moira moves a hand to her crotch and rubs in slow rhythmic movements before jerking like a puppet. The hallucination fades. Pete takes a second to find his feet, then goes back inside feeling curiously aroused. The eye on the easel stares at him.

  5

  Rose wasn’t quick enough. She spotted the BMW coming off the roundabout to head back to the M6 but the 4x4 was nowhere to be seen. She shrugged off thoughts of mistresses and secret agents and decided in an instant to take the road to Gretna Green. She’d visited there once before, stayed with friends for a wedding, so it would be nice to drive through the village, see the old sights of the Blacksmith’s Shop and the pub – was it the first pub in Scotland or the last in England? One or the other.

  Cars in front on the road into Gretna were braking. Rose slowed the Corsa and joined a long queue. In the distance a small blue light strobed: an accident. Cars were leaving the queue, turning around and heading back this way. She let her window down when a man in a pickup truck stopped to talk to the driver in front. ‘Sheep transporter overturned,’ he said. ‘Not a pretty sight.’ Rose remembered the pile of dead sheep from her attempts to get to sleep the previous night. Bizarre, she thought. Then, very bizarre when the next vehicle to pull from the line some twenty places ahead looked to be a grey Mitsubishi 4x4. The driver stared straight ahead as he passed and it was the same dark-haired man with the blue shirt and brown leather jacket, his face as stern as a shitting dog. Rose flicked the indicator, thanked the Corsa for being able to turn on a sixpence, and was soon in the other lane, two cars behind the 4x4.

  This was the fun of pootling about on your own with no one to mind your business. You could take whatever fancy you liked and see where it led. Well, for now she was following a mysterious man who swaps cars with women at service stations. Wherever he was headed he would now try to get there another way. Intrigued, Rose popped an extra strong mint and kept a steady distance. The 4x4 soon took a left, travelled a mile or so then took another. They were on a single-track road devoid of other cars. The man was driving too fast. Rose willed him to slow down a little and considered giving up the chase, when his taillights came on and the 4x4 shuddered to a stop. Rose braked, she was a good five hundred yards behind, yet she soon saw the cause of his braking. More sheep, this time live ones being driven over the rise in front of the 4x4. They came past the Mitsubishi, a hundred or more, followed by a shepherdess with crook and collie. Rose crept slowly up the road and was at the 4x4’s bumper before it was on its way again. That might make you drive a little slower, you dumb scrote. Rose set the Corsa moving again.

  They were coming into a valley. Green hills beckoned, the first sun catching them pretty. The driver of the 4x4 had slowed a little, touching 30 to 35, which was still too fast for the winding road. Rose was on the verge of giving up once again. There was a small river to her right now and she did not want a soaking, or worse. She eased back on the accelerator and watched the 4x4 for a few short seconds as it climbed a small rise, then it slowed, braked, and took a left that was hidden by trees. Rose followed, kept the vehicle in sight. It stopped at a T-junction with a high hill backdrop of green, and turned right. Before Rose reached the junction, a faded sign welcomed her to Sallow Valley. A good name, she thought. The sign at the junction told her that Loch Rowe was two miles away. Nailed beneath was a newer sign for Loch Rowe Holiday Cabins. A separate sign declared Galashiels to be thirty miles on. Rose had an idea the mystery man was heading for Loch Rowe, and her mind presented a picture of a waiting belly dancer with veil. She turned the Corsa onto the road and followed the 4x4 for two miles and the loch came into view and sure as eggs are eggs the Mitsubishi turned right onto the loch road. Like any good detective, Rose drove on past, did not turn her head to look for the vehicle, just kept on going, same speed, until the road curved and she was out of sight.

  6

  Fifteen cabins surrounded Loch Rowe, some close to the water, some set back into the trees. Most were empty after the busy summer, but a few remained occupied, like the one next door to Alison Black’s where Martin and Muriel, performance dancers by occupation for many long years and proud of their camper-than-Christmas stage personas, had arrived a month ago after completing their usual Blackpool summer run; heading north to the borders to recuperate and work on fresh material for the festive gigs was a perennial affair. Their real names were Bob and Carol, although they did delight in keeping the stage names when working on new material – or when screwing.

  Bob was wide awake, staring at the smoke alarm on the ceiling. Carol had her back to him and was purring in her sleep. The night had been a long one: tossing and turning, too hot, too cold, thirsty, headache. Bob’s state was not conducive to creation, not helpful at all. Dawn hinted through the thin curtains, turning the room to shades of grey. Bob touched a hand to Carol’s hip and gave a little nudge. ‘You awake, Caro?’

  Carol continued to purr, a nice sound, a good sound, usually a relaxing sound, but Bob wanted to get them both up and outside for fresh air and maybe some inspiration. Last night, before falling into bed, stage persona Martin had screwed stage persona Muriel, both in sequined costumes. Martin had taken the wheel and screwed Muriel from behind on the rug by the gas fire, turning her over after he’d come to finish her off by sucking her button. It seemed the only way she got off was when he sucked her button or when she screwed him. They were happy enough with this arrangement, happy as gay pigs in sugary shite, as Muriel would say. The fact they were both nearing sixty was no matter, both toned and relatively healthy from years of dance and careful eating and healthy living; neither of them a drinker or a smoker. They loved each other dearly, that’
s all that mattered in the end.

  Carol stirred, mumbled something. It sounded like mushrooms.

  Bob switched the bedside lamp on. ‘You awake, lovey?’ he tried again. Carol grunted, stretched her legs beneath the duvet. ‘Caro? Can we get up?’

  Carol turned over, brushed her greying hair behind her ears. She had a beautiful face, the lightest of wrinkles at her eyes like birdprints in snowdust, and small yet pouty lips, and her eyes always held a thrilled liveliness. Small, still-taut breasts showed faintly through a fine silk nightdress decorated with dancing dragons. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Were you dreaming about mushrooms? You said something about mushrooms.’

  ‘Don’t recall any dream.’

  ‘We could go out and pick some for breakfast, if you like.’

  Carol propped herself on an elbow, opened her nightdress, took his hand and stroked his fingers down her breast, touching the nipple gently, rolling it in his palm, arousing it to stiffness. ‘Want me to screw you, Bobby?’

  Bob smiled at his darling. ‘We only screw at night,’ he reminded, ‘And we use our public names, Muriel.’

  ‘I want to screw my Bobby, and when he comes I want him to shout my real name. I’m tired of that keeping-in-character tosh.’

  ‘Tosh?’ Bob took his hand back.

  Carol moved closer, pressed a breast into his naked ribs. ‘I want to make you scream.’

  ‘Scream?’ Bob’s mouth was suddenly dry.

  ‘Scream. Like a virgin.’

  Bob laughed. ‘Baby, you know I’m never going to scream.’

  ‘Why not? Screaming out your orgasm is good for your heart.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Kelly Farthing told me.’

  ‘Kelly Farthing’s a rat-bag slag. Don’t listen to a thing she says.’

  She touched his lips. ‘It’s just a bit of fun. Scream, Bobby, will you, for me?’

  There was more than the familiar play-kitten in her eyes. Her eyes burned with lust. Bob pulled his knees up, and the blankets to his chest. ‘I can’t be fucking screaming. Beth and her mother are right next door.’

  ‘Don’t be nervous, Bobby.’ She slipped a hand under the blanket and stroked his stomach.

  ‘Why would I be nervous? I’m just hungry.’

  ‘You only use the F-word when you’re nervous or feeling threatened. I’m going to fuck you, Bobby. Bethy and her miserable mother are at least a hundred yards away. They’ll be fast asleep. And if they mention hearing a scream, we’ll say we heard it too, and that it was probably a bear or something.’

  ‘Oh, yes, we heard that bear screaming out for Muriel. Right randy old bear, that one. There are no fucking bears in Scotland, old girl.’

  ‘There’s my bare arse, you like my bare arse.’ Her hand moved between his legs. Softly. Softly.

  Bob slipped an arm around her, pulled her close, slid his fingers to the base of her spine. She closed her eyes, gave a theatrical sigh, opened them again. Her moist tongue slipped out and licked her lips. ‘I need to fuck you, Bobby.’

  ‘I can’t remember the last time we did it in the morning, Caro.’

  She licked her lips again. ‘Maybe it’s the romance in the Scottish air, or the spirits from the loch. I don’t know, Bobby, I just fancy a good fuck with the man I love, and I want my man to scream for me.’

  ‘Men don’t scream – can’t scream.’

  She yanked back the blankets and smacked his stomach with the flat of her hand.

  Bobby yelped and moved away. ‘It’s Martin. If you’re going to make anyone scream, it’ll be Martin, you know that.’

  ‘I just want a bit of fun Martin.’

  ‘We had fun last night. Screwing in the morning’s not good for your day.’

  ‘We can break the rules, for once. Be audacious, you know. Come on, you old stick-in-the-mud. Let your Caro fuck your brains out.’

  Bob slid his fingers back up her spine and gathered her hair in his fist. He applied downward pressure and pulled Carol’s head back.

  She grinned. ‘I remember the last time we fucked in a morning, Bobby. Benidorm 89, three mornings on the trot, and the only reason we stopped at three was because the maid walked in and dropped her towels when she saw me writhing on your face.’

  Bob chuckled at the memory. ‘I’m still not screaming.’

  ‘You’d have no choice, Bobby.’

  ‘How’s that, Carol?’ A slight smile touched her lips, her nostrils were flaring, her pupils black and wide, Bob thought for one fleeting moment he could see inside her head.

  ‘Because I’m feeling it, Bobby, I’ve got the horn. I want to hear you scream with pleasure.’

  ‘I fancy some eggs.’

  She slapped his face – not too hard, but: ‘What the fucking hell was that?’

  ‘We should get a swear box.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m making you nervous, Bobby. I can tell. I could gag you,’ she giggled, ‘then you’d scream inside.’ She sprang to her knees, arched her back and pushed her groin forward and, as was always the way, there wasn’t a pubic hair to be seen. She sucked on two fingers and then slid them between her legs. ‘You know you can’t resist the haven of shaven. I love it when you’re in there, sweet Bobby of mine.’

  Tingles like fairy dust tickled Bob’s balls. The offer of being screwed at dawn was beginning to seem like a good idea. The sound of a car approaching down the forest road made them both still. The car stopped, the engine died, a car door opened and closed with a heavy thunk. Carol swung a knee over Bob and straddled him. She leaned to the small window and made a gap in the curtains to peer through. ‘Four-by-four monster. Man getting out. Must be Beth’s dad. She said he’d be coming. Early bird –’

  ‘– gets the worm,’ Bob finished for her. ‘Carol.’ She looked at him. ‘Come screw your Bobby, then. Then I’ll make us eggs for breakfast.’

  ‘And you’ll scream?’

  ‘No.’

  She moved down the bed, opened his legs, planted herself between them. When she took him between her lips he was still soft. Bobby relaxed, closed his eyes, and felt himself growing inside her mouth. ‘Oh, God, you’re good,’ he said as her teeth scraped around his thickening dick. Her nails advanced over his stomach and up to his chest where she toyed with his nipples. She pulled away, shrugged off her nightdress and took him in her hands. ‘Challenge for you, Bobby. Last longer than your eleven-minute record, and I’ll make breakfast.’

  Bobby felt his cheeks warming. ‘That’s unfair.’

  ‘I’m teasing.’

  ‘We do it quick ’cause we like it that way.’

  ‘Don’t get uptight, Bobby. I was teasing. You know what happened last time you stressed out.’

  He glared at her.

  ‘You couldn’t get it up for a month.’ She squeezed him gently, had him by the balls. ‘Wouldn’t do to go through that again, would it, Bobby?’ Her head cocked to one side. ‘Would it, Bobby?’

  Bobby bit his tongue, could hear his own breathing.

  ‘I used a cucumber, whenever you went out. Do you know how that made me feel, just because you were too weak to get one up?’

  Bobby’s right arm swung hard and fast. His palm connected with Carol’s cheek and she almost toppled from the bed. She knelt before him, mouth open in a salacious grin, breasts moving up and down with her panting; hair hanging loose over one eye. ‘Neat trick, huh?’

  Trick? Bob noticed that his dick was standing tall.

  Carol shrugged. ‘You can make breakfast, Bobby boy. After I’ve made you scream.’

  Bobby nodded and Carol climbed on top. He closed his eyes, only to have them startled open again when she slapped his face; the resounding whack was loud in the early morning silence. She pushed down onto him, her pussy so tight, and sashayed backwards and forwards. ‘To get your heart pumping, get you nice and big.’ She slapped him again.

  Bobby reached for her breasts, took one in each hand, squeezed hard, and Carol moaned
, rode him with rhythm, knocking her pubic bone onto his with each pass, the effect, Bobby knew, would be a premature mess. He fought against it, pushed against it, forced her backwards and upwards.

  ‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘I love it when you shove it deep.’

  Bobby told his balls to close the gates and thought of picking mushrooms. She slapped him again. ‘What you thinking of, Bobby?’

  He grabbed her wrist. ‘Mushrooms.’

  She laughed and he let go of her wrist. She continued riding him. She cupped her breasts and pulled on her nipples.

  ‘What was he like?’ Bob said, willing his balls to behave.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man. Beth’s dad.’

  ‘Tall dark and handsome. Pay attention, Bobby or I’ll slap you fucking harder.’

  ‘We might get to see more of Beth. Now he’s here, she won’t have to keep her soppy mother happy all the time.’

  ‘I’m fucking you, Bobby, and you’re talking about a little girl.’

  ‘Not in that way.’

  ‘What way?’

  ‘I like Beth. We like Beth. She’s good for our work. Don’t be crude, it doesn’t suit you.’

  Carol grinned at him and her eyes sparkled. ‘You’re stalling.’

  ‘Of course I’m fucking stalling.’

  She leaned forward, hung her breasts into his face. ‘Suck them.’ Bobby flicked a tongue at her nipples as they passed his lips to and fro. ‘I said suck them, Bobby, suck my fucking tits.’ His lips took a nipple, sucked it in. ‘You like my little titties, Bobby, don’t you?’

  Bobby stiffened further as she continued grinding. She put her weight behind her breast and forced his head into the pillow. ‘Bethy’s got nice little titties,’ she said. ‘You’d like to suck on those, wouldn’t you, Bobby?’

  With both hands, Bob heaved Carol back to a sitting position. ‘Too far!’

  ‘Nothing wrong with a bit of fantasy. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it.’

  ‘That’s sick, Carol. Bloody sick. And not like you at all.’