Love Sex Work Murder

by Neal Bircher

  Nick explained, and then opened the passenger door for her. Both had a déjà vu moment flashing back to their first “date”, and Nick’s similarly gentlemanly act with the black Porsche, although neither mentioned it.

  Nick got into the driving seat, and the two of them exchanged a lengthy kiss that was accompanied by caressing and loosening of clothes. “We need to get to a hotel room!” said Nick, and Gail smiled an agreement.

  Nick resisted the temptation to drive fast through the streets of North London as he found his way to the M1. Once they were on the motorway however he sped up, eager to leave the nation’s capital – along with a lot of other things – quickly behind them. He handed Gail the watch that he had bought her, and was very pleased to observe her genuine shock and delight. She put it on and leant over to kiss his ear. Then she took out her handkerchief to wipe her eyes.

  The Celica was in the outside lane travelling above the speed limit, but not fast enough that it was likely to attract attention.

  “Goes well, doesn’t it?” said Nick, not waiting for an answer. “If anyone asks me what car is the best value for money, I always say one of these. They look good, go well, have plenty of room, and, being Japanese, they never break down. And you can get the 1.8 version in useable condition for as little as five hundred quid … possibly even less. I’d have preferred a black one – I reckon black’s their best colour – but then silver’s more anonymous, I suppose, which is probably a good thing. I was going to look at an Alfa 156. They’re nice, but there might have been a question mark over reliability…”

  Gail sat back with her eyes closed and let Nick waffle on.

  Soon they passed under the M25; a huge psychological barrier: London was in the past! And the adventure proper had begun. Nick thought to himself about that word, “adventure”. Was that what it was? Yes, that would do, the word had popped into his head several times during the day, and it probably described what he and Gail were doing as well as any alternatives, so adventure it would be. He yelled “Yee Haw!” and started whistling the tune to “The Great Escape”. Gail reclined back in her seat, kicked off her shoes, and laughed aloud.

  Winners

  Nick was in the pub with Martin again. They had each had a stressful day, and had “popped over the road for a quick one in the Angel”. Martin returned from the bar with a fresh pint of Stella each. It would be their third. Then he eased himself back into his chair, and in a rare move, took a lead in the conversation.

  “I was thinking about your three categories of people at work. You know: ‘losers’, ‘sad acts’, and ‘pragmatists’….”

  “Blimey, that was ages ago; I’m glad it’s had such a profound effect on you! It’s ‘sad bastards’ though, not ‘sad acts’”.

  Martin smiled, “Same thing. Anyway, you reckon that the pragmatists are happiest because we have got it sussed, and just get on and make the best of it?”

  “Well, more or less, yes.”

  “See I’m not sure that you’re right. I reckon that the losers are happy in their own way because they’ve absolved themselves of any responsibility for, well, for anything really, and in a way they actually enjoy moaning about everything. And the saddos” – Martin gave Nick a mischievous smile – “are happy too because they are doing well in their career, which is all that matters to them.”

  Martin looked at Nick for approval.

  Nick nodded. “Carry on.”

  “But we, the pragmatists, recognise that we are surrounded by a bunch of idiots, which pisses us off. And we are the only ones who see our own weaknesses. So, unlike the rest of them, we are not happy in the knowledge that we ourselves are perfect. … What do you think?”

  Nick had to be careful here. Whilst he was making a serious point with his people categorisation, he was doing it in a light-hearted way. Whereas Martin was in danger of dragging the topic into a deep philosophical conversation, which, at just two-and-a-bit pints of Stella into an evening was not the kind of stress relief that Nick had gone to the pub for. He contemplated his answer for a while. He was sure that Martin was wrong. However, his argument was completely logical. Therefore Nick would need to come back with an even more logical response to counter the argument, but at the same time he wanted to raise the conversation back to more fun level. Having stared into his Stella for a good number of seconds he took a long slow swig of it, and placed the glass – now just half-full – back down on its beer mat.

  Martin looked on expectantly.

  “Well,” started Nick, “You’re not wrong. But then I don’t think that you are right either. You see, the saddos,” (Martin was pleased to hear Nick pick up his term) “try to think that they are happy with their lot, but they’re not at all. I don’t like to pick on Jason, but he’s the most obvious example that we know: nobody includes him in anything; he hasn’t got any real mates; and remember that time when Tony was taking the piss out of him over the BMW and stuff? He was mortified, because he was the butt of the jokes – like he always is – and he so wanted to be the main man. What makes it worse too is that none of the rest of us would care – we’d be quite happy to be the centre of attention in that way, but he could never come to terms with that. So, like I said, you’re wrong … and I’m right, of course!” The Stella was beginning to kick in, and maybe Nick would enjoy the debate after all.

  “As for the losers … well don’t get me started! Do they actually ever have a laugh – a proper laugh – about anything? Watch them in their little whinging groups in the canteen. They laugh alright, but only when they are having a go at someone – usually a saddo – but their eyes aren’t laughing, they are full of spite, and jealousy. No, they are the worst of the lot.”

  Martin had a kind of “OK, you could have a point” expression about him.

  Nick carried on, “Which leaves us pragmatists, and we are the best off of the lot because” … He hesitated here because he had no idea what he was going to say next … “because we are not trying to be something that we’re not” … quite good … “and because we’re the only ones who can, and do, laugh at ourselves. We appreciate ourselves for what we are, and our lot for what it is and what it’s not. And we actually like other people too; we’re not always trying to compete with them, or justify ourselves against them.” He stopped. Then he went on. “ Plus, and maybe this is the crux of it: we are quite happy to acknowledge that some people are better than us at some things, and therefore haven’t got a problem with them getting better jobs or earning more money. Yep, that’s probably it: that’s why we’re actually the best off. We are the winners! … I’m waffling, aren’t I, but in short I was right all along, wasn’t I?”

  There was a customary Martin long pause, followed by a customary Martin smirk, and then, “Yeah, whatever; time to get back to football.”

  Services

  Nick’s plan for the day had been quite detailed up to the point of getting into the new car and heading away from London. After that point there was no plan, and so he just drove.

  “Where are we going to go?” Gail asked early on.

  “Dunno,” said Nick, “Any ideas?”

  She’d thought for a moment, and then: “Anywhere!”

  So Nick drove north, stopping briefly at Watford Gap services, before continuing on the M1. When the M1 met the M6, he made a random decision to take a left. Soon the great West Midlands conurbation of Birmingham and its surroundings was sliding by, identified by signs to the likes of Curdworth, Bilston, Dudley, and Smethwick.

  “No wonder Brummies are so bloody miserable, with place names like those,” commented Nick.

  The traffic was varied but rarely slowed their progress, and after four hours of hypnotic driving, which, after little recent sleep, and a long hard day, had Nick ready to doze off at the wheel, they found themselves in Cheshire, pulling into Knutsford service station. Gail’s chatting, caressing him from time to time, and playing her heavy metal CDs very loudly, along with long blasts of the windows being open, had kept him
just about awake to that point. Knutsford though was far enough for day one of the adventure, and Nick was very pleased to see that the services included a motel – and quite a cheap one too.

  He and Gail had talked in the car about pseudonyms for booking in to places. After Nick’s habit of whistlingThe Great Escapeevery few miles, Gail decided to call him Steve, after Steve McQueen, and for her he selected the name Daisy, after the girl with the nice bum and denim shorts inThe Dukes of Hazzard. Gail sat on a comfy seat in the lobby as Nick checked them in to the motel. She smiled as she overheard the receptionist thank “Mr Jones”. The smile turned to a broad beam when Nick showed her the receipt made out to Mr andMrsJones. They got into a motel lift and kissed in front of its mirror – a scene they had performed many times before. But this time was different: no need to be surreptitious – at least not in the same way; no need to pay in advance to avoid the embarrassment of the end of an evening get-away; no need to rush anything at all.

  The room was much like any other in which they had “stayed” in the past: a short passageway had a small bathroom to its left and opened out into a square area with one neat double bed, a couple of chairs cramped around a small table, a TV mounted high on the wall, and with much of the far wall taken up with window. In all their previous hotel/motel visits Gail and Nick hadn’t made any use of the TV set, but they had of course made plenty of use of the bed, as well as the shower, and very often even the window ledge. This time they each put down their bags on the floor and Nick drew the curtains together. They hugged and kissed, but remained fully clothed. “I could do with a shower,” said Gail.

  Nick gazed into her eyes. They looked drained, haunted even; it had been a long couple of weeks. He kissed her on the forehead. “Go on then,” and he patted her bum.

  Gail stripped and went into the shower. Nick stripped too, and then sat on the bed waiting for her. She wasn’t long in the shower, and when she returned – wrapped in a motel-supplied big white towel – he took her place in the bathroom. Nick was a bath man; he rarely used a shower. To Nick, showers, and particularly those in hotels, too often had irritating features: unfathomable controls, huge time delay before temperature adjustments took effect, ice-cold curtains, and flooded bathroom floors. Today though, in the interest of expediency (and influenced by the motel’s beige plastic bath being about half of his size), he made an exception. He was in a good mood too, so more tolerant than usual of the shower’s inadequacies. He adjusted height, temperature, and pressure to his liking and once all set up nicely his shower became relaxing and therapeutic. He rubbed the little round soap bar over much of his body, and then closed his eyes and faced into the spray of water, allowing it to cascade over him, and wash away the soap and the grime of the day down the plug hole. He mused that churning around his feet were no doubt forensics-sized particles from each part of a varied twenty-four hours, since his last shower at Hanforth police station that seemed so much more than a day old in his memory. There would be dust from the police station itself, the black stuff from CountrySafe’s car park, the East-End gravel from under that Transit van, the diesel smoke from the same experience … even the polish from Mrs Parrington’s kitchen, all represented in the soapy swirl disappearing down his shower’s plug hole. He thought back over the recent events in his life. He smiled at the thought of being arrested, he smiled at the thought of being on bail, he smiled at the thought of not being at work, he almost laughed at the thought of being on the run, and he smiled largest of all at the thought of the loveable sexy woman with whom he was sharing his adventure. Nick turned off the shower, quickly dried himself, and opened the door to return to the bedroom. Gail had switched off the main light, leaving just one bedside lamp on. She had pulled back the bed covers and she lay on the bed, the shadows cast from the lamp showing off the curves of her naked body to fantastic effect. Nick took in the scene for a moment. Gail was gorgeous, and she was waiting in bed, for him! She was also fast asleep.

  Gail was on the far side of the bed with her back facing Nick. He slipped into the bed next to her, reached over her to switch off the bedside lamp, kissed her on the back of the neck, and then wrapped his arms around her, and quickly drifted off to sleep himself.

  When Nick awoke he cleared his eyes, checked his watch, and was surprised to find that it was already gone nine o’clock. He was lying on his back. Gail still had her back to him, and was still fast asleep, but she must have woken sometime in the night as she was now wearing a motel-issue dressing gown. Nick stared up to the ceiling just listening to her peaceful breathing. His mind drifted to work, where he would normally be at this time. Everyone else would be there; he wondered how much they were talking about him. He would miss a lot of the people, but he was so glad he would never be there again; so glad he would never again be dragging himself out of bed in the morning to do something he would never spend a single second doing if he wasn’t being paid to do it. And with that thought he sprang out of bed full of enthusiasm for what this day had to offer. He put on some clean clothes and, observing that Gail was still asleep, went out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him. Exiting the motel’s reception he found the car park bathed in pale but pleasantly warm autumn sunshine. His Celica sat obediently where he had left it, and was looking good. He opened it up, squinting at the bright light bouncing into his not-quite-fully-woken eyes from the car’s gleaming paintwork that Mrs Parrington’s son had polished so proudly. Only once he’d peered inside did it occur to him that the road atlas that he always kept on the back floor of his car – each of his cars – wouldn’t be there, as this car hadn’t belonged to him until the day before. But, not to worry: what better place to be if wanting to buy a road map (albeit an overpriced one) than a motorway service station? He made the one minute walk from motel car park to the station’s shopping concourse. A couple of check-shirted lorry drivers manoeuvred their 38-tonne artics noisily away towards the northbound carriageway, flurries of be-suited men in Vectras and Mondeos hurried in and out of the main car park, and a hassled-looking man and woman with a people carrier full of children pull up, no doubt en route to the toilets. Nick had nothing against any of these people, but he was just so glad not to be one of them. The rat race really was already feeling like a thing of the past, and – rightly or wrongly – it also felt as if DI Wilson and police interrogations belonged to a different world. He purchased his atlas, a newspaper, and some car snacks, and, rolling a ten pound note discretely from the large wad in his pocket, gave a cheery thank you to the middle-aged woman at the till. She returned the gesture in a broad Cheshire accent. Then Nick strode briskly back across the car park. He found himself whistling again, something he couldn’t do very well, but something that he seemed to have been doing during the past day more than any time since his childhood. Thankfully for Gail, he had stopped by the time he returned to their motel room, no 127. He found her sitting fully dressed on the end of the bed, brushing her just-washed long hair. She smiled to see him.

  “I thought you’d left me!”

  Nick kissed her on the lips. “I did, but then I changed my mind.”

  “Oh, yes! And what made you do that?”

  “You are good at sex!”

  “Glad I’m useful for something.”

  Nick sat on the edge of the bed right next to her.

  “Well, let’s see if you are any good at map reading.”

  He opened the big floppy road atlas across their laps.

  Having located Knutsford on the map, Nick looked left, right, and up a bit, for suitable locations for the next stage of their journey. He suggested Scotland for later in the week, and Gail, who had never been there, readily agreed. However, after the rush and bustle of the last few days – weeks even – something nice and relaxing and not so far away appealed for the time being. Wales was over to the left, and the Yorkshire Dales kind of to the right. Up ahead though, beyond the sprawls of Manchester and Liverpool, lay Cumbria – The Lake District – with plenty of green on the map,
and a fair bit of blue. That seemed about as relaxing and as far away from a Hanforth police cell as anything could be, and they could be there in time for a late pub lunch. Nick slapped the atlas shut and stood up. He took a hold of Gail’s giant suitcase, which she had re-packed while he was out shopping, and pulled it upright. He gestured to his holdall, which was still open where he’d thrown in his used clothes and toothbrush. “Let’s go!”

  Nick allowed Gail to exit the room first and then pulled the door closed behind them. “Do you realise,” he said, “that that must be the longest time we’ve ever spent alone in a room together without having sex?”

  Gail gave a cringing look, given the proximity of other doors behind which anybody could be listening.

  “Actually,” he added, more loudly “it’s probably theonly time we’ve spent alone in a room together without having sex!”

  Gail let go of Nick’s holdall, threw her arms around his neck and, pushing him back against their room door, kissed him, long and deep … partly just to shut him up. Then she drew back, looked sensually into his eyes, and whispered, “There’s still time yet!”

  Nick held Gail’s gaze for some long moments. Then he reached forward and slapping her on the bum, said “No, come on, I want to go to the Lake District,” before scurrying off along the corridor.

  Gail grabbed a training shoe from Nick’s holdall and threw it after him, striking him on the elbow. “Forget, it then … your loss!” Then she ran after him, but was laughing far too much to be able to catch up.

  7. Adventure

  GNX, hun!

  Nick’s texts were a big comfort to Gail. In the waking hours that the two of them weren’t at work or together they each sent a text to the other once every couple of hours or so. There was of course some discretion required, and that could sometimes be a challenge. Gail didn’t have Nick’s name in her address book; she had him down as “SP”. It wasn’t an entirely random set of initials, as she had a habit of calling Nick “Sweetie Pie”, but only he and she knew that. She struggled though on the increasingly less frequent occasions that she was spending time with Barry. She couldn’t bring herself to tell Nick when that was the case, so her phone use had to be somewhat clandestine.