by K. J. Frost
I know I told Mother I wouldn’t be long, but as I swallow down some more of my pint, I start to hope that maybe Trudy might agree to let me see her home after she’s finished work. Once I’ve got her on her own, my options will be almost limitless. Obviously, if she lives by herself, then all I have to do is persuade her to invite me in for coffee. If she lives with someone else, then I know all the back alleys and quiet corners in this area…
“Have one yourself.” The soldier’s voice breaks into my thoughts and I turn to see Trudy grinning at the man, leaning forward and giving him the benefit of her generous cleavage.
“That’s very kind,” she simpers and flutters her eyelashes at him.
I can feel my blood boiling and slam my pint down on the bar.
“Everything alright, love?” She looks over at me.
“Yeah,” I reply, trying to sound nonchalant. “Everything’s just fine. I’m not thirsty anymore, that’s all.”
“Maybe you should try doing a man’s work… then you could build up a thirst.” I spin around at the sound of the female voice coming from behind me.
“What do you mean?” I look at the young blonde woman standing with her arms folded across her chest, her lips pursed, her head tilted to one side. She’s wearing the pristine uniform of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, and I guess that she’s probably a new recruit.
“You can’t be more than twenty-five, or thirty. Why aren’t you in uniform?” she asks, her lips curling up into a sly smile.
“Because I’m in a reserved occupation.” I defend myself, although I’m not sure why. “Besides, I tried and they wouldn’t have me, on account of my eyesight.”
“Really? There didn’t seem to be much wrong with your eyesight just now. You were ogling the barmaid well enough…” I hear laughter from behind me and turn to see the two soldiers trying to cover their chuckles.
Feeling the blush spread from my neck upward to my hairline, I get up and, with as much dignity as I can muster, put my coat on, grab my hat, and leave.
I walk home slowly. I’m absolutely fuming, muttering to myself under my breath, unable to believe that woman dared to speak to me in that way, to question my commitment to my country. How dare she? She’s got no idea who I am, or what I do for a living. I’ve heard stories about women in the last war, who went around giving out white feathers to men they felt should be in uniform and I wonder for a moment if they’re going to do the same thing this time. If so, I’ll probably be on the receiving end of quite a few, because the woman in the pub was quite right, I am the perfect age to be called up, and I don’t relish the prospect of having to repeatedly explain my exemption on both medical and professional grounds. Why should I? What business is it of hers, or any other bloody female, anyway?
By the time I’ve got half way home, I’ve already decided there are better ways of getting my own back than explaining myself. If she really wants proof that I’m a man, then I’ll happily oblige…
I let myself into the house as quietly as I can, and then stop, listening for any sounds. The silence is consuming, almost suffocating and it plays on my agitated nerves. I go through and check the rooms on the ground floor, but other than the latent orange glow of the fire in the living room, the downstairs is in complete darkness.
Silently, I climb the stairs, taking care to avoid the fifth tread, because I know it creaks loudly, then I go straight into my brother’s room. Without thinking, I quickly strip off my clothes, down to my underwear, and put on George’s uniform. We were the same size and had been since our early twenties, so his trousers and tunic are a perfect fit. I put my glasses back on – because I’m going to need them to find my way back to the pub in the dark – and then pick up his cap and carefully creep back down the stairs again, leaving the house once more.
I hurry back to the inn, pausing just before entering to remove my glasses. Whatever that recruiting officer might have said, I can see reasonably well without them. More importantly, I know I look completely different when I’m not wearing them and, coupled with the uniform, I hope this will provide a sufficient disguise. Good enough to teach that young woman a lesson, anyway.
Inside, there are a few more people now and I find my way over to the bar, ordering a pint of beer. Trudy is still serving. I’d have recognised her voice anywhere and, even though she’s now a little blurred around the edges, her attributes are still as obvious and enticing as before. All in all, though, I have to admit, she’s greatly improved by the removal of my spectacles and, as she takes my money, I comment on how busy the bar is, asking if it’s like this all the time.
“I wouldn’t know, love. It’s my first night,” she says. “But it’s been fairly hectic all evening.” I breathe a sigh of relief. I’ve passed my first test. She didn’t recognise me.
I remember the woman who accosted me was sitting with her friends in the furthest corner of the room and, as I make my way over to their table, I can just about make out that two of them are in uniform, and two aren’t. They’re all female, and as such, they’re all fair game, but I’m only interested in one of them. All I’ve got to do is to isolate her from her friends.
“Good evening, ladies,” I say, as bold as brass, turning on the charm to its full wattage.
They all turn and look at me and, to my extreme pleasure, I notice that the one who’s my target, greets me with a smile.
“Good evening,” she says, making a space for me on the bench beside her. “Why don’t you join us?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” I sit down next to her, maybe a little closer than is strictly necessary, although she doesn’t complain. In fact, she wriggles herself into me and looks up into my eyes. For my ordinary tastes, she’s a little obvious, but this isn’t about my ordinary tastes. This is something very particular.
I make small talk with them for the next hour or so, telling them when asked that my name is George, and I buy them all a drink. It’s a small investment, considering the reward I intend to claim. Then, as the barmaid calls ‘time’, I lean over my target, who’s introduced herself as ‘Ursula’, and whisper, “May I see you home?” She nods enthusiastically and I get to my feet, holding out my hand to her. She wishes her friends a good evening and allows me to lead her out of the pub.
Once I’ve closed the door behind us, she gives me directions to her house, but we haven’t got more than half way there, when we come upon the perfect alleyway, set between two shops in Walton Road. It’s exactly what I need. Damp and dingy, it’s just right. At least it’s stopped raining now, and the moon has come out from behind the clouds, so there’s just enough light to see what I’m doing.
“Come down here,” I say, pulling her into the dark recess.
She giggles and, making a mock protest, allows me to drag her a short distance down the passage.
“I don’t usually do this kind of thing,” she whispers, letting me push her up against the wall and kiss her, my tongue darting into her open mouth. No, of course you don’t, I muse, and I give her just a matter of seconds to get used to my attentions before I let my hands wander, lifting her skirt and hitching it around her waist, then pressing my fingers into the bare flesh at the top of her stockings. She moans into my mouth and squirms her willing intentions. I pause. This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. She’s not supposed to enjoy it. She’s supposed to resist, to fight back, to realise the error of her ways and that I’m not a man to be trifled with… Well, I suppose there’s only one thing for it. I quickly unfasten my trouser buttons, freeing my erection, and feeling a shiver of excitement run through me. She leans back and glances down between us for a moment and then looks back up at me, licking her lips.
“My, you have got a big one,” she says, giggling again. Yes, I have, but that’s not the point. Why isn’t she scared? Surely she must realise what I’m planning on doing.
I don’t reply, but raise her left leg over my right arm, then use my fingers to pull her knickers to one side and, finding her entrance with ease
, thrust myself deep inside her.
“Ow!” she cries, pushing against me. “Go easy, will you? I’m not ready… and… Ouch! You’re hurting me…”
“I know,” I grunt, ignoring her pleas, as I start to move.
“Stop!”
“Quiet!” I raise my free hand and put it over her mouth.
Her eyes widen with fear and I can’t help smiling. That’s it. That’s the look I wanted.
“Going to be quiet?” I ask, slowing my rhythm. I’m finding this more exciting than I’d expected and I want to make it last a bit longer.
She nods her head.
“Make a sound and I’ll hurt you even more,” I warn.
She nods again and I remove my hand. I want to be able to hear her replies; to hear the fear in her voice.
“Remember me?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “I’ve got no idea who you are. Just let me go now and I won’t say anything about this. I promise.”
I laugh quietly and start to move inside her again, as she winces in pain. “I do hope this is really uncomfortable for you,” I say, pulling back and then slamming hard into her.
She cries out just the once, but says nothing.
“You really don’t remember me?” I ask. She shakes her head. “Even though you only met me earlier this evening?”
Now she looks confused and I stop moving once more. I don’t want this to end… well, not yet. Not until she knows exactly who I am.
“Please don’t do this,” she whimpers, and I notice a tear tracking down her cheek.
“Don’t think crying’s going to work with me,” I mutter quietly. “I’m immune.”
“Tell me who you are then.” She seems to be resigned now.
I resume my movements, but she doesn’t react this time and I raise my free hand again. Instead of covering her mouth though, I place it around her slim white throat. “In the pub earlier,” I explain, making her wince with pain. “You implied I wasn’t a man. You said I should be in uniform.”
I see the moment of recognition dawn in her eyes.
“B––but you said you were exempted…” she chokes out, looking bewildered.
“I am. This isn’t my uniform. And just so you know, my name isn’t George either.” I chuckle, tightening my grip on her neck. I can feel her struggling to swallow against my fingers as I pick up the pace, taking her harder.
“I’m sorry,” she mouthes, her eyes starting to bulge.
I ignore her, focusing on my building climax. I’m almost there… I let my head rock back, just as my final stroke lifts her standing foot off the floor and I explode deep inside her, letting out a groan of purest pleasure.
It takes me a moment to calm and, as I release my grip on her neck, she crumples limply to the floor by my feet. I crouch down, her eyes fluttering closed, and I lower my mouth to her ear.
“There… Was that man enough for you?” I whisper, laughing softly to myself, as the last breath leaves her body.
*****
I look down at the handwritten letter and read it through.
Dear Sir,
Further to previous correspondence, I once again hereby request permission to be given leave to enlist in His Majesty’s armed forces for the duration of the war.
Yours faithfully,
Rufus Stone
As letters go, it’s maybe a little succinct, but I can’t think what else to say. Chief Superintendent Dale has already declined my previous two requests, so I doubt he’s going to have a sudden change of heart and grant me permission this time. Even so, I fold up the letter, place it in an envelope and write his name on the outside, marking it ‘Private and confidential’.
Then I turn out the lamp on my desk, collect my hat from the stand and leave my office. It’s late and the building is quiet. It’s not deserted though. Scotland Yard is never that. But it’s much quieter than it is during the day. I go up the stairs and into Dale’s empty office, leaving the letter on his desk.
I have no doubt he’ll find it tomorrow, and then sparks will fly. Again.
Back in my flat, I prepare myself a cheese omelette, slice and butter some bread, then sit on the sofa with a small glass of malt whisky, a cigarette burning in the ashtray beside me, and listen to the news on the wireless. Although there isn’t very much going on, in terms of our involvement in the war, it still rankles that I’m stuck here chasing petty criminals, when I’m sure I could be doing something much more worthwhile.
Still, maybe my letter will work this time. Maybe it’ll be third time lucky.
Chapter Two
I’ve got away with it.
I have no idea why it took so long, but after nearly thirty-six nail biting hours, the woman’s body was found, the local police were called and they spent days on end bumbling around like the fools they are, getting nowhere, achieving nothing. Of course, it didn’t help that no-one could give a clear description of the man the victim had been seen with that evening, even if her friends had known his name was ‘George’. It’s hardly the most uncommon name, is it? Another problem was that the police themselves were very busy, what with that spate of burglaries, the bank robbery that had happened three days earlier and a very convenient serial arsonist on the loose, not to mention all the other everyday petty crimes the public seem to deem important. Understandably, the local newspapers covered the killing and I had to admit, there was a part of me that wanted to hold up the reports and say, “I did that!”, “That was me!”, “I killed her!”. I didn’t. Obviously. Because that would have been stupid. And one thing I’m not, is stupid. I now know her name in full: it’s Ursula Franklin. I know that she was a local girl, and that she’d only joined the WAAFs a few weeks ago, and was out celebrating her first weekend pass with her friends – so I was right about that.
I’ve been busy at work myself, but I keep looking over my shoulder, expecting someone to come and question me, telling me I was noticed at the pub and asking me about what I’d seen while I was there. I’ve been planning to tell them I’d been there, that I had a pint, was accosted by a woman in uniform and went home, feeling sorry for myself. I’ve even been rehearsing a shocked and conciliatory expression I could portray when they informed me that the ‘woman in uniform’ was the victim. The problem is, no-one’s been to see me. It seems none of the other witnesses even remembered me being there and, when I went back to the pub a couple of nights later – dressed in my own clothes, naturally – although the murder was a hot topic of conversation, no-one paid me any particular attention. If anything, I felt even more anonymous than ever, which was extremely disappointing.
You see, getting away with it is all well and good, but it’s not very exciting. Life’s carried on exactly as it was before; mundane, dull, boring. Oddly, it’s that very mundanity, that very dullness, coupled with the need to re-live that thrill I felt when I squeezed the life from Ursula Franklin’s body, while ironically planting my seed in her, that’s driven me to want to repeat the process. Nothing else in my life has come close to the exhilaration I felt at that moment – and I’m fairly sure nothing ever will.
Obviously, I can’t return to the same pub. Apart from the fact that my reappearance there, in uniform, might just jog someone’s memory, I need to spread my net a little wider. And besides, that pub is my local. I want to be able to continue to drink there, as myself, without running any risks. So, I’ve decided to go somewhere else.
I’ve spent a few evenings frequenting other nearby hostelries, seeing which ones have most service personnel visiting, and much to my delight, I’ve found they’re all equally popular. Ideally, you see, my victims need to be in uniform. It makes the whole thing so much more satisfying and I’m pleased to say, the pickings are rich indeed.
I sit down on Sunday evening and decide I’ll strike again tomorrow night – Monday the sixteenth of October. During my research, I established that Mondays and Tuesdays are fairly busy. Then on Wednesdays and Thursdays, there seems to be a bit of a lull. That’d be no goo
d for me. I might be remembered too easily by either the bar staff or other customers. Weekends are good as well, but I don’t want to wait that long, so tomorrow it is. The weather forecast is fair. It’s not due to rain and I feel like the omens are good for my second murder…
As I do up George’s blue serge trousers in the privacy of my own bedroom, I chuckle to myself, wondering how my mother, who’s in the next room, reading to Father, would react if she knew I was using her precious son’s uniform to attract women, and lure them to their deaths… once I’ve finished with them, of course. I stifle a giggle as I fasten the buttons of the tunic, pick up George’s cap, and silently make my way down the stairs. I realise it’s a risk, wearing George’s uniform while Mother is still awake, but there’s nothing on the wireless she wanted to listen to this evening, so it’s obvious to me that she won’t stir from their bedroom for at least another hour, when she goes to make their cocoa before retiring to bed. In the same way, my mother knows that I frequently go to the pub of an evening, so she won’t question my absence, or the fact that I didn’t call out a ‘goodbye’. I know better than to interrupt her while she’s reading. It disturbs her train of thought.
I’m on my second pint when I notice them. At first glance, I think there’s maybe something vaguely familiar about them, but then, why wouldn’t there be? They might be local girls. I might have seen them in the street, or on the bus. They might drink in here on occasion and, although this isn’t my regular pub, I’ve been in here before – dressed as myself, naturally. They’re sitting a couple of tables away from me, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. Without my glasses on, I can’t see either of them clearly, but I can see they’re not in uniform, which is a shame. Still, I keep watching, intrigued. They’re talking, with their heads close together and seem to be having a mild disagreement. After a few minutes, one of them gets up and leaves the pub. Her friend watches her, and I can make out the sad expression on her face.