Hellfire- The Series, Volumes 1-3

by Leigh Barker

  She turned and glared at Annie standing in the bedroom doorway. Annie was nineteen and as confident as any attractive young woman would be. Real blonde hair, deep blue eyes like midnight sapphire and a giggle that would make a zombie smile. People could hate her for being so damned lovely, but charisma came with the package that just drew everyone to her like a siren song.

  Who said life has to be fair?

  “I am not going out on the tiles,” Margaret said, tutting quietly, knowing that this was exactly what she was doing, albeit put rather crudely. “And,” she added with a flick of her long, once-blonde hair, “I don’t care if your father does know. We’re separated, remember?”

  “Yeah, like how could I forget,” Annie said with a little pout. “You moping around all the time.”

  “I do not mope!” Margaret turned back to the wardrobe and resumed her rummaging. “And don’t say yeah, it sounds so… so…”

  “Common?”

  “I was going to say crude, but yes, common will suffice.”

  “You’re such a snob, you know that?”

  Well… yeah, she did — except she never said yeah.

  “Would you, you know?” Annie asked.

  Her mother looked up, frowning. “Would I what?”

  “You know, go back to Dad.”

  Margaret was about to squash the very idea, but stopped and took a slow breath. “Depends.”

  Annie saw a glimmer of hope for the old couple. “Depends on what?” Whatever it was, she would make damned sure it happened.

  Margaret sat on the pile of dresses on the bed. “I suppose it depends on whether or not he’s sorry.”

  “Oh, he’s sorry,” Annie enthused. “I know he is.”

  Margaret tilted her head questioningly. “Did he say something to you?”

  “No, he didn’t need to, I can tell.”

  “Oh, suddenly you’re psychic?”

  “So,” Annie said, pulling the fading hope back out of the tubes. “If he says sorry for… well…”

  “Going off with that tart,” Margaret helped out.

  “We don’t know that he actually… you know?”

  “There aren’t any pictures, if that’s what you mean,” Margaret said bitterly. She stood up slowly and began rummaging in the wardrobe again.

  Strike one hope.

  A rather plain-looking girl about Annie’s age appeared in the doorway behind her. “How’s it going?”

  “Slowly,” Annie said over her shoulder. “Mother wants to look old and haggard.”

  Margaret half turned and glared. “I beg your pardon!”

  Annie smiled at the plain girl and raised her hand to signal five. The girl flashed a quick smile and strolled off.

  “That’s Penny Thing, isn’t it?” Margaret said distractedly as she continued to rummage.

  “Trainer,” Annie corrected.

  “Oh, is she?”

  “Is she what?” Annie asked with a frown and then shook her head. “No, she’s Penny Trainer, not my trainer… well, not in that sense, anyway.”

  Margaret looked back over her shoulder. “You should be a little careful there, dear.”

  Annie’s frown deepened.

  “I believe she is… well, you know?”

  “Know what? Is she rabid or carrying bubonic plague?”

  “No, of course not, don’t be silly. I simply meant she is… she likes… she doesn’t like men.”

  Annie shrugged. “What’s to like?”

  “Quite,” Margaret said, returning to her distracted hunt for just the right dress.

  “So what’s the plan? Quick din-dins, then back to his place for a bed wreck?”

  “What?” Margaret said, her mouth saying more, but no sounds coming forth. “I’m your mother.”

  “Well, doh! What has that got to do with anything? Get in there.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  Annie smiled a smile that a celeb would sell their mother for. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the guys checking out your ass?”

  Margaret’s jaw dropped, but her eyes joined in with a smile.

  “They can tell you’re back on the market, you know. It must be a scent thing.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Margaret said, but the rebuke lacked conviction. “I can’t say I’ve noticed.”

  “Then get noticing, you’ll like it.”

  “What, at my age? I doubt that I’ll get much practice.” Margaret smiled to herself at the truly weird conversation with her little girl and at the memory of the glances she’d noticed all too clearly.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Annie said, taking her mother’s shoulder and turning her slightly. “Forty-something, and in pretty good shape, if I’m any judge.”

  Margaret checked herself out in the wardrobe mirror. Not too bad, perhaps. “A bit too much here and there, and not enough elsewhere.”

  “Rubbish,” Annie said, taking the dress Margaret was holding. “Unless you wear this, of course.”

  “What’s the matter with it? I think it’s—”

  “A very sensible dress,” Annie continued with a sniff. “Trust me, Mom, you’ll never get to crease any sheets wearing that granny dress.” She hustled Margaret out of the way. “Let me see what you have in this time-warp box.” A few minutes later, and a pile of dresses on the floor, she held up a tiny, one-shoulder-tie black dress, the material for which wouldn’t have made a large handkerchief.

  Margaret’s jaw dropped. “I can’t wear that! Anyway, I’d never get into it.”

  Which was really the same as saying, I wish I could get into it.

  Annie held it against her. “Yes, you will.” She smiled and winked. “And it won’t be for long anyway. Not once Mr Wonderful sees you in it.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Breathe in and don’t eat anything.”

  “I’ll faint from lack of oxygen.”

  “The plan,” Annie said, pulling open drawers in search of something suitable for beneath the dress, “is for Mr Wonderful to faint from lack of oxygen. Put it on.”

  She pushed the drawer closed and held up a thong that was no more than a string. “And something for dessert.”

  She left her mother holding the thong between her thumb and finger and examining it at arm’s length. But she would be wearing it, the glint in her eye said that.

  Annie closed the bedroom door quietly, and Penny swept past and caught her arm, pulling her urgently along the short corridor.

  “Whoa, what’s the hurry?” Annie asked with a grin, knowing damn well what the hurry was.

  Penny pulled her into the bedroom, closed the door, and switched on her MP3 player station. Justin Bieber’s “Believe”. Which goes to show, being gay doesn’t mean you can’t like good boy singers.

  Annie leaned on the door, smiling as she watched Penny hopping on one leg while she pulled off her jeans. She pulled off her T-shirt and just dropped it on the floor. Cool. Annie liked this girl. Okay, a little bit plain, if plain means her hair was just brown and a bit short, and she wore wire-rimmed glasses, but she had personality to spare and a sense of humour that would make a bouncer laugh. The other things she liked about Penny became apparent when she pulled off her purple bra. She had huge, magnificent breasts, with deep auburn nipples.

  Penny slapped her bottom and scampered off into the en-suite shower room. Annie shook her head slowly, bent down, and put the discarded clothes on the dresser, with a smile. Penny was always in such a hurry. Sometimes you have to make time to enjoy the moment.

  She took off her clothes, folded them, and put them next to Penny’s on the dresser, then padded into the shower room.

  27

  Harry had been kicked out of the marines… well, pretty much, with just the formality of a court martial, the boot up the backside, and a firing squad to come. But they’d let him come home while they got their ducks in a row, which was very sweet of them. Nobody had wanted to know about t
he village or the ambush, all they wanted to hear was why the Taliban commander had let him go without even slapping his wrist.

  Harry had never been so insulted in all his life — well, okay he had, many times, but he wasn’t going to let these jumped-up shits treat him like a traitor. Well, they could get stuffed and their shitty regiment too. Except the last part was a lie, and he knew it. He hadn’t got a snowball’s chance in hell of convincing the guys in the red berets that the Taliban had just had a little chat with him and sent him on his way. They believed he’d given them something, something valuable — and who could blame them? Yeah, true, but stuff them anyway.

  He paid the cabbie and stood in front of Harvey’s apartment building and wondered what he was going to say to his father. Shit, he’d be spitting blood. Nah, Harvey wasn’t like that; he was always calm, just the sort of man you need in a serious crisis. And, Harry boy, crises don’t come more serious than this one. Dishonourable discharge, life in prison, and firing squad, and his pay would probably be stopped. Not a rosy future, then.

  He wondered how the American was faring and felt a twinge of guilt for getting him into this. But hang on, who got who into what? The yanks had driven into the village, and he, Tom and BJ had just been passengers, remember? Yeah, so quit the guilt trip.

  The automatic doors opened, so somebody must have recognised him. He crossed the marble foyer and nodded at the concierge. What was his name? Eric? No, Ernie, yeah, like Morecambe and Wise, easy mistake. He envied him his nice, simple life. Self-pity is seductive, warm and welcoming. And for pussies, so he quit that too.

  Okay, Pops, let’s get this over with.

  Harvey was reading about the treaty negotiations with the US in the evening paper, but not really taking in the details. His head was replaying the telephone call from Sir Richard, telling him what a damned mess Harry was in. He looked up as the door opened and Harry entered. He put down the newspaper, crossed the room, and took Harry’s pack, put a hand on his son’s shoulder and nodded once. Fatherly reassurance done. Tick box.

  “Thanks, Dad,” Harry said sincerely. “I needed that.” And that was true too. It was almost as reassuring and loving as a punch on the shoulder from a friend.

  “Drink?” Harvey asked.

  “Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

  Harvey poured him a drink, looked at it for a moment, and then splashed a whole lot more into the glass and handed it to Harry.

  “Rough trip?” Harvey asked, as much to get over the awkward moment as to elicit information he already knew.

  Harry nodded. “You heard about Tom and BJ, then?”

  “Yes, Sir Richard brought me up to speed.”

  “Big of him,” Harry said bitterly.

  “It’s not like that, Harry, Richard has your best interests at heart.”

  Harry watched him for several moments, waiting for the punch line.

  “Sit down, Harry,” Harvey said, pointing at the couch. “Before you fall down. You look awful.”

  “Thanks,” Harry said, but lowered himself onto the soft couch with a sigh.

  “Tell you what,” Harvey said cheerfully. “I’m going out to dinner this evening, to your mother’s favourite restaurant as it happens.” He smiled at a little private joke. “You come along too, just the two of us. It will help get you back into the swing of not being shot at.”

  Harry was about to decline and then thought, what the hell? “Okay, but I need some rest and a shower first.”

  “Yes, please,” Harvey said, and Harry bunched his shirt and sniffed it. “Right, it is a bit ripe, but it’s been a big twenty-four hours.”

  “Yes, so I hear.”

  Harry frowned, but let it go. A shower and a sleep were calling. Home sweet home, and he’d better start getting used to it because this was it from now on.

  He was sparked out when Harvey came to wake him, and he started to wonder if he’d need to go to the fridge for a flat fish to smack him with, when he finally groaned and opened his eyes.

  “I was having a great dream,” he said grumpily. “About these twins, belly dancers.” He shook his head. “Never mind, it’s gone now.”

  “Don’t kid yourself,” Harvey said, heading for the door, “it would have been gone even if it wasn’t a dream.”

  “Cheers, Pop, you really know how to lift the spirits of your poor wounded hero son.”

  “Get dressed, hero, and wear something presentable,” Harvey said, stopping at the open door. “We’re going somewhere smart, so it will be a culture shock for you.”

  Harry sat up. “The doomed man’s last meal.”

  Harvey turned. “And that’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  “What? The meal or the doomed part?”

  “The meal can sort itself out,” Harvey said. “The doomed part is less certain.” He closed the door behind him, leaving Harry none the wiser for the enigmatic comment.

  They arrived at Restaurant D’Amore by taxi, which was a bit of a surprise to Harry, as his father was entitled to a car and a driver. Maybe he’d given the old chap the night off. Odd though.

  Mario opened the door and greeted Harvey like a long-lost brother, and with a sincerity that would have won an Oscar. “Mr Thorne!” he gushed, as if Harvey arriving for the table he’d reserved was a big surprise. “How nice to see you again.” Still, it’s nice to be welcome. “Please, I have your table all prepared.”

  Right, straightening a napkin is a big deal.

  “And who is this?”

  Harry, you plonker. But Harry just smiled nicely.

  “Is this your son? Oh, I don’t see him since he used to sit under the table.”

  Gush, gush. The food better be good.

  They entered the up-market Italian restaurant selling bog-standard Italian food at up-market prices. Not bad if you can get away with it, and looking at all the occupied tables, Mario was doing just that. Harry followed his father, who was following Mario to a table tucked away in the corner. Harvey sat against the wall with Harry facing him.

  Mario fiddled with things on the table that didn’t need any attention. “And will Mrs Thorne be joining you tonight?”

  Harvey shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mario, just me and Harry.”

  Mario looked confused for a moment, but covered it by snapping his fingers to call over one of the harassed waiters. Rude, but effective. “This is Aberto.” He indicated the poor boy who was to be their slave for the night by twitching his thumb in his direction. “Anything you wish. Nothing is too much trouble.”

  Aberto stared around at the sea of occupied tables, with the look of a man with a broom after a hurricane.

  A couple arrived at the door, and Mario swept off to gush all over them, much to Harry’s relief. He took pity on the poor boy standing, frozen in indecision. “Hey, Aberto, you go and do waiter things. We’ll work out what we want and give you a whistle.”

  If that was supposed to be reassuring, it failed big time. Aberto shook his head so hard, it was in danger of bouncing off down the restaurant. “No! No! No whistle.”

  Harry smiled, nodded, smiled some more. “Okay. Bugger off now.”

  Aberto fled.

  Harvey studied the menu, in fact, he studied the small print on the menu, and in order to do this, he had to hold it up in front of his face. Harry was seriously perplexed because for all the world, it looked as if he was hiding from something. He turned in his seat to see who Mario had gone to fuss over, and all became clear. He leaned across the table and pulled the menu down to reveal Harvey.

  “You knew she was coming here, you old gumshoe you.”

  Harvey looked past him at Margaret and her date, who was helping her off with her coat to reveal the little black dress Annie had chosen for her.

  This time she saw the men notice her, all of them, in fact, and Annie was right, she did like it. She didn’t see Harvey notice her because he was hiding behind the menu again.

  Harry leaned forward and spoke to the menu in a
whisper. “So this is why you were so keen to come to dinner at this particular restaurant, on this particular night.” He looked back over his shoulder at his mother sitting with her back to him, and smiled. “So what do you intend to do? Duke it out with him on the car park.” He chuckled. “That should be worth seeing.”

  “A coincidence, I assure you,” Harvey said, his eyes appearing above the menu now the coast was clear.

  “Right. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into this one.” Harry tutted. “Coincidence, my arse. You’re stalking her.”

  Which was undeniable.

  “No, I’m not,” Harvey denied. “I admit that I know Margaret frequents this restaurant, and I may have idly wondered if I might see her, but that’s as far as it goes.”

  “Yeah, right,” Harry said. “Warrington… aka Rocky… mentioned that Margaret had a date tonight. Funny that, don’t you think?”

  “Order your food,” Harvey said irritably.

  “You have all the menus.”

  Harvey handed him the one that had been his hide, but his eyes remained on Margaret’s back, a whole lot of Margaret’s back at that. She could be a pain, true, okay, very true, but he did miss her. And she’d never shown that much skin when they’d been together, unless she had, and he hadn’t noticed. He swore he’d notice if things ever righted themselves.

  He watched her date — for date he clearly was — scan the wine list and order for them both. Margaret won’t like that. He saw her head nod distinctly, and he shook his sadly. But then the Date ordered the main course for them both. Now that really was a fatal male chauvinist mistake. Ah!

  Margaret did the nodding again. This was clearly a doppelganger, replacing the real angry Margaret with a friendly, happy version. It wouldn’t last.

  Harry put down the menu he hadn’t looked at, having too much fun watching the expressions war on his father’s face. There was expectation again, oh, and surprise, and ha, disappointment. He smiled, pleased to see he loved her so much because with that much love, anything was possible. Cue soppy music, full moon and cherubs. Pity life isn’t the movies because in this life they would probably never tell each other how they really feel, for fear of painful and humiliating rejection, so they would go on being lonely into a sad old age. Then Annie’s face appeared in his mind, and he grinned broadly. Right, like that would be allowed to happen with his little sister on the case.