BEEP…BEEP…BEEP.

Plumes of thick smoke rise from the small piles of burning leaves that are dotted around the ancient church cemetery, stinging the eyes of the mourners and choking their lungs, as they file out into the murky gloom of the graveyard, their steps marked by the heavy toll of the church bell.

The leaden sun of early winter is slowly dimming in the dusk of the late afternoon. The procession of formally dressed black shadows cast eerie silhouettes in the half-light as the mixture of the bonfire smoke and the rising mist enshrouds them.

From somewhere in the distance the faint sound of a song carries on the light breeze, sending bright signals of recognition fizzing along the nerve passages in my brain.

The congregation are all known to me, their images hover like ghosts through my subconscious. Their faces are constantly changing and revolving, then bleeding into one. First Sally, then Margaret Kingsley, my sister Siobhan, Katarina, Eve, Zoe Cooke, and others.  I know them all.

BEEP…BEEP…BEEP.

Then in the blink of an eye, I’m carried away, drifting down a dark back alley lit by old Victorian gas lamps, through a door and then down, down into the darkness of a cellar. In the centre of the room stands a gang of naked men. Their backs are turned to me, but the moaning, quelching, slapping sound on the other side of the human wall is unmistakable.

One of the men turns his head towards me. He has no features, his face is blank: no eyes, nose or mouth. He motions for me to come nearer, and as I join him, I can see Katarina laid out on the bare springs of a sharp, barbed mattress-less bed. She looks pained and beseeching, her feet and hands tied by ropes to all four corners of the bedposts.

“Joseph,” she says plainly, but the voice isn’t hers; it is kind and at odds with the expression of anguish on her face. One of the men drives forcefully into her, making her head rock back towards another who lays his cock over her face, the angry purple head resting on her lips. Her eyes are wide, bloodshot and burning into mine as an impossibly long, snake-like tongue darts out of her mouth to lick the weeping tip.

BEEP…BEEP…BEEP.

“Joseph, can you hear me? It’s mum.” The voice is calm and welcomingly familiar. The music grows clearer, a hum seeping through the walls, and I fight to remember the name of the song. It’s there, buried deep in a locked box somewhere in the back of my head.

A large black man, drenched in sweat and held in manacles, is dragged past me and towards the bed. The others in the room part, allowing him to stand alone between the woman’s outstretched legs.

“Joseph, wake up, love.”

The face of the woman on the bed morphs into that of Sally Hamilton, her arms reaching out for him, drawing him in. I watch from behind as his muscular hips thrust forward. Instantly, her mouth opens but no sound comes out.

“Joseph, if you can hear me, open your eyes.” The voice comes from the darkest depths. It’s male and is unknown to me. I feel isolated and cold, and this sense of dread washes over me like I am drowning, fighting to breathe but choking. All the figures in the room evaporate, leaving me alone in a cold, black darkness, suspended in time, floating. I’m floating aimlessly through space; it feels good, weightless and free.

“We’re all here Joseph. We love you.” It’s my mother again, her voice cracked and anguished. I try to speak, but no sound leaves my body.

“His fingers moved; did you see?”

“Joseph.  If you can hear me, open your eyes.” Suddenly my world is invaded by noise and light. I stare up wild-eyed into the stranger’s face and I see that his expression is kind and shows signs of relief. He’s smiling.

“Hello, Joseph,” he says, “welcome back.”

**********

It was to be a long road ahead. A lot of rest, recuperation and physiotherapy. The doctors told me that my injuries were akin to a high-speed car accident. If you’ve ever heard the expression, ‘I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck,’ then this was it. Every muscle, every nerve and fibre hurt. Archie Cooke and his crew certainly did a job on me.

I had been in an induced coma for two weeks to allow the swelling of my brain to reduce. Thankfully, early assessments were good, and the general consensus was positive. They were as confident as they could be that I would make a full recovery with no long-term issues, which frankly was a miracle.

I had a fractured left wrist which probably happened when I flew over the handlebars of my bicycle, a broken right arm, three broken ribs, a punctured lung and a ruptured spleen. The blows between my legs, although excruciating at the time and were still feeling tender, would, I was reliably informed, cause no long-term damage. Apart from that, I felt fine.

The police called and wanted to know what I could remember and if I would recognise them again. I stuck to the traditional working-class mantra saying that it was too dark, and it all happened too quickly. The detective could see straight through my lie; I could sense that from his exasperated expression, and I was sure that he also knew that I was never going to tell them the truth. We don’t grass where I come from, it’s in the blood, an unwritten law ingrained in the DNA; we just don’t.

I was impatient to go home, but that would be a while off.  The now familiar routine of questions and examinations from the doctors had become part of my life if only short-term. The only thing that broke the monotony was the visits from family, friends and, at the risk of sounding sexist, the nurses. Room 12, ward 3B, level 4 became a magnet as soon as I was admitted, with the nurses wanting to attend their new, infamous guest.

While I was in a coma, the newspapers ran daily stories about the schoolboy, the teacher, the politician and my now notorious penis. But after a while, the novelty wore off until I was just another patient. They’d seen it all before and in any case, I was in no position to do anything about it.

There was one nurse, Charo, from Seville in Spain. She was kind of serious and aloof, seemingly uninterested in any of the gossip or newspaper headlines. Then one day she said something that hit home.

“Sex is joy Joseph, not a weapon. It should bring happiness, not pain.  Remember that.”

The hospital gave me time to reflect, time to pause and look back over the madness of the previous twelve months. Her words made me think about my behaviour and the way I treated people. Call it contrition and self-reformation if you will.

I was an innocent boy when this all began, a seventeen-year-old lad, happily playing football with his mates, until that afternoon when I exited the changing room showers to see Sally sitting on the wooden slatted bench. In that instant, the course of my life altered dramatically.

I can remember the attack; of course, I can. I don’t think the memory of that evening will ever leave me, the pain and the sickening sound of every punch, kick and stamp haunts me.

Every one of those blows represented any one of a number of unsuspecting husbands and boyfriends. I can see all the women, remember every encounter while their partners were at work, or the pub, or in Archie’s case the football. At no time had I chased them; the opportunity was always presented to me, too good to pass up, too good to last. One of my dad’s favourite sayings never felt truer; “Never shit on your own doorstep.”

If I was to be honest with myself, I had been living on borrowed time for a while and something had to give. I had become too cocksure and ridiculously arrogant, convinced that this whirlwind would continue unnoticed and unpunished. I guess the only surprise was that it hadn’t caught up with me earlier.

After a lot of deliberation, I came to the conclusion that it would be impossible for me to stay in this country any longer. It wasn’t as difficult a decision as I thought it would be. Given what had happened, I knew too much, and I didn’t want to live my life looking over my shoulder.

Max had given me a way out, a new start where I’m told the mansions and penthouse suites of America are full of bored, rich, neglected wives, all happy to pay handsomely for a discreet, unconnected escape. As the medication began to take hold, my eyelids became heavy, and I drifted off into a world where a myriad of people and places floated through my memory like lost phantoms.

***

I am standing in the front room of Mrs Lennox’s house. Number 167 Pennywell Street. She is a woman in her mid-forties who I have known for most of my life. She is a nice-looking woman, not jaw-dropping but she has something; it’s in her eyes, a slight glint of a possible hidden mischievous side. It isn't difficult to imagine that when she was ten or twenty years younger, she was quite a catch. She is married to Frank, a nice dependable man who has worked all his working life at Billingsgate market, transporting fish which has earned him the funny but unoriginal nickname of ‘Fishy Frank’ due to his constant and unmissable odour.

She calls me in as I walk home from school and asks if I would help her move a box that a delivery driver had left on her doorstep.

“Would you be a love and bring that in for me,” she says.  Of course, the request in itself is completely innocent, but I’ve been here before, seen the movie, got the T-shirt. On this occasion though, she isn’t lying, there actually is a delivery, a box of birdseed for Frank’s pigeons, and it weighs a ton. I shift the large box in through the front door, leaving it against the radiator in the front room and then it begins.

“Let me give you something, love, for helping me,” she says.  To be honest I don’t know how I stop myself from laughing, although I’m sure the knowing smirk must have shown. She hasn’t moved from the spot, and from where I stand, I can see she is nervous. Looking down, I can see her thumb twitching in her clenched fists. I can read her mind, having crossed the line she is now working out how to proceed, how to take the next step without embarrassing herself.

On the street outside, I can see people passing by the window, neighbours and school friends. It all feels quite surreal in the still, tense silence of the room. I don’t know if it’s out of sympathy or curiosity, but I comply with her fancy, testing the water, hoping I have read the signs correctly.

“What exactly do you want Diane,” I ask, taking hold of her hand, “is it this?” I guide her hand towards my groin, letting her fingers rest on the fly of my jeans, watching as a barely detectable blush colours her features, followed by a delightfully impish grin. She doesn’t move her hand away.

“I…”

“Do you want to suck my cock, Diane?  Is that the real reason I’m here?”  I think it’s the boldness of the question, rather than the actual words that I say that surprise her. Her eyes narrow as she processes the offer, but she doesn’t flinch.

“Not here,” she replies insistently, taking hold of my arm and directing me toward the door that leads to the hallway stairs, and ultimately the master bedroom. In that instant she lets her guard down and allows me in, immediately proving my instincts to indeed be correct.

She may not be aware of it, but with those two words, she opened herself up and revealed the true purpose of my presence, and also her desire. It’s at moments like this where I’ve discovered an unattractive side of my character unveils itself, one that wants to prolong the torment, and enjoy the discomfort.

On the pavement just on the other side of the window, two of her neighbours have stopped to chat. I can hear the hum of their voices vibrating through the thin windowpane.

“Why not here?” I push, reading her body language, enjoying her mild distress. She has doubts, that’s clear, but it’s her eyes that give her away, the dilated pupils making the deep blue of her irises gleam. “It’s up to you. What do you want?” Those blue eyes of hers remain steely, fixed on mine as gradually, in slow mechanical stages she bends at the knees and kneels on the carpet in front of me.

As I look down, I can see a flash of red bra under the gaping top of her loose blue blouse, cupping her generous breasts. I assume that the completion of her underwear matches. Perhaps it’s something special she wears for Frank on his birthday or their anniversary, the annual saucy concession to give the poor guy a thrill and display her real personality.

I don’t know when or how this scheme places itself in her head; maybe it has been something that has played on her mind for some time, hearing the growing murmurings of my reputation around the estate, watching this cocky boy pass by her window on the way to and from school every day, or perhaps it was born out of pure frustration. One thing is for certain, it most certainly isn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision.

At some point during the day she had summoned the courage to go to her bedroom, open her underwear drawer and consciously choose this to wear for me. Maybe she had laid back on her bed and masturbated, drawing up a plan while the thoughts of us fucking floated around in her imagination.

Frank’s box of birdseed arrived just in time to get the ball rolling.  Somehow though, I don’t think being asked to kneel on the family’s threadbare royal garden patterned front room carpet was part of the plan.

I have come to realise that there are three obstacles that someone needs to cross over to get to this point. The first is the initial germ of the idea. Now, most people fantasise about something or someone, but for the majority, that notion remains just that, an unachievable but enjoyable flight of fancy.

The second is acting on it. Diane did that the minute that she invited me into her home, from the moment that I crossed over the threshold it was almost inevitable where this was going to end.

The third and final hurdle is where she is now, her fingers impatiently popping the stiff buttons on my jeans and pulling them down around my ankles. Even though she hasn’t yet admitted as much, we both know that she had passed the point of no return.

I haven't worn underwear since the day Sally lightly chastised me, drawing my attention and enlightening me to the women who purposefully search for the outline of a man’s penis pressing against the fabric of their trousers, and the thrill that they get when that search proves fruitful.

I’ve experienced this on more than one occasion, sitting on the underground and sensing the scrutiny of the woman opposite, her gaze fixed steadfastly on the indentation on my upper thigh, and then that surge of exhilaration when she raises her eyes to realise that she has been caught in the act.

Diane pauses, gazing with almost childlike wonder as my cock hangs down under my t-shirt. Reaching out a hand and brushing its length with her fingers. I stand facing the window in the middle of their front room, watching the two women outside continuing their conversation and occasionally glimpsing towards the house.  I don’t know what they are saying, nothing of any interest to me I suspect, but the thrill of wondering whether they can see me through the thin net curtains that covered the windowpane is outrageous.

I watch as one of the women slowly turns her head and stares directly at me. It is probably only my imagination, but I swear I see her lick her lips as I clasp my hands around the back of my head, and feel my cock enter Diane Lennox’s mouth.

The front room is very much like that of my grandparents’ old house. Pre-war, mid-terrace, two up two down, one of the few that avoided both Hitler’s bombs and the city planner’s pen. I can picture all the occasions that would have been held in this very room over the years, birthdays, Christmases, family celebrations, and over the course of the next fifteen minutes, it is to bear witness to what I suspect is a first. Mrs Lennox’s betrayal of her wedding vows.

I watch the top of her head bob up and down, and grab a fistful of her hair, pushing her towards me, feeling the resistance, knowing perfectly well that she is already struggling.

“Is that it?” I sneered, “Is that all you can get in?”

“Don’t, Joseph. It’s too big.” I grin inwardly as I hear the words.  It isn’t the first time that a woman had said them, but it still continues to draw a quiver, sending a shot of adrenaline coursing through my veins.

“What do you want, Diane?”

“You know.” I can’t be sure whether she’s being awkward, or if she’s too shy to say it. But I want to hear it from her.

“What do you want?  Tell me.” I feel her body shiver as I say the words. Then she looks up, giving me the kind of dreamy-eyed look that leaves me in no doubt. But I still want to hear her admission, hear her surrender herself.

“Your cock. I want your big cock inside me. But not here.” Behind me is a chair. Looking slightly tired, the beige and red-striped armchair sits in the corner of the room, pointing directly at the television. I guess it’s where Frank sits in the evening, the master’s chair. I take two steps back and sit down, leaving Diane still kneeling in the middle of the room.

“Take off your clothes.” Immediately her head turns towards the window and the two women outside. I know exactly what she’s thinking: can they see inside and precisely how much do those cheap, market stall net curtains shut out?

Slowly her fingers search for the buttons on her blouse, beginning at the top and gradually working their way down until the gap became wider revealing the red and black bra underneath. Then she stands, again looking tentatively out of the corner of her eye before proceeding to reach behind her back and unzip her black and white checked skirt.

So there she is this forty-something-year-old woman, standing in the centre of her living room in just her underwear. It’s half past three on a normal Tuesday afternoon. The only thing is there’s nothing normal about this at all. My suspicions are partly correct; the red and black bra is paired with a matching pair of knickers. Not the thong that I suspected, but quite daring all the same.

“All of it,” I push, holding my cock in my hand so it points up towards the ceiling, drawing the foreskin back over the engorged deep pink head, “see what you’re doing to me, Diane?”

Her bra is the first to land at her feet, freeing her large, pale, motherly breasts. Her nipples give away her obvious state of arousal, standing hard and erect like two bullet casings in the centre of the light brown areolae. I can sense the nervousness and doubt as she hesitates, one thumb hitched under the elastic waistband of knickers, her other hand resting on her hip.

“So what would Frank say?”

“Don’t,” she answers bluntly, shaking her head.

“Why not, after all, he’s the reason why I’m here, isn’t it? Because I’ve got something that he hasn’t.” Yet again I draw her attention to what is in my hand. Her eyes flutter as she stares down and no matter how hard she tries, they are drawn like a magnet to steel.

“Don’t,” she repeats.

“Show me.” Her right hand leaves her hip, sliding the thumb under the waistband and drawing the material down over the dark, trimmed triangle of pubic hair, then over her thighs, before being kicked to one side. Her initial reaction is to cover herself, self-consciously placing her hands between her legs.

“Turn around. Show me your arse.”  My request seems to come as a relief as she quickly turns her back to me and in doing so unveils a secret. A red-lipped, tattooed kiss on her right buttock.

“How many other people have seen that?” I ask, just a little surprised as she never struck me as the type to have a tattoo, but then you never know. She doesn’t seem like the type who would cheat on her husband either.

“What?”

“The tattoo.”

“Oh that,” she giggles, “just Frank. It was a drunken moment in Tenerife. Too many sangrias.”

“What does it mean.”

“Nothing.”

“Does it mean you like a cock in your arse?”  As she turns, she continues to grin at me, her eyes half closed as she slowly begins to walk towards me, her breasts swaying with each step.

“That’s for you to find out, but I do know one thing, Joseph Potter. You talk too much.”

Joining me on the armchair, her legs straddle mine, my cock coursing a passage along the crevice of her bottom and, leaning forward, her breasts brush my face, her erect nipples finding my lips.

Rising slightly, I study her face as with her eyes closed, oblivious to her surroundings, I enter her. Her expression twists, her nose twitches, and she bites her bottom lip, as gradually she sinks herself down onto me and her body begins to rise and fall, finding her spot and then grinding her hips into me.

I have noticed a pattern, certain changes to a woman’s body before she reaches climax. I’ve seen it; a chemical reaction. Deep laboured breathing, in through the nose then blowing out from the mouth. Her nipples harden, becoming sensitive to the touch, and small raised pimples form on the surface of the areolae.

There’s a brief moment, barely a second, before she comes, when her eyes half open in rapture then stare dreamily into mine while a low guttural whine emits itself from between her closed lips.

It is at this juncture when all awareness and inhibition leave the mind, the body gives over to pure animal pleasure, the instance where the true unadulterated, unreserved personality truly reveals itself.

“You do know that they can hear you,” I taunt, looking over her shoulder towards the window, and seeing the empty space recently vacated by the two women, “they can hear you cumming on my cock. Is that what you want?”

“Yess.”

“Do you want them all to know that you’re being fucked.”

“Yess.” She hisses, as I feel the slightest trickle from her cunt.

“Tell me.” Before the last syllable leaves my lips, she exhales, long and deep.

“I’m cumming.”

“I know.”

“I’m cumming on your cock. Mmm. I’ve never…” Her hands cup my face as her body succumbs, her orgasm flowing over my cock, staining the material of the armchair beneath.

***

“Joseph. Joseph!” I opened my eyes to see nurse Jennings standing over me. “You have a visitor.” It was just after seven thirty in the evening. I recognised the woman’s face but had no idea where from. Her manner was professional, late twenties, tight white skirt, light blue patterned blouse. At first, I thought she was another detective with yet more questions, but then she spoke.

“Hi Joseph, how are you feeling?” Her smile was welcoming and concerned, but her eyes revealed a determined edge.

“Getting there.”

“That’s good,” she said, staring down at me from the right corner at end of the bed, “I want to ask you about Katarina Vaskova.”  Just the sound of her name sent a shudder through me.

“Who are you?”

“Gemma Bailly.  I’m a journalist.”

“Not interested.”

“Listen to me.”

“I am not interested.  I’ve had enough of you guys.”

“Give me five minutes; that’s all, I promise.  I have a few questions, and I believe you may have the answers.” I was cornered, a captive audience.  My arm and wrist were in casts, and the rest of my body was battered and bruised. I was going nowhere.

“I know you from somewhere,” I said, wracking my brain as to where but not placing it.

“The press conference?”

“Was that you? No, I heard your voice, but there was too much going on. I didn’t see a face.” She hesitated momentarily before putting me out of my misery.

“The party in Marlow,” she began, sitting in the large, high-backed armchair beside the bed. “I was one of the waitresses.” As soon as she said it, I remembered her. Her blond hair which now hung loosely off her shoulders, had, at the party, been tied back in a tight ponytail.

She was embarrassed, her cheeks flushed pink as she realised that I recalled her. Recalled her parading before the guests in her underwear. This was the woman that Max had tried to coerce into sucking my cock with the promise of monetary reward, an act that she refused.

The last time I saw her, she was in a room with the old maids, kneeling on the carpet before a spiteful-looking spinster who held her hair in her fist, before pushing her head down towards her moist, hairy cunt.

“You made it out alive then.”

“Only just, those old dames do like their piece of flesh,” she smirked, her eyes looking at me across the hospital monitors, “but at least I didn’t end up like Katarina.” The cold, blunt comment made me flinch as I began to recall the events of that evening. Then I tried to connect the dots and this woman’s place in it.

“So, what were you doing there?”

“I’m involved in a piece that The Herald is putting together on David Hamilton. It’s a huge opportunity for me personally, but to say it has opened a can of worms would be an understatement. What started out as a political investigation into his privileged upbringing and allegations that he abuses his power and position, has taken somewhat of a sharp turn. We were almost there, but surprise, surprise, since Katarina’s death and the scandal involving you and Mrs Hamilton all the doors have closed. They are careful to cover their tracks, we have been handed so many good leads that for whatever reason have led nowhere. We need something solid, incontrovertible. There is only one shot at this, with the calibre of people involved, their influence and power, if they get a sniff of what we’re doing, or if we leave even the slightest loophole it will be exploited by them.”

“How the hell did you get in?  The security was mad.”

“A bit of luck really. A friend of one of the team works for an agency that they trust, I met with her, and she put my name forward.”

“So you didn’t know what you were getting yourself into.”

“If I said I didn’t, that would be a lie. She had worked for them before, so had told me what to expect, the manhandling and everything. I was fully aware of what I was getting myself into and what could happen, but I have to say that I was surprised by how much the girls were abused and what they were expected to do. They pay good money and effectively buy you for the night.

“I got ten grand.” I offered.

“Lucky you, we all got five each and had to sign a disclaimer. We’ve had a lawyer look at it; it’s watertight. There aren’t any specifics of course, but it’s implied, and of course where is the proof, no phones are allowed as you know. As soon as you sign, they effectively own you for the night.”

“So, what do you want to know.”

“I want to know what happened to Katarina. To my knowledge, you were one of the last people to talk to her before she ended up dead on the other side of the Atlantic.”

“I can’t help you. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t,” she shot back. It was clear that she was getting increasingly frustrated by all the dead ends. She thought I was lying but the truth is that I wasn’t. I didn’t have what she needed.

“Can’t, but I’ll tell you what I do know, what I saw, but I’m afraid it’s not much. She left me to go to some kind of meeting; Goldstein took her. They had managed to get her out of a contract with some guy in Slovakia so maybe you could track him down?”

“Jozef Varga.”

“I don’t know his name.”

“That is his name. Or at least it was. Jozef Varga was found dead two weeks ago. Shot in the head; another suicide, apparently.”

“She told me that he didn’t want her to go to America. She was only at the party because of an agreement, and it was payback time. She wasn’t happy and you could see it. But she had resigned herself that that was how the business worked, I scratch your back sort of thing.

Later in the evening, I was wandering around the house and noticed something going on outside on the drive. I could see from the window that the security guys were in a panic, rushing around.  There was a black car, one of those big estate cars. Mercedes. The engine was running, and people were dashing back and forth between the car and the house. Something had definitely happened, and I sensed it was something bad.”

“Then what?”

“That’s it.  That’s all I have. They drugged me and stuck a needle in my neck. Next thing I knew I was back at the Hamilton’s house.” I could see from the expression on her face that she was disappointed, upset even, that I didn’t have more.

“Have you reported any of this to the police?”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“They’ve got stuff on me.” She didn’t look surprised. I guess as a deterrent it’s effective; it certainly was on me.

“What have they got?”

“Pictures. I’d rather they didn’t come out.” This made her lips pinch together in a knowing smile. She must have known or at least had an inkling of what they contained, but it didn’t stop her from asking.

“Of what?  You don’t strike me as the bashful type, Joseph.” I shook my head, I wasn’t in the mood for a confession, and I still wasn’t sure how much I could trust her.

“Maybe one day, but not now.”

“It’s probably for the best. Kingsley’s influence is wide and powerful, and they’d have shut you down, or worse.” I noticed that she hadn’t recorded or made any notes during our chat, the only evidence that this conversation occurred was in her head.

“Okay,” she said, blowing out her cheeks in exasperation, assessing me and the situation in her head, her disappointment clear, “there is going to be another party. We haven’t got anything concrete yet, but when we do, I could really do with your help.  My man on the inside kind of thing. I have spoken to Sally Hamilton, and she is happy to cooperate; I think she feels let down by the way she has been outcast.”

We exchanged phone numbers, and I watched her walk out of the door and down the hospital corridor.

Instinctively I knew that this wouldn’t be the last time that I would see her. She was on to something with these people and their privileged lives and high-handed attitudes. Buying and discarding lives had to be exposed, and if I could help in any way, no matter how small, I knew that I would.

I wanted closure and I wanted justice. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy; these people are far from stupid, their position in society has been hard-fought down the generations and has left a ruthless streak. This was going to be a long dark road before we reached the end. That is if we made it out at all.