I looked at our light, airy white room, with its hardwood floor and four poster bed. It wasn't so long since I was bound by my wrists to one of those tall dark bedposts, a mess of warm sticky semen coating my upturned face.
'Darling, I'm sure it's not Cadog's fault. Anyway, I'm perfectly happy, even if it is a bit quiet. We could use a bit of r and r after Trinidad.'
My husband grunted in grudging admission. It had been quite a year. A serious financial blow had left us virtually penniless and with the stark, cold knowledge that we would have to actually work for a living. Deciding that we had a better chance of being poor but happy in warmer climes, we headed south, in search of the big break that would be our salvation. Our hopes were high, our resumes elaborate and almost entirely fictitious. Somehow, via a convoluted process too complex to recount, we had ended up in Port of Spain, Trinidad, running Sudsy's, a laundromat cum massage parlor. This salubrious establishment was owned by one Cadog Madoc, a skinny redheaded Welshman, whose larger than life West Indian wife overshadowed him in almost every way imaginable. I don't recall actually accepting the job. Most likely, Trixie simply reeled us in. Now Harry spent his evenings surrounded by buxom brown beauties liberally coated in coconut oil, while I passed my days loading industrial sized washing machines with soiled laundry, while dressed in skimpy shorts, stiletto mules and a diamante trimmed halter top. I think it was known as the fuzzy end of the lollipop. For some months a revolution had been brewing in my steamy tropical laundrette, with many a putative game plan hatched amongst the towering piles of shirts and socks. But what could I do? Go home to Aunt Harriet in Poughkeepsie? Jump a freight train and join the circus? Harry had warmed to the tropics in more ways than one and had become downright Latin American in his style of husbandry. And that, dear reader, was what really kept me in the suds. What can I say? I became a full card carrying submissive, the willing recipient of a stringent daily spanking and frequent stern lectures about Knowing My Place. Oh, another minor coup would raise its argumentative little head each time I witnessed my dearly beloved beached like a whale with a six pack of Carib lager and his nose stuck in Massage Weekly, only to melt into helpless, happy acceptance the moment he glared at me over the top of his spectacles.
'No argument! Do as you're told or I'll give you something to cry about.'
Hmm, it was just as well we weren't twenty-somethings or we'd have six squalling brats in no time. Maybe the sun had gone to my head but I was even going all hormonal. Anyway, next time, we wouldn't put all our eggs in one financial basket. Or at least not a Venezuelan basket. Oops.
'Can I fetch you something, sweetcakes?'
I had taken to inquiring after my Lord and Master's welfare at regular intervals, as the Caribbean seemed to give him quite a thirst. Harry stretched out in his plastic chair, the spyglasses dangling limply from one sunburned hand. The small tent in his shorts had collapsed and he had that post smorgasbord slump look about him. So much for the party animal. I picked up a brightly colored cushion from the bed and sat cross-legged by my husband's feet. I had taken to doing this as a matter of course. There were times when it almost felt strange to occupy a chair. Harry seemed to be asleep and I sat for a while, listening to the brisk breeze swish the huge feathered leaves of the coconut palms and watching the distant action in the surf. I was just about to carefully extricate the binoculars from my partner's limp fingers when a snatch of conversation drifted up from the lawn beneath our balcony. Two men spoke rapidly in Spanish. I'm not a fluent speaker but have spent enough time in Latin locales to get the gist. The word 'muerto' stood out-dead. What or who had gone belly-up? Cautiously, I crawled forwards, just close enough to peer through the gap at the base of the canvas 'sail' which formed the balcony screen. The voices were indistinct, now carried away by a gust of salty air, but I caught a glimpse of the two hombres. One was quite tall, heavy set, with a swarthy complexion and fleshy lips. He was dressed all in black and resembled a Sicilian Godfather type. The other was smaller, lighter, fairer, expensively dressed in a monogrammed designer shirt and sharply creased pants. A state of the art cell 'phone dangled from a cord about his neck and a tiny ear-piece protruded from one side of his closely cropped head. It was to this gadget the man talked, an endless unintelligible babble of words. Whatever was dead, it certainly wasn't the art of conversation. Hmm, this was interesting. As my immediate superior was temporarily lost to the conscious world, I made an instant executive decision. Quickly, I slipped on my espadrilles and, grabbing a beach towel and my bathing costume, left Moby Dick to dream of whatever perverts dream of. Whatever it was, he was starting to drool.
Outside, the path was wet from an earlier squall and I picked my way carefully, having come to an impromptu slithery halt the previous night, when returning from an outing to a local tapas bar. Harry was most disappointed when he realized that the waitresses were fully clothed from the waist up and the spiciest thing on the evening's agenda was the Shrimp Salsa. I still had the grass stain on my sarong from being dragged across the hotel lawn by a disgruntled rhinoceros doing a passable impersonation of my dearly beloved.
'Good morning, Mrs. Neptune.'
I jumped, guiltily. There was no sign of the two Latinos and my path was blocked by the Colonel, on the way back from his constitutional leer at the beach. His sharp blue eyes immediately focused on my cleavage and I realized I was both bra-less and wearing one of my more transparent and skimpy tops, a salmon silk halter-neck. My nipples stood proud and erect through the slippery pink fabric and I waited for the Colonel to take the salute, idly thinking that it probably looked as if I was half-naked from a distance. Hmm, maybe it was time to ascertain whether military intelligence really was an oxymoron.
'Good morning, Colonel Shagfast.'
I pointedly looked about me and then, seeing that the coast was clear, dropped my voice to a confidential whisper.
'Tell me, you wouldn't happen to have seen a couple of men, would you? Only I think that they might be up to no good.'
The old man's bushy silver eyebrows shot up into his receding hairline and he rattled his dentures excitedly.
'Hah! Up to no good you say? Been rum running? Contraband? Slave trade?'
I paused for dramatic effect, then pushed my silk clad nipples under the old reprobate's aquiline nose. The tip of his tongue protruded and I prayed that he wouldn't let his false teeth drop into my decolletage. I panted slightly, as if quite overcome with the thrill of it all.
'I think, Colonel, that there may have been a murder.'
The old man straightened up, his eyes flashing fire.
'Murder! Seen a body, have you?'
I nibbled my lower lip pensively.
'Well, not exactly…'
Just at that moment I spied the two Latinos climbing into a whorehouse red convertible sports car. There was no time to lose. I grasped the Colonel's arm and propelled him towards the hotel parking lot.
'We can't let them get away! Follow that Mustang!'
The keys to our hire car were in the hotel room. A mere detail. I scanned the parking lot, looking for inspiration, which swiftly arrived in the form of a canary yellow moped, cheerfully ridden by Michael the hotel porter. There was no time to exchange pleasantries. He sat dazed in the dust as we putt-putted off in a cloud of blue smoke, only just squeezing under the entrance barrier as it came down in the wake of the speeding Mustang. I caught a brief glimpse of the attendant's startled face as we throbbed off up the steep and twisting coastal road.
'Mind that pothole!'
The Colonel had taken it upon himself to drive, with yours truly riding pillion. I suspected it had been some time since he was in charge of anything other than a golf cart. The Mustang picked up speed and disappeared around a corner. We would simply have to make up time on the downhill stretches. I tossed my head back, nonchalantly allowing the brisk ocean breeze to blow through my hair, only to make a frantic grab for the Colonel's waist as he swerved around another sizable hole in the road.
'Hah! Bloody minefield. Hold on tight, girlie, they don't call me Shagfast for nothing, y'know!'
We reached the brow of a hill and immediately began to gain momentum. I prayed the brakes weren't faulty. The road was quite tortuous and swiftly left the affluent residential area in which the hotel was located for more basic locales. Ramshackle wooden buildings advertised cold drinks, ice cream treats and juicy fruits, frequently in creative West Indian spelling. I barely had time to read the signs as we zoomed past, a rather worrying burning smell beginning to emit from Michael's bike. A gang of laughing children cheered and waved as we passed through a tiny village, closely followed by the frenzied gesticulations of the proprietor of Jules' Garadge. The acrid smell had
