'But, I mean, there's no one special at the moment? It's so long since I've seen you.'
Someone special. Well, I've decided the Superintendent is special.
'Dan, he's special,' I say. Hide behind crap humour, the male way to deal with awkward questions.
'You know what I mean,' she says.
Am almost on the point of owning up to these new feelings for the boss, but decide not to be an idiot. She's met Charlotte Miller, so she'll pish herself laughing if I tell her what I'm thinking. It would also be goodbye to the night's entertainment.
'No, no one special,' I say.
Feel her head burrow a little further into my shoulder.
'The kids have missed you,' she says, letting the words fall out into the warm Christmas atmosphere.
What is she saying? It's obvious what she's saying and wasn't this what I wanted? Massively expensive Christmas present, remember? That was before last night.
Forget last night, you moron.
'A week ago you were snuggling up to Brian.'
Her hand rests on my stomach. A finger finds its way through my shirt, starts drawing circles on my skin.
'I know. I can't describe it. It's not like I miss him. I mean, the guy was, I don't know… something…'
'Boring as fuck?'
'Aye, I suppose you're right,' she says, laughing. 'Boring as fuck.' Another long pause. 'It's just been really nice having you around these last couple of days.'
She looks up at me, and I don't even hesitate before the inevitable happens. Lean down and kiss her warmly on the lips, feel her tongue immediately in my mouth. She always kissed like a goddess, Peggy, and three years of kissing a sea-anemone hasn't dulled her abilities.
Finally manage to expunge the thoughts of last night and give in to the moment. Let her dominate which was always what she liked to do. And when it begins, it's at a hundred miles an hour, and just keeps getting faster.
19
There's no snow, it's not even cold. Christmas Day, grey and mild, given way to dark and bleak evening, moisture in the air, relentless drizzle threatening. And what a night for Jo to be out. Why should she be out on her own on Christmas Day?
He had caught her eye in the bar. She'd smiled and hadn't flinched, so there was a chance she was interested. Or curious. Must be some explanation. On her own at a table, eyes wide, drinking white wine, looking around the bar. Dark brown hair, nice smile. Not at all like Jo really, but there was something similar. He wanted to go and speak to her, but couldn't bring himself. Nervous around women, even now.
She had finished her drink, and now was walking slowly towards the bus stop. Won't find many buses today.
He walks ten paces behind, wondering whether he should make his move. What does he have in mind? He's not sure and whenever he thinks of Jo under his bloody knife, he winces. How many times would he have to kill her for it to make a difference?
In an occasional moment of clarity he knows that not all women with dark brown hair are Jo, but the moments pass.
The woman stops ahead of him and turns. She looks at him, he slows his pace, stops five yards away.
'Well, are you just going to follow us all night, or are you actually going to talk to us?'
He stares. This isn't Jo. The mouth is too big, the eyes too wide, the voice is different — wrong accent. Sweet Jo. Doesn't really know what to say. Much easier to talk with a sharp instrument.
'What's your name then, pal?'
Should he tell her the truth?
'Ed,' he says, with hesitation.
'So, you do speak?' she says. 'Is that your real name?'
He feels intimidated. Maybe this is Jo. It's like he has this giant ball of sludge or fudge or mud or something in the middle of his brain, preventing him from thinking clearly. 'No… it's not,' he says eventually.
She's standing beside a close into an old tenement and nods at the door. A dirty grey building, damp and depressing under the orange glow of the street lights. The door has a voice entry system but the lock is broken.
'You want to come up?' she says.
She's inviting him in… He doesn't say anything, can't, and as she enters the close he follows her in. The beat of his heart quickens.
Up the stairs. She smiles to herself, and wonders how much money he will have in his pocket. She imagines she recognises the type. Rip them off and they're too embarrassed to come back and trouble you about it. You can always tell the quiet, pathetic, easy ones a mile away.
'You don't say much,' she says, opening the door.
He swallows. He has to find some confidence, has to stop feeling like an awkward child. A woman has asked him into her flat. It's not Jo. She's not Jo. Maybe this could be someone other than Jo. He could move on. Forget about her. Forget Jo. Maybe he can forget Jo. Stop thinking about Jo. Stop thinking about Jo.
'You didn't ask me up here to talk,' he says with a good deal more confidence than he feels.
The doorway leads straight into a large sitting room, sparsely furnished. Old TV in the corner, a settee and matching seat, picture of Wallace and Gromit on the wall.
'Would you like a drink?' she says.
'What's your name?' he asks.
'Margaret,' she replies, but he hears Jo. Because of the mess in his head. Because of the giant ball of sludge. He shakes his head as if that might clear it; she notices the strange movement and has the first pang of doubt. No messing around, slip him the powder, take his money, bundle him out.
'A drink?' she repeats.
'Just water,' he says, and watches her walk through to the small kitchen.
'Take your jacket off,' she says. He wonders what to do with the knife in the inside pocket. He doesn't need it yet. Maybe he won't need it at all. This isn't Jo. He leaves the jacket on a chair by the door. Maybe he shouldn't use the knife. It's not Jo. Relax, enjoy himself. The woman wants sex, give her what she's after.
She comes back into the room. She has removed her coat, and is holding a glass of water in one hand, white wine in the other. She hands him the water. He stares at her breasts. Large breasts, a lot of cleavage showing, beneath a cheap pink t-shirt.
'Like what you see?' she asks, taking a drink of wine. It has been open too long, cheap to start with. She swallows it anyway, does not let the taste, bitter like lemon, show on her face.
He holds the water, but doesn't drink it, which is bad. He is mesmerised by her chest, and she straightens her back to emphasise it. She reaches forward, holds his hand — which is a little too clammy for her liking — brings it up to her right breast and leaves it there. His fingers take a grip, tentatively squeeze. She suddenly feels horrible, and wants him out of her house. Is beginning to recognise the personality type she has attracted tonight. How can she be so wrong when reading these men? When she brought them back to her place, she had to be certain she had the quiet, pathetic ones. The ones who wouldn't cause trouble. Not the nutters. Not the ones who would overreact.
She sees it in his eyes, knows what she's got here.
He presses on her breast. It's been a long time since he touched a woman's breast. This one is bigger than Jo's. Much bigger. This isn't Jo. The size of the breast confuses him, but excites him at the same time. His mouth is watering. He is erect.
'Sorry,' he says, voice measured, surgically detaching his hand from her breast. 'I'll have to go to the bathroom.'
'Oh, aye, right.' Thank God for that. 'Through that door there,' she says. 'First on your left.'
