Heathen/Nemesis

ribs.

‘I’ve seen this face,’ she whispered.

Mahoney didn’t answer.

Donna traced the features with one index finger but it was not the face that caused her hand to shake.

‘Are you all right?’ Mahoney asked, seeing the colour drain from her cheeks.

She nodded.

‘I need to know about these men,’ she said, suddenly looking straight into his eyes. ‘About The Hell Fire Club. How much do you know?’

‘I’ve read a fair bit about them. What’s so important?’

‘Will you meet me tonight, for dinner? I’m staying at the Shelbourne. Will you meet me there? Eight o’clock?’

It was Mahoney’s turn to look puzzled.

He nodded gently.

‘There’s something I have to show you. Something I have to know. I think you might be able to tell me,’ Donna said. Then she turned her attention back to the painting. Again she found that she was quivering slightly as she studied the picture of Richard Parsons.

On the index finger of his left hand he wore a gold signet ring.

It was identical to the one worn by the man in the photo she had back at the hotel.

Forty

Julie Craig rolled over on the large double bed.

She sat up, her breathing heavy in the stillness. She swung herself off the bed and padded, naked, across to the wardrobe, hesitating there for a second.

Apart from her own breathing, the ticking of the bedside clock was the only sound.

She opened the wardrobe and pulled the cord inside. The small bulb inside exploded into life, displaying his clothes.

His jackets. Shirts. A couple of suits.

Julie ran her hand across them, feeling the different materials, her fingers lingering over the silk of the shirts, stroking gently.

She pulled one from its hanger and rubbed it against her cheek, her eyes closed.

Enjoying the softness she allowed the material to brush against her breasts. The nipples stiffened and she squeezed her breasts through the silk, her breathing growing heavier as she kneaded the sensitive buds with her fingers, her excitement growing rapidly. As she stepped away from the wardrobe she felt the moisture between her legs. She drew one index finger through her dewy pubic hair, lifting the glistening digit, touching it very gently to her lips. She shuddered, then slipped the shirt around her bare shoulders before heading towards the landing.

She paused at the head of the stairs, as if expecting someone to ascend; the house remained silent save for the creaking of settling timbers.

Julie turned and headed back across the landing, down the short corridor towards the office.

Outside she hesitated again, feeling the silk shirt around her shoulders. She pulled it more tightly, rubbing her shoulders, allowing one hand to slide across her breasts and down her belly. Then she pushed open the door and stepped inside the office, flicking on the table lamp.

The dull light cast thick shadows in the small room where her brother-in-law had worked.

The atmosphere was slightly chilly but she scarcely seemed to notice it as she sat herself at Ward’s desk. She ran one finger across the keys of his typewriter and looked across the room to the photo of him which hung on the wall, smiling.

She smiled back at it, licking her lips, her breathing now deep, almost laboured.

Julie stood up and faced the photograph, slipping the shirt from her shoulders so that once more she was completely naked.

She moved closer to the picture, her eyes never leaving Ward’s face, her feet brushing against the soft silk as she walked over it.

She knelt before the picture as if in prayer, then slowly opened her legs, stroking the insides of her thighs with both hands. Julie had her eyes closed now and her head tilted back, so that her long hair dangled down and brushed against her arched back. Her mouth dropped open slightly, her breathing deep as she allowed her hands to slide up her body, cupping both breasts, rubbing both nipples with her thumbs. She opened her eyes, kept her gaze fixed on Ward’s face and allowed her hands to glide over her smooth skin back down towards her pubic mound.

Her fingers stirred the tightly curled hair there, one index finger probing more deeply, grazing the hardened nub of her clitoris, stroking gently before plunging further to stir the warm wetness of her vagina.

She began to make slow circular movements on her clitoris, gradually increasing the speed, sliding another finger into her slippery cleft. She felt a sensation of heat building up between her legs as she rubbed harder and faster and held her gaze on Ward’s picture as the pleasure grew more intense.

‘Oh, Chris,’ she whispered as the beginnings of an orgasm made her shudder. ‘Chris.’

Forty-One

‘I owe you an apology,’ Donna said, pushing her plate away and dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

Mahoney looked puzzled but continued sipping at his soup.

‘I never even asked if you had other plans for tonight,’ she said.

‘I can live with it,’ Mahoney told her, smiling.

‘I’m not in the habit of picking up men I’ve just met,’ she told him.

Especially when my own husband has only been dead for just over a week.

‘I’m not complaining.’

Donna smiled thinly and watched him as he finished his soup.

He was dressed in a black jacket and black shirt, immaculately pressed, as were his trousers. His shoes were shined to perfection. The long hair she’d admired was still drawn back in a pony-tail. They’d drawn the odd inquisitive glance as they’d entered the dining-room of the Shelbourne, but Mahoney had been convinced that was because of the way Donna looked. She would have turned heads anywhere in a navy blue backless dress which rose just above her knee. Moving elegantly on a pair of high heels, she looked stunning. Her long blonde hair, freshly washed, seemed to glow in the dull light from the chandeliers.

Donna looked at him again, wondering why she felt so guilty to be sitting at the table with this man. Perhaps it was because there had been such a short gap between this meeting and the burial of her husband.

Do you think Chris ever felt guilty when he was with Suzanne Regan?

She tried to push the thought from her mind but found that it persisted.

‘I used to work here, you know,’ Mahoney said, pushing his bowl away and glancing around him. ‘I was a trainee chef for six months.’ He raised his eyebrows.

‘What happened?’

‘I managed to tip half a pint of creme brulee over the manager one evening when he came in to see how I was getting on. They sort of decided for me that it wasn’t my perfect vocation. I was sacked.’ He raised his wine glass in salute. ‘Cheers.’

She echoed the toast and drank.

‘From there to the National Gallery,’ she said.

‘Via half a dozen other jobs. I’ve been a barman three times. There’s always plenty of vacancies for bar work here. We like our drink, the Irish. More drinkers call for more barmen. It’s a simple equation.’