Outstripped (2 page)

And, no
more ‘big knickers!’ The next time her skirt gets lifted, she’s going to enjoy
it. Not squirm and wriggle and fight it. Jody’s new underwear, or rather
lingerie
, will absolutely NOT be
purposely designed and coloured to instantly revile and disappoint any suitable
admirers lucky enough to be in this vicinity. Under her skirt that is.

The Jody
Mark II now had a selection of office and social ensembles to match her newly
confident, calculating, assertive persona. Even her
lingo
had changed.

This
stunning and now truly resplendent swan had just pulled off an Audrey Hepburn
like standard of transformation a la 'My Fair Lady'.

And she
was still only eighteen!

“You know
there’s a queue Banner, eh?”

A
disconcerted voice from behind Luke repeated himself, only this time a little
louder.

Luke
turned his head and produced just the right sarcastic facial expression to say,
“I know, but I’m dealing with something important here. So, why don’t you leave
me alone and “go forth and multiply”, or, better still “fuck off” and go back
to where you came from. Stop harassing me and I’ll be done, when I’m done”.

It
really is amazing just how many words you can convey with just one little
expression.

The
phone call was with his lawyer. The one he always used when he needed
assistance with the law (funnily enough).

Luke
wasn’t your usual con or hardened criminal. The bad guy in a suit you always
get in thousands of American crime dramas. He was more of an archetypal
“lovable rogue”. He liked to bend the rules rather than break them. He just
needed help with determining exactly how far they could be bent and that’s
where Graham Sinclair came in, from “Sinclair and Collins”.

Graham
and Luke went back years. They first met over a driving licence incident. Luke
had been ‘done again’ for speeding.
A hundred and four miles
an hour on the M40 near Oxford.
His BMW320, apparently, had a very light
accelerator pedal. The problem was that he already had ten points on his
licence and this was going to get him disqualified.

Luke’s
dad suggested “Sinclair and Collins” since he knew Mister Collins personally.
It was actually Graham Sinclair ‘Junior’ who came up with the goods and managed
to pull off a minor miracle for Luke. He still got a hefty fine but was able to
keep his licence on the grounds that it was required for his work. Complete
bullshit, of course, but it started off their mutually beneficial relationship
both privately and professionally.

Having a
‘pet’ solicitor was highly convenient for Luke. Possibly
too convenient
and it may have even contributed to his love of rule
bending and sailing a little “close to the wind”.

Up to
now Graham had been Luke’s “Get out of Jail Free” card. But this time it hadn’t
worked. All the lawyers in hell would have struggled with this one.

“So… What
about the ‘Appeal’?” Luke’s frustration was starting to get the better of him.

“The
‘Appeal’. What Appeal?” Graham’s incredulous reply came back.

“The kid
is yours. He even looks like you. Luke, I haven’t seen this much incriminating
evidence since, well, ever. It couldn’t be more cut and dried if it tried. What
do you want me to do? We’ve gone over it a thousand times already. I don’t know
where to start. Your fingerprints are everywhere. You bought all the stuff. You
kept all the records. You must have fucked ‘em all, whether you remember it or
not. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

Luke was
silent. He had no response, just a desperate need for help.

Then he
heard, “Time’s up Banner. Get off the phone.” But this was from behind him.

Mister
Sargent was firm but fair. He was one of those guards that actually did have a
little respect among the prisoners. He was in his early fifties with graying
hair and a moustache to match.
A fine physique of a man for
his age.
Six foot one and well groomed.

Luke
wasn’t finished, but Mister Sargent could be persuasive when he wanted to be.
He walked over, invaded Luke’s
personal
space,
and stood right in front of him. He glared into Luke’s eyes, raised
an open hand, ready to receive the phone, and using his special ‘prison guard
powers of ESP’ he let Luke know he was mentally counting backwards from ten.

Luke
spoke again. “Gotta go.”

“You’ve
got to do something, Graham.”

“Yeah?”

“See ya.”

Luke put
the receiver in Mister Sargent’s hand and conjured up another of his graphic,
sarcastic facial expressions. They’re so incredibly useful. They’re practical
and economical with oration, time and effort, yet packed with so much message
and implication.

This one
advised Mister Sargent, “You know I hadn’t finished, but I’ve chosen to succumb
to your authoritative charms and abide by the official timing rules on phone
calls. You haven’t got the better of me but I’ll let it go this time. I’ve got
bigger things to deal with. Get over yourself.”

He
stepped away from the phone on the wall and took a casual stance with hands in
pockets. In came ‘Spencer’ who had been waiting his turn. Mister Sargent tapped
the Switch Hook a couple of times to make sure the line was clear and ready for
use again, then handed Spencer the receiver.

Luke
glanced at Mister Sargent once more, lost interest and set off for his cell.

The door was, of course
,
open
. He went in and picked up the book he was reading,
which had been left open at
his
page,
face down, on the lower bunk. First he sat on the bunk, then he slumped
backwards to rest his shoulders on the wall behind, then, deciding this was, a
little, uncomfortable, he spun and lay down properly. With one hand behind his
head, and the other holding the book (his thumb holding the pages apart) he
began to read. Problem was, though, he wasn’t inwardly digesting anything. His
eyes were reading but his thoughts were elsewhere.

“How the
hell do I have a son?”

“Three
years old?”

“I
didn’t do any of this.”

He
genuinely believed he hadn’t done anything. Not this time! Luke was guilty of
many things, but the ‘catalogues of crap’ he had just been
put away
for were not his doing. They can’t have been.

“I don’t
remember any of it.” He shouted to himself internally with gritted teeth.

Luke
drops the book at his side. Then with both hands clasped behind his head he
brings his elbows forward, tightly squashing his ears. He grits his teeth again
and tenses everything.

In one
big bursting pressure release he finally lets his handgrip go, in one of those,
“must give in scenarios”, and begrudgingly steps back from his
self-confrontation, infuriated, frustrated, angry and clueless.

Luke
takes a breath. He rests his arms and legs once more, relaxes himself and ponders
his predicament further.

“During
the trial they confirmed the date of birth of the kid (Jason) as 19
^th
September 2002. That means he must have been conceived around Christmas 2001.”

The
gears inside his head were back in action.

“I was
at mum and dads’ on Christmas Day. Come to think of it, I didn’t leave till
Boxing Day. Massive hangover! Even then, had to be driven back to London by
Angie (the girlfriend of the moment).”

“Good
looker. Good shag! And
what
a pair of
tits!”

“I must
have been to a party every night for the two weeks over Christmas.
A lot of drinking.
A lot of sex.
Not all with Angie.”

“But I
never went near Suzanne.”

“Did I?”

“Graham’s
stag do was in Amsterdam on the 16
^th
December. We did some crazy
shit over there but I don’t remember fucking anyone, and definitely not
Suzanne. She wasn’t even there.” “Was she?”

“I do
remember the best blowjob I ever had though.”

Here’s
the whole flashback............

Luke had
arranged the weekend in Amsterdam for Graham’s Stag do. Dublin was
old hat
and had been over done now
anyway, and somebody had said that Prague was a rip off.

There
were eight of them in all, and they were staying at the Amsterdam Marriott
opposite the Leidseplein, which is a large open plaza area at the southern end
of Amsterdam's central canal ring. They were perfectly positioned from here as
they could walk to any, and all, of the restaurants, hotspots, nightlife and
other places
that Amsterdam is famous
for and the main reason they were here.

Anyway
back to what happened.

Luke liked
to do these things properly, so for the main event (Saturday night), they all
had dinner suits on. Not only did it make the occasion ‘special’ it also
ensured no one got lost. They all looked the part.
Pretty
damn’ smart.
The “Rat Pack” reincarnated.

The
evening started with a Dinner Cruise around the famous canals.
One and a half hours of culture and fine seamanship (It’s a mystery
how the helmsmen get round those ninety degree bends without hitting anything).
It was enough to bore the pants off anyone! Luckily they had a
shit load
of beer and wine to accompany
them.

They
disembarked the good ship “Luna” and were joined by two girls they had met the
previous evening in a cozy little bar in the red light district (yeah right?),
over the canal and opposite the “Oude Kerk” (Old Church). Aya and Famke were
anything but shy and retiring. A bloody good laugh and “hot as”. One blond. One
brunette. Both long.

They
were suitably attired for the occasion. Mind you they had been given
instructions. “They could only come along if they dressed up and they had to be
up for anything
.” After all, it was a
Stag Do. Nothing in particular was planned, other than drinking, nightlife,
more drinking, red lights, some more drinking, strip clubs and the
usual,
but ‘who knows where they might
end up?’

Aya was
in a strappy number, skirt above the knees, black heels and a short jacket.
Nice! It was cold of course but they weren’t intending to spend all night out
on the streets. Famke had a flared black dress
on,
bustier topped with a wrap and some high ankle boots. Also very nice!

Off they
went, down the Leidsestraat, following the tramlines, in and out of bar after
bar. Graham was being suitably plied with more alcohol than
mere man
can handle, in keeping with all
the best Stag Night traditions, and things couldn’t possibly get better.

But they
did! Wayhey!

They all
poured out of yet another bar and four of the lads decided it was time for a
photo opportunity. Now we all know the Dutch are a little more liberal than the
rest of the world when it comes to drugs and sex and, well, most things.
They’re also a little more relaxed about public toilets, specifically men’s
toilets, or urinals as we know them. The thing is they have them in the
streets.

No
surrounds. No privacy.
Literally, a freestanding urinal.

If you
actually take the time to think about them, they’re not such a bad idea.

Consider.
When ‘Neanderthal Man’ comes out of ‘drinking hole’, pissed and ‘in need of
one’, what better contraption is there than a street urinal. It’s got to be an
improvement on a tree or a shop window. And he’s not really interested in
protecting his dignity at this stage in proceedings. I suppose it’s a little
sexist, but then, what kind of facility would be appropriate for
Neanderthal woman
?

Anyway,
Graham, Sebastian and two others decided to relieve themselves at one of these
four way stations, set up like a drinking fountain, only the fluids are
designed to flow in the wrong direction.

It made
for a perfect ‘Kodak moment’ complete with a ‘no hands’ version, a ‘holding
hands’ version and one where some old woman is determined to get a better look.

Perfect!

While
this was going on, Luke decided to grill the girls on their knowledge of the
best strip clubs in town. It was time for some “flesh”.

They
discussed it between themselves in Dutch and it seemed as though the
conversation had swung round to flowers but what they were talking about was a
relatively new club in town called “Two Lips”.

Do I
need to spell it out for you?

The
bouncers were not too sure about Graham when the lads got him to the top of the
steps but after a little friendly persuasion (or ‘begging’ as it’s also known)
they agreed to let him in.

It was
“Night Club Dark” inside. Loud music. Good music.
A number of
stages, bars, big screens and TV monitors.
Great lighting. The
obligatory neon and mirrors everywhere and obviously the theme of the place was
“lips”.
Two of them.
And not a flower in sight!

This
place was popular but you could move around with ease and everyone was ensured
of a good view. Mind you, strip club designers know what they’re doing.
‘Strategic’ in a strip club means
money
.
Tables, stages, bars, poles and furniture are all positioned so that the girls
can
get to
their audiences these
days. Long gone is the one big stage where no one can get near or reach the
girls. These places are all about the ‘up close and personal’.
Very personal
.

And
whoever designed ‘this place’ knew what they were doing.

Oh, and
I almost forgot. The place was crawling with the hottest girls you’ve ever
seen. Some naked, some clothed, some half naked, some half clothed. There were
short shorts, short skirts, thin thongs and tiny, teeny panties.
Schoolgirls, nurses, Bavarian beer chicks and some kinky little
things in tight rubber, chrome and zips.
We’re talking white girls,
black girls, Asian chicks and olive skinned beauties.
Big
tits, slim hips, big hips, slim chicks, small pert breasts and long slender
legs.
“Every one’s a winner baby” as the song goes.