Past Mortem (15 page)

‘We have to be alert to every possibility.’

‘In that case you should be alert to the possibility that this is completely insane.’

Newson left the meeting promising to keep MI6 closely informed of any developments in his investigation and went in search of rainbow trout. He intended to microwave it with butter and herbs and offer it with new potatoes and a summer salad.

This was going to be a nice evening. He was going to enjoy himself and hopefully get laid again. He was careful choosing the wine. A Margaret River Chardonnay.

Helen arrived almost exactly on time, having walked from West Hampstead tube station. She had with her an overnight bag. This took Newson slightly aback. While he realized that there could be little doubt about the nature of their intended liaison and that it was perhaps sensible of Helen to bring a toothbrush and a change of pants, nonetheless it made him feel a little uncomfortable. After all, sex had not actually been discussed, and if Newson was honest with himself he had rather hoped that at some point in the night Helen would return to her own home.

Clearly she did not feel the same way.

‘Hello, you,’ she said when Newson opened the door. She had on a tight white T-shirt from DKNY, white baggy combat pants with lots of bits hanging off them, and pink Doc Martens. She had obviously made an effort and looked sexy in a politically aware, feminist sort of way.

‘Hi,’ Newson replied. He too had done his best and was sporting chinos and a blue silk shirt.

They kissed in a slightly self-conscious manner in the open doorway and Newson showed Helen through the little house to the kitchen/dining room at the back, where he had been preparing the meal.

‘I brought some vodka,’ Helen said. ‘I hope you like vodka, because it cost fourteen pounds. It’s still pretty cold. I’ve had it in the freezer and I wrapped it in newspaper for the journey.’

‘Yes, I like vodka,’ Newson replied. ‘Shall we have it with orange juice? We could sit in the back garden. I’m rather proud of my garden.’

Newson’s kitchen opened on to a tiny garden, which lay between his house and the North London railway line. He loved this little oasis of nature and had been toying with the idea of doing the trout on his barbecue.

‘No orange juice,’ Helen said. ‘The whole point about vodka is you take it pure. You hit it back and then chase it with beer. Do you have any beer?’

‘Yes, loads. D’you want cold lager or Guinness at room temperature?’

‘Cold Guinness.’

‘That’ll take time.’

‘We don’t have time. Cold lager.’

There was undoubtedly something sexy about Helen’s brisk, almost urgent manner. It created a tension between them but one of expectation. Newson reached into the fridge to get the beer, and without asking Helen took two glass tumblers from a shelf.

She filled each of them three-quarters full with Stolichnaya vodka.

‘That’s a lot of vodka, Helen,’ Newson remarked, puffing the beer on the table.

‘If you want to get high on alcohol you have to drink it strong and fast. I hate the way most people drink. They drink just as much as this more, lots more — but they take all evening doing it and all the time they get more stupid and more brought down. If you take a big shot early and then relax into it, you get sharp and high. It’s a spin-out.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes. And it saves time.’ Helen picked up her near-full tumbler of vodka, put it to her lips and began to gulp it down. In moments she had finished. She slammed it down with a mighty gasp.

‘Fuck,’ she said. ‘Now you have to do it too or else we’ll spend the whole evening on entirely different levels of reality.’

Helen seemed more fun than she had done on their previous evening together, and much prettier too. The sudden alcohol rush had brought a pink hue to her cheeks.

Newson picked up the glass and drank the vodka down. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,
fuck!
’ he gasped, although scarcely able to raise a sound from his larynx. Then he began to gag.

‘Of course, you can’t be sick,’ Helen said. ‘That ruins it.’

‘Thanks,’ Newson replied, fighting with his stomach for mastery of his body.

‘The beer’ll taste good now,’ Helen said.

And it did. Having won the struggle to keep the vodka down, it was already having a marvellous heady effect on Newson. Helen was right, he thought. Getting drunk quickly at the start of an evening was much more fun than drinking slowly and ending up sozzled at the end. He was already enjoying a wicked, liberated feeling, the same sudden rush of
joie de vivre
that he got on occasions like his birthday when he allowed himself to drink at lunchtime. Of course, as with lunchtime drinking, Newson knew that there would be a price to pay later, but for the time being he was determined to live for the moment.

Helen drank most of a can of Stella and burped hugely. For some reason Newson found this amusing and also very attractive. He drank his own beer in two or three big gulps and belched.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Now that the tone has been suitably lowered, dinner.’

Newson turned towards the chopping board, attempting to stay upright and conceal the fact that his head was spinning around somewhere close to the ceiling. ‘I’m doing rainbow trout. Mish is what ficrowaves were made for. I mean, fish is what ficr…Fircoowaves. Shit, you know what I mean. It’s what they were made for. That and porridge, as long as you have a big enough bowl, because it expands alarmingly.’

‘Really? Rather like you, as I recall,’ Helen said.

‘Ah. Yes. Well…um…Dinner.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Got to eat.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ Helen repeated, crossing the kitchen to stand directly behind Newson at the workbench. Then she put her arms around him and began to undo his belt buckle.

‘Helen, I’ve already put the potatoes on.’

‘I
said
I’m not hungry.’

She had her hand inside his trousers now. The touch of her urgent, lively fingers trying to find a way inside his underpants was a welcome feeling, but the speed and intensity of her desire had taken him by surprise. And then there were the potatoes. They’d soon be boiling. Perhaps he should turn them off? Except that they really ought to eat. He felt as if his body contained nothing but alcohol, which was of course pretty close to the truth.

‘Helen…’

But her hand was already inside his underpants. She had hold of him now and further protest was useless. He was already expanding alarmingly like microwaved porridge, and as he hardened in her grip she began to jerk at him roughly.

‘Ow,’ Newson said. ‘That hurts.’

‘Good,’ Helen replied, and she pulled him around to face her. Clamping her mouth on his and using her free hand to pull open her own trousers, she grabbed at one of Newson’s hands and thrust it down between their bodies. It was the hand with which Newson had been about to chop some spring onions.

‘For Christ’s sake!’ Newson gasped into Helen’s mouth as the sharp cook’s knife clattered on to the floor. He had only had a second to let go of it before his hand was buried deep into the thick hair of Helen’s groin.

‘I was holding a knife!’

‘That’s nice,’ Helen said as she adjusted her legs to welcome Newson’s hand between them, pushing herself against him as he leant back on the workbench.

Their trousers were round their knees now and as they kissed they tossed each other off in the kind of awkward, rough-and-ready manner that is all that such a position will allow. In fact it was Helen who was masturbating them both, for there could be no doubt who was driving the ship. She held Newson’s hand firmly in her groin while with her other she pulled at his straining dick, stretching the skin back unforgivingly with each aggressive stroke. Newson was happy to be led. He did not suffer from macho pride, and did not mind at all as Helen ground his trapped hand against the ever-loosening lips of her vagina, working her groin over his fingers.

Just as Newson began to fear that things for him were about to reach a climax, Helen let go of his penis and removed her mouth from his. Continuing to keep his hand clamped between her thighs she pushed him down to his knees with her free hand and then on to his backside so that he was sitting on the kitchen floor before her. He presumed that this was his cue to perform oral sex and leant forward, but Helen pushed his head back, knocking it against the kitchen unit, and continued to hold his hand to her groin, clasping it now with both of her hands and thrusting it hard against herself.

Newson felt her fingers closing over his. He realized that she was making his hand into a fist and was pushing it harder and harder against herself.

‘Aha,’ she said. ‘This should move things along a bit.’ Helen reached over Newson’s head and picked up a bottle of olive oil with which Newson had earlier been preparing a salad dressing.

‘Extra virgin. How ironic,’ she said, upturning the bottle and splashing oil liberally at her groin and over Newson’s clenched hand. ‘Yummy.’

Being rather a tidy person. Newson might have objected to the fact that somebody had emptied half a litre of olive oil down the sleeve of his best shirt and over his kitchen floor, but he was drunk and in the grip of passionate arousal, and thought it confusingly erotic.

‘Now push,’ said Helen.

Newson had never fisted a girl before, but clearly this was what Helen required of him as she kicked violently at her trousers, which were now around her ankles, trying to spread her legs far enough apart to allow him in. Her thick shoes made it impossible for her to free herself completely from the trousers, but she was -able to turn one leg of the garment inside out to make sufficient space between her thighs for her to work Newson’s fist slowly but surely into her vagina. It was fortunate that Helen was in control, because this was new territory for Newson, but he was an easygoing sort of fellow and as he sat with his bare buttocks on the kitchen floor, his back against the pan cupboard door, his legs stretched out between Helen’s feet, his trousers and pants round his ankles, his cock stiff as a broom handle and his right hand buried up to the wrist in the hot, wet, hairy vagina that hovered a few inches from his face, he reflected that there were worse things that he could be doing on a Friday evening.

‘Punch me,’ said Helen through gritted teeth.

Newson presumed that she was referring to the fist on which she was grinding herself and that she wanted him to thrust it in her harder. He decided not to do so and kept his arm still. Olive oil or no, he was already surprised at her body’s capacity to accommodate him and did not want to push his luck. If Helen wanted to be damaged internally she could find someone else’s hand to sit on.

Seemingly indifferent to his lack of ready cooperation, Helen continued with both hands to hold Newson inside her, grinding down on him until his wristwatch had half-disappeared within her. Then suddenly she gave a guttural scream and leant forward over him, grabbing at the bench with both her hands to support herself.

Looking up at the agonized expression on her face and with her almost primeval shriek ringing in his ears, Newson feared for a moment that Helen had indeed injured herself, but then the grimace turned to a smile and, looking down at him, she blew a kiss. ‘Mmm, lovely,’ she said. ‘Very nice.’

She stood up, slid herself from Newson’s gleaming, oily hand and shuffled backwards with both feet still caught up in the legs of her sodden trousers. She was still wearing her T-shirt, but now she pulled it up over her head to reveal once more those fascinating breasts, which were really nothing much more than big fat nipples. Newson wanted to put them in his mouth and tried to struggle to his feet in order to do so. Unfortunately his trousers were also round his legs and his leather-soled shoes skidded in the oil on the floor. He hit the ground hard but could not help laughing, and Helen laughed too as she sat down in front of him, sliding her bottom about in the oil, naked except for the crumpled trousers and her body jewellery. She seemed utterly unembarrassed to sit like that, naked, cross-legged in front of him, tugging at her trousers and shoes, which were now hopelessly stuck around her feet, proudly displaying the three metal rings that surrounded her clitoris.

‘Fuck it,’ she said, unable to remove her feet from the trousers. She grabbed the knife that lay on the floor beside them and stabbed it violently into the crutch of the oil-stained combat pants, hacking them into halves along the seam. ‘I shouldn’t wear such big shoes.’ Finally freed, she stood up with half a pair of trousers attached to each ankle and pulled Newson to his feet.

‘What now?’ he said. Things were going so well with Helen in charge, he felt perfectly comfortable taking his orders from her.

‘I need a pee.’

‘It’s upstairs.’

Newson was learning fast about Helen, and he wasn’t surprised when she grabbed his hand and took him with her. He kicked off his shoes as he went and with a bit of hopping about got his trousers off as they climbed the stairs, arriving at the top naked apart from his shirt and socks.

‘I want to piss on you,’ she said.

‘Um…oh…OK, then.’

‘Can I do it on your bed?’

‘No.’

‘All right.’ She took him into the bathroom and pushed him-down into the bath. Once more he found her standing over him.