Protection (7 page)

Beside her and ever hopeful of a stray scrap, lay her scrawny, tabby cat, Scrumpy, a pet that Isobel didn't treat particularly well and which, more often than not, was called anything but its real name. Still, for all that, it was the closest thing she had to a friend.

Not that Isobel cared. Friends, she'd decided long ago, were too much effort, the same as life. A mantra she had scrawled on several, yellow post-it notes and stuck in various places around her flat, just to remind herself how pointless it all was. Because life truly did suck!

Stuck in a job she hated, but too lazy to leave and look for another, she sullenly stomped her way through the business of the day before returning home to sit in front of the tele, stuff herself with junk, and wait for the dreary hours to pass before she could repeat the whole, remorseless rigmarole all over again.

No one ever asked her out and she'd never had a proper relationship. Yet not once did it cross her mind that the reason why her social life was so pitiful was because she never went anywhere. Instead, she viewed her lack of companionship as just another facet of her miserable life and turned again to food, her only solace in an otherwise lonely existance but a consolation that did little for her appearance.

At twenty nine years of age, she looked nearer forty, and thanks to a diet consisting of little else save takeaways and fry ups, her weight had ballooned to a hefty size 16. A continuing expansion kept in check only by the amount of physical exercise her job entailed. Yet Isobel hardly noticed, for aside from her uniform, the only other clothes she wore were tracksuit bottoms and sweatshirts, baggy enough to accommodate a few extra pounds without much trouble and unforgiving enough to allow her to indulge in her favourite passion for all things sweet whilst watching TV and bemoaning the fact that while everyone else was out having a fantastic time, she was stuck indoors.

Life was fucking awful and then you died.

Half way through her favourite soap, the cat woke up and wanting to announce this spectacular achievement began to paw at her side. Pulling and catching its claws in her sweatshirt until unable to stand it any longer, Isobel climbed slowly to her feet and followed the scurrying cat out into the tiny kitchen, where opening a tin of cat food, she thought how she really ought to give the place a bit of a wipe over. But what was the point? She never had any visitors and the bacon fat on the cooker wasn't hurting anyone, so why should she bother when she could be doing something else? Like catching up with what was going on in the street?

Pushing the cat's bowl under its eager nose, she straightened up and turned to the fridge, noticing how her small collection of fridge magnets were just as grubby as everything else. Most of them had been pilfered from work, but one or two were of her own choosing. The first being an advertisement for Ovaltine in which a rosy cheeked kid all tucked up in bed, held a steaming, hot mug clasped between his chubby hands.

The lone survivor of a house fire in which she had managed to escape, but which her parents, overcome by the choking smoke, had suffocated in their beds, leaving the six year old Isobel an orphan and the authorities with a problem.

They had tried but it seemed without Aunts, Uncles or any other family friends willing to take her in, the only thing they could do with her was place her in the tender, loving care of Sunnylawns children's home.

Except it wasn't sunny and it didn't have a lawn.

Instead, the buiding was dark and depressing and outside, any grass that might once have sprouted, had long ago been worn away by the tramp of dozens of children's feet.

Clutching a brown suitcase, Isobel had been squashed into a dreary bedroom with two other girls, whose names she could now no longer recall, but who, on arrival, had insisted she shut up and keep all her belongings over her side.

Something she would have been more than happy to do, if only the girls had allowed her. But the one with the red hair had been a bed wetter and everytime she woke up sodden and cold, she'd climb from her own wet and stinking bed and into Isobel's, stealing all of Isobel's warmth and almost choking her with the smell of urine. Alone and miserable, Isobel could do nothing about it except roll over and make room, until one night, sick and tired of the stinking invasion, she'd kicked the red head away and screamed blue murder. Bringing the night matron running and demanding to know who was being murdered and what the horrible smell was?

The bed wetter went without sweets for a week, whilst Isobel was simply branded a trouble maker. A title she more than lived up to.

No one wanted her, no one cared and whenever potential parents came to visit she hid, instantly giving the impression she was of a sullen nature and downright rude to go with it, and while the other children gradually left to begin new lives with loving families, Isobel remained. Silent, brooding and miserable.

Her teenage years saw her turning to petty theft for amusement in which she plundered London. Soon learning how to con foreign tourists and picking mostly on the ever enthusiastic Japanese, who heavy with cash but low on local information, looked at Isobel with something like adoration when she sneered at their guide books and told them she could show them something few other visitors to the UK ever got to see.

The underground cathedral at Charing Cross Station.

Honoured to be given such a privileged opportunity, the fifty quid Isobel asked for soon changed hands and delighted with her haul, she then guided them to the fringes of Charing Cross station, where she left them.

Her position as one of the custodians of the cathedral, she'd explain in a low voice, would be in jeopardy if its exact location ever became public knowledge, therefore what they had to do now was find the nearest policeman, whisper the secret password to him, and he would then guide them to the hidden entrance.

The Japanese would then thank her and as Isobel wandered off, go in search of the nearest policeman. Leaving Isobel wishing she could stick around to see what happened when they whispered Youpigshit' to the nearest copper. But with hundreds of pounds at stake, it was usually better to leave.

The money, however, was her undoing.

Back at Sunnylawns, the senior administer having been advised that Isobel was suddenly turning up with new clothes and various other items unlikely to have been bought with her allowance, instantly decided that this thieving must be a cry for help and arranged for Isobel to attend a series of counselling sessions in the hope that finally somebody might be able to get through to her.

Isobel, wearing a brand new skirt cut so short it could have doubled as a belt, dully attended the first meeting. Emerging ten minutes later with a sore hand. The result of having punched her counselor, who seeing her in so tiny a garment, had dared to suggest that perhaps her problems would be easier to bear if she indulged in a little sexual therapy?

At eighteen, and legally an adult, she demanded she be allowed to leave the home.

The home was delighted. Glad to be rid of her and wanting to ensure that she never came back, the administrators paid the first three months rent on a studio flat and handed over the reigns of responsibility to social services, breathing a sigh of relief as they closed Sunnylawn's grim doors on her forever.

Isobel had returned only once.

To watch it burn.

After that, had come work, although how she'd ended up doing the job she did, she would never know, but beguiled by the glossy recruitment poster and sucked in by the courtesy and respect shown to her as she'd requested application forms, she'd promptly signed up. Thinking it the ideal way to get back at all the people who got up her nose.

Let people swear at her and get physically abusive, she didn't care. She was used to looking after herself and if all else failed, she could always walk away. And if any of them did decide to take things a step too far then she wasn't going to think twice about threatening them with words like ‘police' or ‘ casualty'.

So far, though, she'd managed to walk the streets as a traffic warden relatively unscathed, assaulted by nothing more than a few, swear words and furious inquiries as to the nature of her parentage. Neither bothered her. It was the weather that pissed her off. Rained on, frozen to death or sweltering in 90 degree heat, the conditions were sometimes bloody awful and that was before the general public chipped in by parking in the most stupid, bloody places before going mental when they got a ticket.

Occasionally she did think about jacking it in, but then she thought about the effort needed to find another job and she changed her mind. She also couldn't think of another occupation where she could possibly throw her weight around half as much.

Straightening the fridge magnet, she fingered the second one of non stolen origin. This she had made herself and it featured nothing but a feather sellotaped to a magnet, a small memento of her days in an office and a brief affair that had ended in tears. She didn't really know why she kept it, except that it reminded her that someone, once, had actually liked her enough to fuck her.

Opening the fridge door, she helped herself to a cola and wandered back to the television, wincing at the sight of yet another animal veterinary programme.

The way the presenters cuddled up to some cute, fluffy kitten, cooing over it and getting all watery eyed, made her feel sick! Who gave a toss about a stupid kitten? It wasn't as if it was going to die. Hundreds of offers of a ‘good home' were probably flooding in right now. The daft creature destined to spend the rest of its days in total, bloody luxury in case someone off the programme decided to make a surprise visit at a later date to see how little, ‘ fluffy, wuffy' was getting on.

Pity the kid's home couldn't have adopted a similar policy.

She could see it now.

‘ Can you give little Henry a home? A playful chap, he can often be found pulling the legs off spiders or with his finger shoved up his nose, but he is adorably and look how friendly he is. Wouldn't you just love to tuck him in?'

“No, I bloody well wouldn't.”' Isobel muttered and snatching up the remote control, started to channel hop. A car show. A cop show. The news. Boring!

Leaving the news on, she turned the volume down low and gathered up the now empty takeaway dishes, stacking them on the floor before ripping open the popcorn and pulling the tab on her cola. On the screen the reporter dripped with rain and smiled tightly, clearly unhappy at being stuck out in such appalling weather.

Isobel watched with indifference. Only half paying attention as the picture showed a flashy limousine pulling smoothly up to the kerb and a huge, black guy getting out of the drivers side to open the rear door. Two women dressed to kill in long, evening gowns then climbed out, both of them smiling prettily as they faced a sea of flashbulbs and Isobel Pearce, watching from her scruffy bed, nearly choked on her popcorn.

It was her! It was bloody her! What the bloody hell was she doing, dressed up like that? What the fuck did it matter? It was her! It was definitely her! She'd recognize her face anywhere! Christ, after all this time!

Lunging forwards, Isobel hit the volume button, completely forgetting she still had the remote, and the voice-over thundered into her ears. The stars were gathering for a charity ball. A lavish event expected to raise a considerable amount towards aiding the Third World..

Tutting, Isobel waved impatiently at the screen. Bugger that, she wanted a name. A single name to confirm that what her eyes were seeing was true. But that information seemed to be restricted to whomever the camera was zooming in on at the time and the confirmation she sought was not forthcoming. Not that she particularly cared.

How could she ever forget the first and only person she'd ever made love to.

The dress, now hanging on the back of her bedroom door, drew her eye and lying in bed, Andrea's gaze roamed over the scarlet fabric, her mind re-playing the evening's events. The charity ball had been a complete success. The three million pounds raised bringing startled gasps and applause from the great and the good, the sheer razzmatazz of it all making it difficult for Andrea to stay focused, aware that she was becoming dazzled by the splendour of the occasion and the perfumed whirl of star spotting, and relieved when she was called upon to deal with the paparazzi. Skilfully guiding Carrie away from their suffocating presence before they could crush her in their desire to take the ultimate picture.

But as assignments went though, it had been both easy and pleasurable and if she closed her eyes, she could still imagine the heat from Carrie's skin on the palm of her hand…

Shuddering, she opened her eyes again and stared at the dress. What the hell was she thinking? She couldn't fall for the boss even if she was totally gorgeous, successful and genuinely nice. It was all very well knowing Carrie had accepted her sexuality with barely a blink, and admitted to be being gay herself, but that didn't necessarily mean she was in any way interested in starting a relationship with her. That was just wishful thinking, and if she lost this job simply because she couldn't control her feelings it really would be a shame. No, what she had to do was keep everything on a strictly professional basis and keep the fantasies for when she was alone in bed.

Naked, Andrea stretched out and closed her eyes again, allowing her head to fill with images of Carrie as she cupped her breasts and squeezed her nipples until they were hard. Then, feeling the first rush of desire flowing between her legs, she wallowed in it. Enjoying the increasing sensation of lust, as her body cried out for more and she gave her tits one final squeeze before sliding her fingers down her body, over her thighs and into the exquisite plumpness of her swollen pussy where she slid a single finger along the length of her moist slit, before inserting it deep into her cunt and beginning to fuck herself. Thrusting slowly and deeply, Carrie's name already forming on her lips as she withdrew and concentrated solely on her clit. Loving the way her slit felt so swollen against her hand as she rubbed and rubbed. A warm, pink flush spreading across her chest. Her hips rising. The pleasure building, building, tingling along the entire length of her pussy, flooding her, tipping her ever close to the edge until finally, with a final stroke of her clit, she came, breathing Carrie's name into the darkness.