‘You can come up,’ she called.
He made his way almost wearily up the stairs and across the landing to the main guest room.
Jenny was now naked. She was sitting on the bed with her legs tucked beneath her. On the duvet before her lay two vibrators and a tube of KY jelly.
He nodded approvingly.
‘Can we get the money out of the way first?’ she said apologetically.
‘How much?’
‘Same as before.’
He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out two twenties and a ten. He laid the notes on one of the bedside tables and began to undress.
She took the larger of the vibrators and smeared it with lubricant, then she began to trail it over her neatly shaved pubic mound. It left several glittering trails on her thighs and belly as well as her vagina.
Ward was already erect. He stood beside the bed, his penis gripped in his right fist, his gaze travelling slowly up and down her body.
She was murmuring quietly now. Little gasps punctuated the increasingly deep breathing.
Ward had to admit it was a reasonably convincing performance.
She pushed the first of the vibrators into her vagina.
He could hear the buzzing of the batteries as she increased the speed.
Then she reached for the other one. Lubricated it and also smeared some of the clear fluid around her puckered anus.
He nodded.
Jenny pushed the thinner of the two sex toys slowly inside herself, wincing slightly as it penetrated her more deeply.
Ward clambered on to the bed beside her, his erection now throbbing in his hand. He pointed his penis in the direction of her face and increased the speed of his hand.
‘Open your mouth,’ he told her.
She did as she was instructed, closing her eyes as she heard him grunt. Two or three small spurts of oily ‘white fluid streaked across her face. She murmured encouragement as he finished his ministrations.
As he stood up, she prepared to wipe the semen from her face. ‘Leave it,’ he told her. Again she did as she was instructed.
Ten minutes later, she was gone.
DREAMS
Ward awoke in a sweat. He rolled over and looked at the clock. 3.11 a.m.
It was hot. There wasn’t a breath of air in the bedroom.
He hauled himself out of bed and crossed to the window, pushing it open. The darkness was almost as total as the silence. He drew in a deep breath of warm air and rubbed a hand through his hair.
As he peered at the garden he heard rustling in the bushes, then the high-pitched yowling of two fighting cats. They continued their noisy combat for a few more seconds then silence descended once again.
Ward looked in the direction of the office. There was a silver-grey light coming from inside.
He exhaled wearily. He’d left earlier that day without switching off the monitor.
For long moments he considered what to do. If he left it on, what was the problem? It wasn’t going to blow up or catch fire, was it?
Was it?
He decided to leave it and clambered back into bed, sliding over to avoid the sweat-drenched area he’d been sleeping on previously.
Whenever he woke at night he found it difficult to get back to sleep. He wondered if a drink might help.
Ward swung himself out of bed again and crossed to the window.
The silver-grey light inside the office had gone. There was only darkness.
He must, he told himself, have been dreaming.
Ward headed towards the stairs.
RAGE
On days when Ward couldn’t think straight he was filled with conflicting emotions. There was the ever-present feeling of desolation. Of wasted time.
And there was the anger. The fury that came from sitting staring into empty air or at a blank screen without finding the will or the strength to write.
For those who didn’t make their living in his business, it was difficult to explain how difficult it was.
From the outside, Ward realised how easy it must appear. Work from home. Sit behind a keyboard all day. Work when you wanted to. All the attendant bullshit that any self-employed person had to endure.
But this was different. Creativity couldn’t be forced.
Self-employed bricklayers could make themselves work. Plumbers could force themselves to fix leaky taps. Decorators could will themselves to complete one more wall.
It was not so with writing.
No matter how hard Ward tried to make himself think, no matter how many times he shouted at himself in frustration, if the words wouldn’t come then that was it.
On the wall in front of his desk there was a quote from Nietzsche: WILL A SELF AND THOU SHALT BECOME A SELF.
Nietzsche, he reminded himself, died insane. The clock was showing 10.49 a.m.
when he began to write.
Doyle jabbed the call button on the lift and muttered irritably to himself when nothing happened. He turned and headed for the stairs taking them two at a time to begin with. When he reached the second landing he slowed his pace, sucking in breath more raggedly.
He paused and lit up a cigarette before negotiating the next two flights.
The counter terrorist emerged on to the fourth-floor landing, walked to the parapet and gazed down into the streetThe dustcart was still in position at one end, the men moving back and forth, emptying rubbish into the back of it.
To his left, Dalton Road was still open.
He drew slowly on the cigarette as he watched a car pull up on the opposite side of the road. A man in his twenties got out and headed towards a house.
Doyle wondered, for fleeting seconds, if Shonagh Finan had given him a false address.
Only one way to find out
He sucked on the cigarette once more then dropped it and strode towards the door of number 44.
He slowed his pace as he drew nearer, allowing his right hand to brush the butt of the Beretta inside his jacket.
There was another pistol strapped to his ankle in a small holster. The Smith and Wesson .38 Bodyguard held five rounds in its cylinder and was only slightly bigger than the palm of Doyle’s hand. Hammerless, it was perfect for concealment and the counter terrorist had personally cut crosses in the tips of each bullet, ensuring they exploded on impact.
The third pistol he carried was in another holster beneath his right arm. A .50 calibre Desert Eagle. An automatic weapon capable of spewing out rounds at a speed in excess of 2,500 feet per second.
Tools of the trade.
Doyle looked at the doors as he walked past them.
Number 40. Boarded up.
Number 41. The window in the front door was cracked.
Number 42. There was a kid’s battered tricycle outside.
He slowed his pace even more.
Number 43. As he reached the green painted door, it opened.
The man who emerged was in his early thirties. He glanced at Doyle then turned his attention back to the occupant of the flat.
The woman was roughly the same age. Auburn hair. Jeans. White T-shirt. She was barefoot.
She looked at Doyle then at the other man who rushed away.
‘You’ve frightened him off now.’ The woman smiled. ‘He might not come back.’
‘Sorry about that,’ Doyle said, switching to his impeccable Irish accent with ease.
She began to close the door.
‘Have you got a minute?’ he wanted to know.
The woman eyed him warily, her smile fading.
‘Maybe. What do you want?’
‘I want to know when you last saw your neighbour,’ he said, nodding in the direction of number 44.
‘Why should I tell you? Who are you anyway?’
I’m a friend of his. He owes me money. I think he’s been trying to avoid me.
If you know what I mean.’
‘i haven’t seen anyone go in or out of there for a couple of days.’