It was just about the last decent thing Mark Piddle ever did.
Eight
Mark woke feeling pretty ropy after eventually falling into a fitful sleep. He had dreamed an almost wet dream about Jenny Stone. He had an erection but there was nothing unusual about that. More unusual was the fact that he did not want to roll over on top of Irene and hump himself selfishly to orgasm. Seeing Jenny last night had stirred up all those feelings from two years ago that he had previously not allowed himself to remember. He resolved to telephone her as soon as he got to his office — he just hoped he hadn’t misread the signs, because he wanted her. God, how he wanted her. He got out of bed and walked with some difficulty to the bathroom. He wanted to pee, but he couldn’t. It was no good. He was burning up inside. He sat on the lavatory and made himself come. All he had to do was close his eyes and imagine he was inside Jenny Stone and it wasn’t difficult at all. But it brought little relief. This was ridiculous.
He left the house at seven-thirty, before Irene was up, and raced the Cooper into Durraton to the office. When he got there he made himself a cup of tea and scanned through all the papers, reading up on the various versions of the murder until he thought it was a respectable enough hour to phone the Stones’ house. He just hoped Jenny would answer, and he got lucky. She did. The sound of her voice made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He was afraid his voice sounded high-pitched and strange. His cock was straining fit to burst against his trousers.
After waking screaming from her nightmare, Jenny had been afraid to sleep again. When the phone rang she was sitting, wearing her pink candlewick dressing gown over her pyjamas, in the bay window of the front room. She had probably never moved as fast in her life at that hour of the morning as she did then. She jerked out of her seat as if it were fitted with starting blocks, and sprinted into the hall where the only phone in the house sat in isolated splendour on its own wrought-iron table. She picked up the receiver before the end of the third ring. Her mother had not even emerged from the kitchen.
It was Mark Piddle. Unbelievable. She felt as if she had willed him to call. She glanced at her watch. It was just gone eight o’clock. And he would have been working late into the night. She smiled to herself. Oh yes, he was hers all right, and this time on her terms. He had called to see if she was OK, Mark said. Not really, she had replied, but she would be.
The reporter thanked her for the interview and told her he hoped she would get over the shock soon. He was very formal. Then he asked if he could see her, maybe buy her a drink. She could feel his tension down the phone line. Her stomach seemed to tighten in a knot. She heard herself say yes.
‘What time?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean, what time? What about fixing a day first?’ she replied.
‘It’s got to be today.’
‘Why?’ She knew she was teasing him.
‘Because I can’t wait any longer,’ he said.
She giggled. ‘Half past six in the pub by the cricket ground,’ she said.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Let’s make it lunchtime. Then I’ll take you for a drive. Please.’
He didn’t often say please.
‘Haven’t you got to work this afternoon?’
‘Please,’ he said again.
They met at one o’clock. She was wearing shorts, a skimpy lacy top, and no bra. He wanted to reach out right away and touch her nipples. He could see them clearly through the flimsy materiaclass="underline" they were big and dark. She asked for a Cinzano and lemonade. Ghastly drink. He bought it for her and ordered a pint of bitter for himself. God, he didn’t want to waste time in a pub. When could he get her out of here?
She asked him to tell her everything he knew about the murder. He supposed that was natural enough under the circumstances. He gave her the basic facts, then, swearing her to secrecy, he told her about Johnny Cooke’s midnight visit. He was trying to impress her. He explained how Johnny had kept saying that it was his fault, how at first he had thought the boy was actually confessing to murder.
‘And he wasn’t?’ asked Jenny.
‘He just felt guilty, you know,’ said Mark.
She asked him if he was quite sure Johnny was innocent.
‘Soft as shit, that lad,’ Mark had replied, and had explained vaguely about Johnny’s past. About the court case.
‘One drunken night he got out of his pram with some bird he picked up. Now he reckons he’s labelled a sex offender. He may be right.’
Eventually she allowed him to lead her from the pub. They hadn’t been there half an hour. It seemed like an eternity to Mark. He drove like hell. He knew where he was going. He took the river road away from the coast and swung the Cooper into the old quarry a few miles up the valley. There were bushes there you could drive straight into and be totally private even in daylight.
Before the engine had died away he had her in his arms. He remembered the frenzy of the dustbin yard at the school dance. She had made it quite clear then exactly what she wanted. His tongue was down her throat and she was responding just like before. He had one hand on her breasts, squeezing those seductive nipples, and the other on her lower thigh. He thrust it up the leg of her shorts and pushed his fingers inside her knickers. At last he could feel her. He could feel all the delicious crevices of her. She was wet again. Could she really be a virgin still? He had one finger inside her. God, she was hot. Then he felt her start to struggle. She was trying to push his hand away. He thrust his tongue further down her throat. He couldn’t stop, he just couldn’t. She was strong and firm and quite cool. Not frightened at all. She put both hands under his chin and pushed his face backwards off her. Then she slapped him as hard as she could right across one cheek. He collapsed back into the driver’s seat, stunned.
‘I thought you wanted it,’ he gasped.
‘I do,’ she replied. ‘More than you can ever imagine. And I want my first time to be with you.’
So she was a virgin. It was probably just nerves. He touched her cheek with his hand.
‘So do I,’ he said. ‘Will you let me now?’
She shook her head.
‘No. It’s got to be right. I’m not doing it in a car. And I don’t want to get pregnant.’
‘You won’t,’ he told her. ‘I brought a packet of three with me.’
‘I don’t want to lose my virginity to somebody wearing a plastic bag over his thing.’
Mark laughed in spite of himself. ‘OK, I’ll take it out,’ he told her.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she replied.
His frustration was almost too much to bear.
‘I don’t remember you being bothered before.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I think I must have gone mad. That teacher did me a good turn. This time I want everything to be right.’
‘And how do you plan to arrange that?’
‘For a start I want to go on the pill and I want you to get them for me. I can hardly go to our family doctor, can I? You can fix it, I’ll bet. Get me some pills and I’m all yours.’
She smiled what she hoped was her most winning smile.
‘Just like that. And meanwhile what do you suggest I do with this?’
To hell with it. He unzipped his trousers.
‘Oh that’s OK,’ she told him casually. ‘I’ll deal with that. I’ve done that before.’
She had too. She took him in her hands and began to play with him. It was bliss. She told him he could touch her on the breasts but nowhere else. He did better than that. He undid her ridiculous blouse, lowered his lips to her nipples, and sucked them like there was no tomorrow. He felt her stiffen and thought for one moment that she was going to give in and let him have her. It did not occur to him to try and force her. He wanted her panting for it, crying out for it, the way he knew she could. She worked on him like crazy and it didn’t take long. He came in great spurts all over his trousers, the car seat, and her hands. But his desire to be inside her was so overwhelming that once again it brought scant relief. Calmly she mopped him up with a handful of paper tissues taken from the box on the back seat.