A Fitting Revenge Read online

  So I did. Her dulled brain only allowed her a constant stream of oohs and aahs, not even a giggle. She laid still and just absorbed the feelings until she jerked repeatedly in a final spasm.

  After that, she slept soundly for a couple of hours. I was wide awake though, kept there by my thoughts and doubts. The fucking had been free of any emotion, and I use that word deliberately in its most raw and coarse of meanings. She had been detached, satisfying herself alone; I was merely the necessary means to relieve her frustration, and I wasn’t sure just which one of us was driving things.

  On the other hand I had just had a fantastic bout of sex with a strange woman who refused to tell me how she knew who I was and, for all I knew, was going to con me into something or out of something. And yet another tack - guilt, because I was in a deep and meaningful relationship, even if Juliet lived a long way away. This night to remember was a stupid thing to succumb to, and it could not happen again.

  The bedroom wasn’t completely dark, some light from the street lamps leaked round the side of the curtains and there was a lilac nightlight at floor level near the door. There were no family photos, and no teddy bears or cushions or any other bedroom comforts. Surely someone who had a happy childhood would have some pictures of those times? There was nothing that could give a clue to who she was or where she came from, which is why the only picture in the bedroom, that large print of Edvard Munch’s The Scream, was so significant. Positioned where it was, it seemed somehow to be very personal, hanging over the bed as a ghastly and torturous reminder.

  I got up at one point to go to the bathroom. There was one as an en-suite and another off the living room. I didn’t want to wake her, so chose to go there. The summer night was warm and a slight breeze came in the open window. I looked outside and peered down into a dark side alley which butted onto the street about thirty yards away, its yellow sodium lights unable to reach into the shadows down below.

  Before going back to bed, I had a quick look around. The bedroom aside, the flat as a whole was not what one would expect of a woman living alone. It was almost masculine. The lounge was sparsely furnished in a cold, contemporary style dominated by a modular sofa. In front of this was a glass and chrome coffee table set on a thick white fluffy rug. There was a computer desk in the corner, backed by the full drinks cabinet. Abstract art made its presence felt through three large paintings and the bold red, blue and yellow curtains. The place was cold and clean and tidy to the extent it was sterile, lacking any character. Did she really have a life here in this Spartan apartment?

  Eventually I drifted off to sleep, but it wasn’t for long as I felt Angela carefully leave the bed so as not to disturb me. It seemed a long time before she came back, but in that state of partial wakefulness there was no way to be sure. My thoughts resumed, churning around and bringing me back to consciousness. They were interrupted. ‘Can we do that again, another time?’ Angela murmured in her husky voice which just stopped me from drifting off, ‘I feel deliciously done.’

  ‘Sounds like a good plan,’ I replied, ‘but can I have a week’s rest?’ She laughed throatily until I added, ‘I still need to know how you know who I am.’

  ‘Not yet, Sweetie, not yet. It’s my little secret and I’m having fun with it, but you will know, I promise, just not yet.’

  There was an undertone to her words that left me feeling uncomfortable. This strange woman had seduced me after introducing herself in an unlikely manner and was either lying about her past or did not like discussing it.

  Another thought struck me as I was leaving: when she had left the bed in the middle of the night, she had not gone to the en-suite bathroom, I had seen her passing the nightlight on her way to the lounge. Curious, I thought, but there was probably a simple explanation.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I was looking forward to dinner at Giles' house. He had invited me about a month previously, but I had been in Chile and couldn't go. Another couple were to be there, but Giles didn’t sound too enthusiastic over their attendance when he called. I suspected that he wanted me there in part to provide him with some genial company as well as having another chance for us to get together.

  When I arrived at his house there was already an old and dirty silver Ford Fiesta in the drive with a pre 2001 number plate. I wondered who these other people were who had arrived early. Had they been there much earlier, all afternoon, or were they staying with Giles? Their car, in stark contrast to his Aston Martin and Sandra’s Porsche Cayman, looked distinctly out of place in front of the rambling old manor house.

  As such places can be, the house itself was not particularly large, but the first time I went there I had counted thirty two chimney pots for rooms on three floors. There were stables and Giles had a couple of horses that had the run of two large paddocks. The present drive was narrow and tarred and approached the house from the south, but an ancient avenue of well matured chestnut trees led towards it from the east. Giles' family, of which he was the only surviving member, had lived there since the early nineteenth century. I had not been to the house for over a year, because he and I preferred to meet out and about.

  Justin Giles Collins, who loathed his first name and insisted on being called Giles, was my closest and absolutely trustworthy friend. He was dressed casually in pale jeans and a long sleeved dark blue shirt. Standing above me on the top step with his trade mark highly polished shoes, he appeared even taller than his six foot two inch frame. With a broad grin, he reached down to shake my hand with both of his. ‘God, it’s good to see you Alastair! How long has it been? You’re always swanning about the world and I can’t get hold of you. Listen, before we go in, I can’t promise tonight is going to be a ball of fun, the others just don’t fit in, but Sandra hangs onto them, or the wife actually - can’t think why, she’s a bit dim frankly. But you and I, we’ve got some catching up to do, and we can get pissed on our own if it all becomes too boring. Come in, come in.’

  Wood panelling below a dado rail lined the expansive hall. Portraits of Giles' military ancestors and others stared down with steely expressions, challenging guests. Two large oriental carpets covered most of the wooden floor, one was a Tekke Turkoman and I recognised the other as originating somewhere in the Caucasus, but couldn’t pinpoint where. A huge brass shell case held a variety of walking sticks and umbrellas, and a Chinese vase, which was incredibly valuable, sat on a table flanked by two modest flower arrangements. A further quick glance around the various other ornaments, figurines and paintings told me that nothing had changed in the last year which, in an old house like this, was utterly normal.

  Giles ushered me to the right into the drawing room. A man with close cropped yellow hair was looking at something on a table next to the far wall. He was flanked by two women, one slim with long blonde hair gathered up on top of her head, which served to emphasise her height, the other shorter, heavier and with a fair bob. ‘Sandra,’ called Giles, ‘come and meet Alastair at long last.’

  All three turned to face us. For a second, I could not see past the blonde hair. For what felt like an age, I couldn’t respond in any way as, with an innocent, welcoming smile on her face and without any sign of recognition, came Angela Parsons. She was immaculate in skin tight black leather pants with a low cut pink top. Somehow the lapels of her leather waistcoat managed to parallel the curve of her breasts precisely, accentuating the cleavage, forcing one’s eyes down into the crevasse; it was hard to look at her face.

  ‘Alastair! I know she’s beautiful, but you look really silly with your mouth half open.’

  I pulled myself together, forced my lips into a smile and shook her warm, deceitful hand. There was no extra pressure, no lingering, no secret hidden in her grip. Only, ‘You haven’t changed a bit since that photo was taken of you two together.’ There was an amused smile in her eyes as she waved her arm towards a number of frames on a table between the windows. ‘That was at university, Giles tells me.’

  ‘Yes, a long time ago now.’ My mouth wa
s dry and I needed a drink. I had fucked my friend’s wife!

  Giles’ introduction to the other couple gave me a welcome break to recover. Tony Wiggins was not a big man at about five foot seven or eight, but he was as solid as a lump of granite. The first thing I noticed about him as we shook hands was how large, calloused, hard and heavy his were; the way hands develop from a lifetime of manual labour. He didn’t exert excessive pressure, but I knew he could crush my fingers with ease. His face was weaselly though, with brown eyes under pale brows, a narrow, high bridged nose and thin lips which smiled without conviction. His small head seemed incongruous, set as it was on top of those massive shoulders by a muscular neck. He struck me as more cunning than intelligent. He was slightly bow-legged, and when he sat down, his knees and thighs produced a thin outline through his jeans in comparison to his powerful torso. At a guess, he worked out regularly in a gym, but only concentrated on his top half.

  Mandy however, might have been described as cuddly and sensuous but, as Giles said, she did seem to have limited intelligence. A pretty woman in her thirties carrying too much weight, she was a caricature of a buxom barmaid or the proverbial rosy cheeked farmer’s daughter open to a roll in the hay. She was wearing a pink ruffled blouse tucked into a pair of black trousers which were stretched tight around her waist, accentuating her excess tummy. The blouse, I noticed, had a loose thread hanging from it and the trouser pocket edges were frayed.

  Not only their car but also their rather tired clothes emphasised that while Sandra exuded wealth and taste, her friends were not so fortunate. Wasn’t it a bit unusual for such different types to mix socially? Was it the girls who had been school friends, perhaps, and one made it up the ladder by collaring the wealthy husband? It wasn’t the men certainly, I would surely have known if Giles had a friend like Tony.

  The others became embroiled in a conversation about the local butcher who might be getting his game meat from dodgy sources. It gave me time to try and make sense of it all. What the hell was I going to do about Sandra? Should I tell Giles, to whom I owed infinite loyalty? There was obviously something seriously wrong with his brief marriage. Would it make things worse if I told him, or would he appreciate the truth? He seemed quite happy and I could wreck that by telling him, however loyal it would be. Sometimes things are best left alone and matters die a natural death. Whatever the solution, it was far too early to make a decision, I needed to sound out what was going on in Giles’ world first.

  I knew he had married, of course. It was a little over a year previously and I was his natural choice for best man, but I became embroiled in an aircraft accident investigation in Chile and couldn’t leave in time for the wedding. He ‘made do’ he told me, but in our own different ways we both felt my absence was a loss. Of course, he’d invited Juliet too, as the other part of our inseparable trio, but she was at her dying mother’s bedside with her sister and couldn’t go. Juliet had asked Giles not to attend the funeral because, she said, he should not disrupt and ruin his honeymoon with so sad an event. A combination of my travels, Juliet’s distant home, his travels and our choice of places to meet, meant that, extraordinarily, neither Juliet nor I ever came face to face with Sandra. Now I had.

  So far that evening, Sandra (I had to mentally correct myself from using Angela) and Giles had appeared to be a happy couple; why not, after only a year together? She could obviously lie and act convincingly and apparently without feeling, which vindicated my earlier suspicions. For Giles, as an honest and straightforward man, it was not so easy. His tanned face under a mop of thick and prematurely greying hair was showing signs of strain. That would not be surprising for most people involved with moving vast amounts of money on a daily basis, except that Giles was used to that and had always coped well. No, it was something more; was it a difficult marriage? It worried me on his behalf, especially since I was involved. We needed to talk, but not necessarily about everything.

  I wondered how Sandra, with her strong contemporary tastes, regarded this house. It was a complete contrast to her flat. It represented a different era, and she must have hated the place. Apart from the modern amenities in the kitchen and bathrooms, everything about it, including the contents, was old and traditional. I recalled one afternoon prior to his marriage: Juliet, in her short tweed skirt and heavy house socks, was sitting on the sill in the deep window recess, her back against one side, her feet on the other and a glass of wine in her hand. ‘Giles,’ she had said, waving her glass at the sitting room, ‘some of the rooms in this house are too gloomy and oppressive with their wood panelling, your aggressive ancestors and heavy curtains. It needs brightening up, it needs a woman’s touch.’

  ‘Hah!’ he had replied and laughed, ‘Are you volunteering? People ask me why I don’t move into somewhere more manageable, but why would I change? Parts of it may be a bit dim and dark, but I was born here and it’s worth something provided I keep it up. Besides, I would need an equally large place to house my things. I’ll certainly never dispose of them, some are quite valuable.’

  Giles did not need anyone to look after him, but he reasoned that if the house was not kept in good order and was allowed to deteriorate, it would cost more to repair than if he employed people to maintain it on an ongoing basis. There were two full time staff, Henry who was a general helper and an occasional and informal butler and Mrs Potter, the housekeeper and cook. Part time staff and maintenance people were hired as required, but it only needed the two for this small dinner. I did not know for certain, of course, but I suspected that Giles paid Henry and Mrs Potter well over the accepted wage for their services. He was a kind man who believed in fair play, and he could afford to be generous.

  We were ushered into the dining room which was always bright and cheery. On this night it glittered, and the table was immaculately laid. A warm gleam emanated from the wood, and light from the chandelier sparkled on crystal glasses. Georgian silver cutlery, cruets, salvers and candlesticks were precisely placed, not a millimetre out.

  There was plenty of space at the long table, so much so that it would have been unsociable had we five occupied the whole of it. We bunched up at the one end with Giles at its head, Sandra on his left and me to his right. Mandy placed herself next to Sandra and Tony was next to me. Neither Henry nor Mrs Potter were present during the meal, thank goodness. At one end of the room were two hot trays with silver dishes on them from which the guests would serve themselves. Mrs Potter had made a delicious gazpacho soup which was followed by a main dish of venison. This rekindled the discussion over the butcher.

  Tony Wiggins didn’t talk much, in fact he only responded to questions. He was, apparently, a man who fixed things. Whether that meant plumber, kitchen fitter, gardener or builder was difficult to determine, because he never gave a straight answer, but quoted what he had done for Mrs Kidd, and what for Mike Gibbons, and how old Miss Halfpenny needed him to trim her hedge. Mandy called him Anthony as did Sandra, but I followed Giles' lead with Tony, which didn’t seem to please him. Maybe he simply wasn’t comfortable being in affluent company. Something niggled me about Tony, but I couldn’t pin it down.

  Mandy had been Sandra’s firm friend since school apparently. She had a high pitched and slightly musical voice which lifted in tone at the end of a sentence as if each one was a question. She would issue a silly giggle at the slightest sign of humour but also when nothing was remotely funny. I think it was mostly that characteristic that gave the impression she lacked intelligence. Nevertheless, most of what she said was of little interest to anyone. While Tony might not have been comfortable though, Mandy revelled in the display of upper middle class tradition. Giles, of course, thought nothing of it, he wasn’t putting on a show for his guests’ benefit. Giles did not put on shows, he was merely using his day to day possessions and living the way he was brought up.

  The conversation shifted from one subject to another without much enthusiasm. There was talk of the Wiggins' holidays, of their park home down in Swanage and how
well it had served them for cheap weekends away. Apparently Tony was always fixing it and fitting it out to incorporate new ideas. They did not seem to do anything else. Giles and I reminisced about a climb we had done together in North Wales, well it was more about the weekend than the climb really. Then we talked about what we had been up to since we last saw each other: my visits to Chile, his occasional business trips abroad, mostly to the continent and China. It was obvious that our conversation did not enthral the others, which was not surprising as the subjects were at opposite ends of the travel spectrum. Sandra kept glancing at me throughout. Each look may only have lasted a second or two, but I could feel them prodding me. It was an uncomfortable distraction. I looked up once and caught her before she turned her attention back to Tony. In her slight smile lay our shared secret, as if we two inhabited our own hidden world.

  At one point, without being asked, Tony went back to the sideboard and heaped more meat onto his plate. Giles glanced at me and raised a single eyebrow. His manners would never have allowed him to do that without a second helping first being offered.

  The two women chatted a bit about the pranks they had got up to as teenagers, but Mandy became less enthusiastic when it came to the subject of boyfriends. With an engaging smile playing on her lips, Sandra started telling a story about one boy she had toyed with. She gazed over at me as if she were drawing me into her confidence and no one else was there. It was a look that lasted a moment longer than it should have done and, to me, was loaded with meaning.

  My attention was diverted as the door opened slightly and Henry poked his head around, scanned the room quickly to check on progress, gave me a friendly nod of recognition and disappeared again. Mandy leaned right and whispered briefly in her friend’s ear as Sandra was finishing her story. Soon she changed the subject, ‘Alastair, tell us what you and Giles got up to as students. He won’t let anything slip, he’s so boring, but I bet you were a devil with the girls.’ She leaned over the table, cupping her chin in one hand and stared at me unashamedly. ‘You have a lovely one now, after all.’