40 Ways for Sunday

By Hardill Crane

In a dystopian future, a man gets more than he bargains for when he goes in search of a long-missing heiress.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hardill Crane
• Release date: Jun 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201574970

Book preview

There’s an old Apache saying:

‘When you ride the savage land, you become a part of it.’

Prologue

WHAT A PERFECTLY SHIT day for a funeral. From first light, it had rained cats and dogs with just about every other of God’s creatures thrown in for good measure, especially elephants; and with the rain had come darkness; not just any darkness but the kind they depict following the crucifixion of Christ. Occasionally the darkness was lit up; a flurry of white plumage would take off from the belltower of the pretty chapel, circle overhead, then return to the point of departure, whereupon looks would be exchanged. What had driven the doves to indulge in such a pointless pursuit? The weather?

A soul might consider the grounds of a hillside chapel overlooking the sea to be the ideal resting place for its mortal remains. Of course, for that to happen, the body must be found, and, in this town, there was no guarantee of that. Violent death was commonplace and should ‘the hit’ have been sanctioned by ‘the suits,’, the crime would go unreported and unpunished. Victims tended to be male and had faced ‘disposal’ for having ‘not acted in the best interests of the community.’ There were exceptions, like the day an elderly stranger arrived and began asking questions about one of our townsfolk; a word in the wrong ear and ‘the suits’ were scraping his body from the roadside and making it disappear. I did not know why, but this was one murder I felt would not go unavenged.

Now vengeance, it is said, is a dish best served cold, and nothing in this world comes packed with more ice than a man whose ancestors might have come from Skaro – Lomax.

He just stood there and stared into an open grave where many single roses lay on and around a coffin. He was uncaring of the rain soaking his white suit, a suit to which the town had become accustomed. The funeral had attracted such a turnout it felt as if all of town had been there, but I doubt Lomax had noticed. He had barely acknowledged the tearful ‘suit’ who had gently squeezed his shoulder and handed him something wrapped in polythene. Now he was alone.

The priest had long since departed; he had failed miserably when it came to delivering the pretty words the deceased deserved to have said over them, and in bedraggled frocks had hurried back to his own distant parish, town’s own priest having met with ‘disposal’. In the deepening gloom clouds spat more venomously and in a stiffening breeze wildflowers began a rapturous dance, perhaps celebrating as the dust of a long, hot summer was rinsed from the chapel’s stained-glass windows.

This was a side of Lomax I had never seen, maybe a side nobody had seen, ever. The tongue of the adder lay silent, and the heart nobody thought he had was melted. Only the truly anguished could have stood there in all that rain. I believe for the first time in his life, he was crying, and God’s tears were with his tears, from eyes devoid of their beguiling twinkle; eyes laid bare to the world, seeing nothing save, that is, for Death.

If Death could find a voice it might claim itself to be nothing more than a state of ceasing to be afraid. Death – that sickly-pale horse rising from the abyss to gallop on The Four Winds, its ghost rider tugging at the reins but unable to bring its mount to a place of peace. Perhaps Lomax experienced the ultimate fantasy – the fiendish nightmare from which there appeared no awakening, then the drift into transitory dreams safe in the knowledge that Death had gone away empty-handed. But nothing could change the cruel fact that Death had not gone away empty-handed, leaving him in a state of perpetual torment. Around town, Lomax had a reputation as an Angel of Death, but this was a death that lay heavily on his conscience.

The events of the summer passed must have replayed in his mind a thousand-fold; it had been a war, a war during which many poor souls had met their maker; his survival was proving scant consolation; the noise of battle had abated, and the storm had passed but not the tempest within; the war drums pounded over and over and created a clamour in the caverns of his soul and destroyed his capacity for logic, his train of thought derailed by the parallelism of what had seemed right at the time and his guilt in the aftermath.

At one point, his gaze drifted to the heavens, which usually meant he was sensing a feeling he had experienced all too often since that fateful day when he stepped down from the train, the sense of being the last man on Earth. That day marked the beginning for our town, but for Lomax, the story began either three months ago or thirty years ago, depending on what was true and what was not true.

The Mark 7 guns of European Armed Forces battleships on manoeuvres carried his gaze out to sea where there was nothing but rain and mist. What day was this? It took him a while to work it out. It was a Friday. So, what was it about Fridays, rain and the sound of gunfire?

1

Seduction

PULL!

His sharp cry screamed into the wilderness and became lost in the yawning terrain. Two clay pigeons, flushed from hiding, glided across the evening skyline, only to disintegrate and to plummet into a watery grave in the marsh.

Bravo! Mister Lomax, said a voice as the pinkie-blue of twilight shuddered into an irreverent silence.

A Lanber Field Deluxe cartwheeled to take aim, and the lady froze in her tracks. What a shocking way to greet anybody! But that was Lomax for you. Behind the visor, a dead-pan expression offering no reassurance, and eyes on the lookout for every twitch as they sought weakness. Nothing was given away, not even the pleasure taken from another’s discomfort.

I’m sorry, the lady continued. I didn’t mean to startle you.

A dilemma in the face of unprovoked hostility: should she call his bluff? He had no reason to murder her in cold blood, as far as she was aware; should she grovel for forgiveness? That would be demeaning and perhaps forgiveness was not in his vocabulary; how about sounding frightened?

Say something, please, came the plea.

A calling from above raised their sights to follow a ragged skein of wild geese, its flight path leading to gazes being met once more.

My name is...

The gun snapped open. The lady jumped back a pace and watched the spent cartridges leaping for freedom, only to fall into captivity amongst other cartridges scattered at his feet. In no time, it was loaded, snapped closed, and taking aim again.

Must you be so hostile?

It occurred to her that her voice lacked the gravitas to carry the impact of accusation. A demure smile prefaced a request that they might talk.

You talk.

Lomax was curt and menacing and totally inured to public opinion. The lady had arrived uninvited and worse still wished to engage him in conversation. For that, he would exact revenge, a small price to pay for the infraction. He looked her up and down whilst she shivered inside a camel coat, though why she felt the need for it on such a pleasant evening was beyond his ken, but then he had missed the weather forecast.

As you wish. I understand you were assigned the Scott Buchanan case this afternoon.

You’re way ahead of me, lady, he lied.

His thoughts turned to earlier when, during a visit to the probate offices of Lee Walker and Associates, he had received a document wallet containing a photograph of the deceased and a list of heirs with just one name on it. He would be contacted.

A knowing smile lit up the lady’s face.

O, then you won’t have decided whether or not to accept the mission.

Any reason why I shouldn’t accept it?

Perhaps.

She was playing with him, and Lomax liked playing games. As to who she was, he feigned mild interest.

Eve Manning.

She said it like it meant something to him; had it done so, she would never have known, not even when he raised his visor to reveal those deep blue eyes; he carried on looking right through her until she gained a nod of acceptance.

"Okay, Eve Manning. How do you like your brandy?

Neat.

Then something happened that she was not expecting. He moved to within kissing distance of her and sure enough planted the softest of kisses in the corner of her red lips. That was Lomax, unpredictable.

I’m sorry, Eve. I like to play games. Is that better?

Was it ever! In taking such a liberty he had made minimal contact and it was sensuous. From some women, it might have earned him a slap across the face.

Nearly.

He looked at her and smiled.

PULL!

He dwelt just long enough to sense Eve’s heart leaping into her mouth. Over his shoulder, she saw two more targets skimming across the gloaming, barely visible in the fading light. The visor fell over his eyes, and he spun around to fire both barrels. In brushing shoulders, he was trying to conceal his satisfaction behind a tight-lipped smile through which his tongue poked the word ‘neat’.

Had the Arctic suddenly moved to the equator? Was this the same man she had met just a minute ago? Is it possible for a person to switch to user-friendly mode so easily? All Eve knew was that a surge of warmth had arrived, and there was a spring in her step as she tried to keep abreast of him.

Hey! Do I get a ride back? Your neighbour dropped me here. He said you’d be delighted. Such a nice man, your neighbour.

Such a cheeky bastard, my neighbour that is.

Eve sat in the front passenger seat of an electric SUV, a model built primarily for city driving; there was nothing by way of conversation, nor was any attempt made to start the vehicle; she grew restless and sought diversion; the paling pink to her left lay in stark contrast with the heavy grey rolling in from her right; rain was in the offing, a storm perhaps. A clatter in the rear explained the delay; the hitherto unseen hand that had responded to his calls jumped in after a set of traps; the man was not introduced, and when he was dropped off, the two men merely exchanged ‘same time next week’ nods. The Arctic had frozen again. Eve wanted to say something but not simply for the sake of it, so she held her tongue and awaited a more rewarding opportunity.

The opportunity arrived once they were threading, weaving and jostling down the aisles of a busy hypermarket. Eve noticed he had little patience with those there for a social nor for those that dithered over their purchase; she wondered if her presence prevented him from getting into verbal altercations, his pique being made known by other means; she found herself smiling on more than one occasion at those on the receiving end of his obvious contempt.

This is madness, she suggested. Do you always shop when it’s so busy?

Yes.

What are you, some kind of masochist?

No.

She tried avoiding another monosyllable by reaffirming her view that shopping during Happy Hour had something in common with spiders - neither was a good idea; not that the contents of Lomax’s trolley were those of a bargain hunter. He remarked that it was just routine, his tone indicative of how bored he was with their exchange.

Oh, I see. You’re a man of routine.

No. He was thanked for making himself clear. Sensing disappointment, he brought the trolley to a halt. It’s convenient. I shoot, and then I shop. Welcome to my Friday evenings. There isn’t any mystery.

Onwards he went, enabling Eve to revel in a scheming smile.

Au contraire, monsieur. I do find you mysterious. You’re an enigma to be solved. You must forgive me, for I find you fascinating.

Go play with a ball of wool.

I haven’t begun to get my claws into you, mister.

Careful, Eve.

You are out of your comfort zone, and it shows.

You’re not, and it also shows. Now, what shall we have for dinner?

Something hot. Something that’ll make us sweat.

Sexual connotations behind naughty smiles were wasted on Lomax, or at least that was the impression he liked to give.

The weather had turned naff by the time Lomax reversed into his garage. A car parked on the concourse received pity from Eve as they raced into a block of luxury apartments, their entrance hindered by bags of shopping.

Eve let out a groan upon unburdening herself and then another when kicking off sodden shoes. She prowled his lounge in search of clues, all the time hugging her coat until the heating kicked in. The absence of clues spoke volumes. Lomax was minimalist extremis, nothing on the walls, an expensive-looking music system and two armchairs, one on either side of a coffee table with an inlaid chess board; it made vacuuming the lush carpet very easy. She looked at the board; a game appeared to be in progress, yet it was almost impossible to countenance Lomax deeming a mere mortal to be a worthy opponent; she lifted one of its Chinese warrior figurines to examine it at close quarters. Lomax entered with a liquid offering in a large curvaceous glass.

This is unusual. The craftsmanship is exquisite.

Yes. It’s said that, if you listen carefully, you can hear the cries of battle and afterwards, you can smell death.

And you, Philip? What do you say?

Her switch to informality was not lost on him. He offered a glass in exchange for the figurine, which he replaced on the appropriate square. He was within kissing distance again, but this time, he looked into her eyes and raised his glass.

To Scott Buchanan, she proffered.

Their glasses clinked in respect, and the brandy warmed the chill delivered by death. Lomax moved to look out the rain-spattered window; he could just make out the trees and the hedges dividing the fields and the small paddock where a couple of ponies played by day; but he was more interested in Eve’s reflection. Eve commanded a strange beauty, her features striking and her bone structure reminiscent of Greta Garbo; at a distance, she could have passed for a forty-year-old when in truth, she was at least fifteen years older; he watched the way she sipped from a glass held loosely between interlocked fingers, then chose to speak to her reflection.

When did he pass away?

A month ago, maybe. Nobody knows for certain.

Bad news always follows uncertainty, so let’s have it.

It’s just that there wasn’t a lot left once the sea gave him up.

He did well to swallow his amusement, caused by having suspected he was about to hear something out of the ordinary, and not been disappointed.

I’m only guessing, mind, but I don’t suppose he’d gone for a swim.

No. He’d been shot.

Lomax touched a concealed button, and curtains silently cut him off from the outside world.

Your story doesn’t improve with age. Why would anyone do a thing like that?

Eve explained how Scott’s body had been taken into port in Grimsby, of how the security services had been unable to establish a crime scene, of how the case was being treated as a botched robbery and of how there was little prospect of an arrest. Scott’s ceremonial works bracelet was the only way the body had been identified.

These have no monetary value, she added, displaying her own on her wrist.

Robbery, huh? But you know differently, and that’s why you’re here, right?

I don’t know what happened. She was taken aback and taken again by a moment of diffidence during which she went back on the prowl and walked her fingers along the top of an armchair. It was her turn to move to within kissing distance, or at least a little short of it. I came here because I have information that might be of some use to you. It might even save your life, that is, if you accept the mission.

Lady, I get paid to find people. Normally I don’t get to pick and choose.

Not even if there’s a strong element of danger?

Raindrops remained clinging to her curls like baubles on a Christmas tree. He moved behind her, and she looked around, possibly with a hint of angst but more like with anticipation. His hands were on her shoulders.

Allow me to take your coat. He revealed a crimson two-piece in crushed velvet. His hands returned. Allow me to take your jacket. This time a white blouse with a black shoelace bow tie.

Is there anything else you’d like to take off?

Plenty.

Was he serious? That word was clipped and said without any indication of there being a thought process at work. Something was appealing to Eve’s senses because upon his return, her glass was begging for a refill. In the same movement as relieving her of the glass, he caressed Eve’s ring-free ring finger. What game was he playing now?

I like you when you’re not so hostile, she said to unearth his motives.

Then make the most of it.

Ooh! What’s this? A seduction? Not exactly chivalrous, wouldn’t you say?

Chivalry went out the window the day men took to wearing earrings, and seduction is for kids. I’m cold, I’m wet, and I’m hungry. I want to clean up, eat and have a few drinks. This is not the night I had planned, and it could be all the better for it if we stop acting like we’re afraid of each other and be what we are.

And what are we?

Two not so nice people doing nice things together.

"Already made up your mind about me, haven’t you?

You are human, aren’t you? What else could you be?

I could be in a relationship.

He shook his head.

"People like us don’t do commitments."

Really? And how many women are you currently uncommitted to?

He held up one finger, placed it on her chin and drew a line down her neck, whereupon he loosened her tie and top button.

I suppose I should feel flattered. After all, I am old enough to be, if I may be so kind, your aunt. I’m just surprised you should want to fuck somebody you don’t like. Even the slightest flinch was a rarity, but he could not help himself. At once, Eve reached up to touch his face. I’m so sorry. That was really hurtful.

You misjudge me. It’s a brutal and loveless world we live in. What I really want is for you to leave here tomorrow with the memory of two people who for one night in their lives could pretend they actually cared about somebody else.

His choice of words was exactly what was needed to seal the deal, and soon, their naked bodies were clenched in a mountain of suds. Like the legs of a large spider, his fingers worked to remove the grips preventing her curls from cascading around her delicate shoulders.

You have good skin, Eve, he remarked whilst navigating the bar of soap around the contours of her back. You’ve given of yourself sparingly, so your fire should burn long and bright. But something is putting the men off. I wonder what it could be.

He was looking right through her again, but she just smiled and reached for her glass and looked right back at him as she sipped. Her entire body was all a-buzz, for he was right about spontaneity. Knowing what the day holds in store is always crap, and she was glad to have found the courage to play along. She liked both his touch and the way he baited his words with just a hint of mischief. Perhaps the rain made it more enjoyable. She had heard about women saying they felt sexier when it was raining.

This was a first for Lomax. Sexual liaisons were to be avoided at all costs lest they should interfere with his reclusive lifestyle, but then he did not perceive Eve to offer that kind of threat. There was just something about her, something that made him want to look her in the eye and tell her, ‘I want you’. Eve combined intelligence with raw sexuality making her his idea of the archetypal thinking man’s sex symbol, and thinking was his game.

‘Don’t go there’ had been her response to his ponderings, and so he did not ‘go there’ or anywhere else, for the boundaries were yet to be set. Occasionally their lips met but always with the knowledge that this was a fleeting moment in their lives and the moment would have been spoiled by serious conversation, so they discussed the brandy, or rather the mixer. It was lovage in the form of a distilled cordial, and it came with a health warning. How long had been drinking this bust head?

Since God was a lad.

No wonder you don’t remember your childhood.

Had she let that slip on purpose?

Philip, I have a small confession to make.  She was right in his ear. I needed a probate detective, so I asked who the best tracker is, and your name was mentioned. Then I asked who is the most honest and reliable and again your name was mentioned. But when I said it might be a job for a particularly mean and nasty individual, yours was the only name mentioned.

Gold star.

There’s more. Your name rang a bell, and so I did a little homework and discovered that you are the same Philip Lomax who once had his own column in The Roving Reporter. Scotty and I were huge fans. You built a reputation for being a compassionate recluse. We never could get our heads around that.

Recluse is my middle name. Compassionate is not

You courted controversy too.

I was paid to.

"You were different then. I recall when you wrote how you could relate to children orphaned by war because you had been orphaned yourself. You said those children would forever be haunted by images of their loved ones being butchered, but you envied them because even that was better than not having any memories at all.

I don’t suppose my childhood is worth remembering.

Is that what tonight is all about? Us, I mean? Your building of a memory?

If I can. Demolition has often come easier.

Well, you’ve brought me this far. How much farther?

Any regret will be a regret shared.

Eve raised her glass to his words. A beeping sound from the kitchen announced dinner should be served. With suds trickling from under a bathrobe, she watched from the doorway. With no taste for food that would make them sweat, Lomax turned sausages on the grill pan. He was strong of body without being overly muscular, and nothing under his T-shirt wobbled.

Easy there, he cautioned, breaking from his task to steady soap-scented fingers pouring from the bottle of lovage.

She asked if she could help and was assigned to remove the jacket potatoes from the oven and set up a couple of trays. Two of everything in the cutlery drawer drew a smile, as did the contents of the crockery cupboard. Surely, she voiced, a true recluse and minimalist would need just one of everything.

Call me an old-fashioned sentimentalist. I even keep two toothbrushes in case one gets lonely.

Eve’s mood changed once she noticed the document wallet on the work-surface; she flipped it open; the portrait photograph of Scott Buchanan produced a tear and a consoling hand rested on her shoulder.

This must have been taken twenty or so years ago. He’d turned eighty at the beginning of the year.

Come on. Let’s eat.

Bangers with jacket potatoes mashed with lashings of butter made me wish Lomax had been my dad, even if he was a Dalek. Not a lot was said during dinner. They just looked at each other and wondered. After dinner, the game of chess became a reality rather than a metaphor. He arrived, carrying two rather full glasses, to find Eve had chosen the figurines with white bases and had already made her first move. He dimmed the lights before responding. They proved to be evenly matched, neither hindered by the conversation nor the free-flowing alcohol.

So, who was Eve Manning and, more to the point, what was she? Lomax eventually managed to steer things in that direction.

She was, in fact, Doctor Eve Manning, a speech therapist with skills deployed for over thirty years at St. Martin’s, a rehabilitation unit for children with acute problems. Scott Buchanan had been one of its founder members long before Eve’s arrival. Had they been close colleagues?

Very close. Scotty gave me a break when I was a post-grad desperate to get on the ladder. He allowed me to make mistakes. Do you know what the hardest part of working with children is?

Toilet break?

Staying emotionally detached. Scotty was a dab hand at it, or should I say he was, until a little five-year-old girl named Angie came into our world. Angie had been orphaned and was suffering from what we call a total lack of socialisation. I’ll be honest. I thought of her as a huge and unnecessary risk, but he saw something in her, and he was right. That little girl really got to him, and with his love and ingenuity, she blossomed. Two years later, we were able to put her up for adoption.

He should have adopted her.

At fifty and single? He planned to visit her as often as he could until she was adopted, but that never happened. Angie was just nine years of age when she and a friend went to a visiting fair. For reasons unknown, they became separated. Her friend was set upon and left for dead. Angie has been off the radar ever since.

About thirty years? Eve nodded. You might as well put up wanted posters of The Invisible Man.

Scotty knew that, but it didn’t stop him searching for her. It was a quest, and it took him the length and breadth of the land, and sometimes out of it. He never gave up hope, and nobody dared tell him Angie was probably dead. Then out of the blue, he heard from the security forces in Merseyside. They’d been clearing out the old police records and by chance matched the name Angie Morgan with the national database of missing persons.

Just how many Angie Morgans are there?

You have no idea, but Scotty had been clutching at straws from the start. He called us to say the mugshot was inconclusive, but he had been given the name of a known associate and was following a promising lead. I’d never heard him so excited. That was the last we heard until his body was recovered. Had this associate a name? He didn’t say.

Do you believe his death is linked to his search?

It can’t be ruled out. That’s why I came. You’re the best man for the job, and it’s only fair you should know what you might be getting into.

You think they can pay me enough to take such a risk?

"Scotty was worth millions. This is a big payday for the company. Believe me, they can pay."

It’s a sucker’s game, Eve. Find someone else, like a private detective.

I thought you’d say that.

Naturally, and that’s the real reason you’re here.

Eve giggled like a schoolgirl.

You really are a wicked man, Philip. You make me feel like a book you’ve read many times over. She took another sip and smiled as if to say it was of no importance. Scotty was an extraordinary man. He made things possible. We’d like to repay him by making his dream come true.

How noble.

Scoff all you like. You’re the only man for the job, and you do have a proven background for this kind of work.

Was Eve suggesting he had skeletons in his cupboard?

"Philip Lomax, you and I both know that you have not always been a probate detective, and you were not always a crusading journalist."

That was a long time ago, Eve.

That was the hunter in you, she asserted with a playful growl.

Until I became the hunted. I didn’t like that. Look around you. What do I need money for?

So, you’re turning me down. I might have known a man as adept at looking after Number One would play hard to get.

I’m the one person I can depend on.

Ever thought of giving somebody else a chance?

Hell no. I’ve made my bed, and I’ll lie in it – alone.

Not exactly in a huff, Eve left the game to pace up and down with hands in pockets.

It’s pathetic, being stuck here on your own. What do you do when you’re not working or shooting clay pigeons? Don’t you have any friends?

"No. People will waste your time if you let them."

O my! You’re controversial even when you’re not being paid.

I won’t live a lie, and I’ll say what I think, which isn’t the way of the herd. That’s if the herd is still able to think.

Is that so? You’re full of shit. What I hear is a pack of sorry excuses for not having to work at relationships. How hard it must be for you, existing in a world you care so little for.

There’s nothing wrong with the world that getting rid of its peoples wouldn’t put right.

Well even you couldn’t arrange that. So, you bought your isolation, and now the world has to make an appointment to see you.

Lomax could not reach his glass quickly enough.

I’ll drink to that.

This is impossible, she claimed as she sank back into an armchair. I’m talking to a man who makes a virtue out of misanthropy. Let’s cut to the chase. What’s it going to take?

You go dangle your pot elsewhere.

Come off it. You’re not so bloody self-righteous you don’t have a price.

It’s not about money. I need a stronger motive than that.

Eve gave herself time to think before making her next move, both on and off the board to which she had returned to stand over.

You were once this great adventurer who turned his back on the horrors of war to devote his energy to its victims. Are you truly happy to have traded that for life as an heir hunter?

I’m happy now that I don’t have to wash off the dirt.

So, how does it go? Knock-knock, hello, sign here, goodbye? Is that your idea of maintaining some connection with society?

Pretty much.

What, what if Angie had been related to you or had been a close friend? Would that make a difference?

Lomax took his time before accepting that he might have gone as far as to find out if Scott Buchanan had been on the trail of the right girl and assessed the situation from there.

But she’s not a relative or a friend, is she?

Eve made her next move and declared ‘check’. The escape was simple, and he still had a good game going. Nonetheless, he placed a finger on his king and toppled it, probably a sign he was disenchanted with some aspects of the evening. He turned on the music system and pressed select. Lomax had this thing about harp music. The drink was having its say, and he almost collapsed back into his armchair. It was having its way with Eve, too, and next, she was swaying over and edging into his lap, head on his shoulder and a lot of leg showing.

Hmm! I feel so warm and relaxed. I can’t remember the last time I drank so much, unless it was an office party.

Funny. I can’t remember the last time I talked this much.

Bet it wasn’t at an office party. They shared careless laughter. It was my fault. I talk too much, and now I must talk some more because I owe you an apology. I said some pretty rotten things just now.

Sticks and stones, Eve.

No. I saw your pain, and I’d like to kiss it better. She planted little kisses on his face and lips, but he failed to respond. Now, what’s the matter? I thought you wanted us to do nice things together.

That was before we ate part of a pig. How can you kiss someone after they’ve eaten part of a pig?

"You give these things way too much thought. Unless, of course, it has more to do with you not liking me."

I said we’re not nice people. I didn’t say anything about not liking you. You’re more of an itch I can’t scratch. I guess I look at you, and I see myself, incapable of emotional commitment and knowing exactly what you want and how to get it. Perhaps that’s why I’d rather see you in my bed than on a mortuary slab.

Another sip, another naughty smile.

Is there a difference?

I’ll bow to your greater experience.

Chivalrous as ever.

But since I asked?

That would depend on what you’re prepared to believe.

I believe you to be a born liar, but I’m all ears.

Well, it’s like you said. I have given of myself sparingly. However, I do seem to have acquired the reputation for being what they call a serial snogger. I am partial to a good snog and the men I’ve snogged knew the score. If you wish to be compared with them, then they number....

Brandy spilled over as he pulled her in tight.

I don’t wish to be compared with them.

Eve got up and offered her hand. He took her into his arms,,and they swayed to the music and kissed and drank and kissed some more. When his hand finally threatened the belt of her bathrobe, her hand delayed him.

I’ve never gone this far before, and I’m not going to back out on you or make any conditions. All I ask is that afterwards, you sleep on it. If your answer is still ‘no’, then so be it.

Lomax looked her in the eye and then slowly nodded. That was the signal, and Eve’s hands lifted his T-shirt, and her lips applied gentle suction to his pecs and neck. Lomax was busy too, peeling back the bathrobe and allowing it to slip and to gather around her ankles.

Early next morning, Lomax awakened with a throbbing head and mouth like a wrestler’s laundry basket; he felt hot, even though he was naked, and manoeuvred to sit on the edge of the bed, there to stare at a half-empty glass and strewn clothing; he looked to where Eve lay; she was still asleep but with what he thought looked like a faint smile on her countenance; her nipples were hard, but his ego was dampened by the presence of gooseflesh; he lifted the duvet to cover her. It might have been nice had she still been experiencing the afterglow of sexual ecstasy. This was a nice thought, but a darker thought was stirring. Had she experienced sexual ecstasy? Had he experienced sexual ecstasy? He had awakened without memory of the night. Was he just too damned drunk to remember, or had he fallen asleep on the job? Mortified by the possibility, he slipped into last night’s clothes and sneaked out.

Behind the curtains, the grey light of dawn suggested it had rained all night.