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(A quick update for anyone who has not read Heather’s Busy Week)
Heather classes herself as being “well on the lezzie side of bi”. She has just had a busy week indeed. Since last Friday evening she has taken no fewer than seven lovers: Rita (an old flame of hers); Alex (Rita’s current boyfriend); Eleanor (Alex’s mum); Gill (a lady cricketer and proud owner of a gold star), Ruth (Hev’s bisexual coursemate); Stuffypants (a stern but oh-so-very-sexy policewoman) and Naz (Hev’s very bi-curious footballing friend).
She has also: dobbed in an amateur drug pusher; wrecked a double twenty-first birthday party; been interviewed by the police (more than once); and rescued a damsel in distress from the clutches of a far more sinister dealer.
Alex is the common factor in most of Heather’s recent adventures, which is just typical of a bloke. She sleeps with seven different people and which one causes her grief? That’s right: the one with a willy!
In fairness it was Alex’s twin sister who was mostly to blame. The amateur pusher was Carrie’s friend. The wrecked twenty-first was Carrie’s. And, influenced by her growing appetite for coke, it was Carrie who became the damsel in distress. That is to say she entered into an arrangement with the sinister Spider. Put simply, he fed her drugs and she let him have her any which way he wanted.
It is now Friday again and all is well. Carrie is safely locked away in a clinic, out of Spider’s reach. It’s time to celebrate being alive, Heather decides . . . and how better to celebrate than in Naz’s bed? Yet another night of earthy lust will round things off nicely.
Then, moments before she sets out she gets a call from Alex, updating her about Carrie, unaware his mother has already beaten him to it. Heather listens politely, keeping her fling with “Mother” under her hat. But the call is ill-fated. An unwelcome, uninvited visitor cuts him off mid-call . . .
(Friday, 26th April 2002)
Heather stared at her mobile in disbelief. What was Spider doing at Alex’s house? Come to that, how did Spider even know Alex existed? He hadn’t known Carrie’s name until Naz had blurted it out, and she’d only given him a Christian name; he couldn’t have simply looked them up in the book.
She redialled with trembling fingers and got the number unavailable tone. Cursing, she tried again. Same result.
Rats, rats, rats, she thought. I’m going to have to get involved.
Predictably, Heather didn’t pause to consider the fact that she shouldn’t get involved. That simple fact never crossed her mind, not even fleetingly.
The taxi office picked up her call on the second ring.
”Ow do, chuck,’ a broad cotton town accent said, ‘need a cab?’
‘Hattie, it’s me, Heather.’ She pictured the woman and smiled, concerned as she was. Hattie sounded as if she was George Formby’s daughter and not at all Asian. ‘Is Majid working today?’
‘He starts at seven. He’s on all night tonight.’
‘Double rats. I need him urgently.’
‘Sorry, chuck, I happen to know he’s taken his nephew to see Return to Never Land. His phone will be off until he comes out of the cinema.’
Heather cursed under her breath. Then, reminding herself she was made of stern stuff, she said, ‘I’ll catch up with him later, assuming Captain Hook doesn’t get him first. Meanwhile, can I have a taxi at mine as soon as poss, please?’
‘It’ll be there in ten, chuck.’
Heather hurriedly redressed in her student clobber and ran downstairs. The cab tooted outside as she was pulling on her Nikes.
‘Stanley Street,’ she said as she climbed into the vehicle.
The driver nodded and set off without comment. Heather eyed him as they went. She knew most of the regular cabbies well. This one called himself “Eddie” but was probably more of a Zoltan or Ferenc. His English was only so-so and he was a bit of a miserable git. She had no inclination to ask him for assistance. In fact she’d rather go charging in there alone.
Good grief, what am I doing, she wondered, pretending I’m Lara Croft again?
This time her smile was wry. She hoped Dr Lester didn’t find out about this; whatever this turned out to be.
‘Stanley Street,’ Eddie announced. ‘What number?’
‘Pull up anywhere here on the left.’
As Heather turned to pay her fare she caught a glimpse of shiny black car passing. Looking out of the back window she saw it was a BMW, just like Spider’s. She cursed some more, this time aiming the venom at her own stupidity. She’d been yards from the dealer’s motor yesterday without memorizing his plate. And the BMW’s windows were dark-tinted; she could only see a silhouette of the back of the driver’s head. She was certain it was Spider . . . as good as, but not quite a hundred per cent.
Eddie handed over her change and frowned as she got out of the car. ‘You okay?’
How to answer? No, I’m bricking myself . . . please help? Or maybe: Lend me an adjustable wrench and I’ll be fine? Asking for help casino oyna would be the sensible option, obviously. She couldn’t do it, though. She did not know why, but she couldn’t.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I’m okay.’
She tried Alex’s number again as Eddie drove away. It was still unavailable. Trying to banish images of her friend’s broken body lying next to his broken phone, she checked out Stanley Street. It had perhaps as much as two hundred yards of terraced houses on either side, all with marked-off parking spaces. Right now, five to five on Friday teatime, half of the spaces were empty. Alex lived at number thirty-two, on the other side from where she was standing. The space outside Alex’s was empty.
Would Spider have parked directly outside? Heather mused, no, not if he’s up to no good and has any sense. But then again, he’s an arrogant so-and-so; not the sort to hide his car away on a side street.
Number thirty-two was set out like its neighbours. It had a front door to the left, lounge window to the right. As you went through the front door you were immediately confronted with a steep flight of steps. A small hallway turned into a corridor which led to the kitchen. And that was about it. It wasn’t a place to get lost in. The kitchen took up the back third of the floor space; the hallway, corridor and lounge took up the rest. The flight of stairs would go to the first floor, where there were two smaller windows, perhaps a metre apart. At a guess there would be two bedrooms and a bathroom up there. It shouldn’t take long to search for bodies.
That’s if I ever get in!
Constantly assuring herself Spider had been and gone, Heather crossed the street and approached Alex’s place. Steeling herself, she peered in through the window. Everything appeared to be orderly. As far as she could tell it was exactly the same as yesterday, except without Eleanor pacing up and down.
She went up to the front door and knocked. No reply. She gave it another sharp rat-a-tat-tat. There was still no reply.
Back on the street cars were arriving. Workers coming home, ready for a well-deserved weekend, she supposed. Farther down, towards the end of Alex’s terrace, a harassed mum and dad duo were trying to load three quarrelsome kids into an Astra. Presumably they were setting off for their Friday evening shop at ASDA or Morrisons. And, if there was a more accurate vision of Hell than that . . .
Nobody was taking any notice so Heather went down on one knee and had a quick shufti through the letterbox. Flipping useless! Someone . . . probably Carrie . . . had installed a draught excluder. It was one of those bristly ones and impossible to shufti past, no matter how hard she tried.
Upright again, she tried the door handle. Surprise, surprise! It was locked.
Okay then, round the back.
She strolled casually past the shrieking brats (sorry: past the delightful young children), rounded the end of the terrace and started up the backstreet. She had intended to count off the properties until she got to Alex’s but there was no need. Every single house had two or three wheelie bins lined up next to their gate, all with the appropriate numbers painted on, some quite artistically.
Number thirty-two had two bins. The yard was, in common with most others, fully enclosed. That is to say the three original, four-foot boundary walls had had another metre of wooden fencing fixed on top. Tall as she was, Heather had no chance of peeping over.
The gate was solid wood and almost as tall as the fences, guaranteeing privacy for barbeques and sunbathing. Pushing it open, she stepped into the yard and, quite reluctantly, closed up behind her, letting it latch. There was a chance she was blocking her best line of retreat but what else could she do? Let a nosy neighbour spot her snooping around?
Good grief, she thought, imagine Stuffypants’ face if she got called out and caught me in the act!
The back of the house was a mirror image of the front. The kitchen door was to the right, the kitchen window to the left. There were two smaller windows upstairs, about a metre apart. Heather cast around the yard, which was very much as expected: a stack of white garden furniture in the far left corner, tinted green after the winter rain; a barbeque on wheels in the near right corner, ever-so-slightly rusty. Sod all else.
Good place for tanning, mind. Even now, late April, it’s a bit of a suntrap.
Heather crossed the yard and looked in through the window, seeing MFI kitchen units, surprisingly well-preserved. No sign of any disruption at all. Steeling herself once more, not bothering to knock, she tried the door handle.
Amazingly, the door opened. She stood there a few moments, listening hard. There was no sound at all. And the house felt empty. That is to say, it felt lived-in . . . but not at that moment.
She finally went inside, pulling the door to behind her. The lock was a typical Yale. After a moment’s hesitation, she locked it.
Okay, she reasoned, canlı casino Spider’s been and gone, but how do I know he won’t come back? How do I know he didn’t see me in my taxi and is creeping up behind me right now?
Heather didn’t bother searching the kitchen; there was only too obviously nobody there. She went towards the internal door and stopped with her hand on the knob. Spider might have taken the key to Alex’s front door. If he had seen her, he could be waiting in the corridor, on the other side of this door.
There was a large ceramic jar on the nearest stretch of worktop. The stencilled word FLOUR gave away its original use. Nowadays, with its lid presumably lost back in the mists of time, it was being used to store kitchen implements. As well as wooden spoons, spatulas, a fish slice and barbeque tongs, it contained a solid glass rolling pin.
Armed with the rolling pin, feeling like Flo Capp awaiting her errant husband, she turned the knob.
(Friday, 26th April 2002)
The corridor was empty. There was no Spider, no broken body and, as far as Heather could see, no broken phone. The door into the lounge was on her left and it was closed. Gripping the rolling pin in her left hand she turned the knob and pushed.
The lounge was exactly as it should be: neat, tidy and uncontaminated by bodies or pools of recently spilled blood.
Maybe a trace of Eleanor’s perfume, but no bloody gore.
So where the heck was he?
Heather went back into the corridor and inspected the small hallway. There was nothing out of place, no unsightly puddles of claret. She noticed a man’s black leather wallet on a low table and recognized it as Alex’s; he’d waved it under her nose while beating her to the bar in the old Ye Olde.
Okay, she thought. He gets home from Preston and dumps it there. That’s where it probably lives. But he wouldn’t go out again without it, would he?
Taking the bull by the horns she called up the stairs. ‘Alex, are you there?’
No response; nothing. So up she went, still holding the rolling pin but no longer expecting to have to use it. Which was just as well; that utensil made a formidable weapon. Andy Capp might be able to survive a cartoon battering from it, but a real-life person probably wouldn’t.
She reached the landing and realized she’d been wrong about the geography of the first floor. There was only one bedroom, a bathroom and a corridor leading to another flight of stairs. It was easy to tag the bedroom as Carrie’s; it took up half the floor space, contained a decent-looking dressing table and smelt of her (supposedly) sporty bouquet. No sign of Alex, however.
The bathroom was just as unoccupied. Heather gave it the once-over then climbed up the final flight of stairs. These terminated at a small landing with two doors. Converted attic bedrooms, she realized; the type with slanty roofs and Velux windows, ideal for students or small children. One of the two was being used as a storage area; it was crammed with boxes filled with all sorts of junk. The other was Alex’s pit. Leastways, it looked as if it was.
‘Where the heck is he?’ she murmured.
Heather had stopped expecting to find a corpse some time ago. A violent confrontation would have left tell-tale signs . . . smashed furniture, bloodstains and the likes. She had become more puzzled than frantically worried. Spider wouldn’t have kidnapped Alex, would he? Kidnapping was a serious offence and, with the best will in the world, who’d want to ransom a penniless undergraduate?
She tried his phone yet again and this time it went to his answering service. It wasn’t broken after all. Hallelujah! He’d turned it back on.
‘Alex,’ she said after the tone. ‘It’s Hev. Bell me as soon as. Okay?’
She looked round the attic bedroom before leaving. Something wasn’t quite right, but what? Nope, no good, she couldn’t tell what it was.
Lighter at heart she went back down to the first floor and re-entered Carrie’s room. It was big enough to feature a double bed.
Hmmm . . .
Now she came to look closely she saw the bedroom also featured an en suite. Nothing sinister in there, though. Not unless you counted a man’s shaving kit.
It will be hers, she thought. She shaves as thoroughly as I do. Unless . . .
Please God, don’t say they’re living like man and wife!
Heather had to suppose that was a possibility. She still couldn’t work out why Alex’s attic bedroom didn’t feel right. Maybe it was because it was only there for show. Maybe he really shared Carrie’s double bed. Maybe she had strap-ons for every day of the week . . . or, rather, every night.
A little red devil, perched on her left shoulder, suggested she should check out the drawers in Carrie’s dressing table. The little angel on her right shoulder was outraged. Ignoring her, Heather opened the top drawer.
‘My, my,’ she said, ‘whatever are these?’
According to the blurb on the box, she was looking at “micro vibrators” with a battery kaçak casino life of just thirty minutes. Apparently the accompanying bands stretched, enabling them to be attached to one, two or even three fingers.
‘”Suitable for internal and external fun”,’ she read, ‘sounds good to me. I’ll have to get some.’
The top drawer also contained three large dildos and a carton of a hundred and forty-four condoms, of which there were about twenty left.
Hmmm . . .
She was reaching for the second drawer down when she remembered Naz. Rats, it was ten to six. If she didn’t break land speed records she was going to be late.
”Ow do, chuck. Need a cab?’
‘Hattie, it’s me, Heather. I’m at thirty-two Stanley Street, and I need to be at Manchester Road by six o’clock. Help!’
‘Be there in five, chuck.’
Heather was going downstairs as she spoke. ‘Brilliant. You’re a star. I owe you a big drink for this.’
”Ow do you know I drink?’
‘It was a lucky guess. Fancy making a night of it sometime?’
‘I’m more than twice your age. We’d look ridiculous together.’
‘I don’t care how old you are. Just say you’re up for it.’
‘I’ll let you know,’ said Hattie, suddenly no longer her usual flirty self; suddenly cautious. ‘And by the way, your carriage awaits outside.’
Heather texted Naz from the taxi, saying she was running late but on her way. It was ten past when she got there and the beautiful Pakistani girl was waiting on her doorstep.
‘A thousand apologies,’ Heather began. ‘Alex has . . .’
Naz grabbed her, practically threw her into the house and slammed the door. Then they were kissing ferociously and buttons were being undone. Leastways, Naz was kissing ferociously and Heather’s buttons were being undone. Oft accused of behaving like a force of nature herself, Heather just let it happen. She might have had time to think, Que sera, but beyond that she hadn’t a chance. This was simply too exciting. She needed to live it, not think about it.
Somehow they made it halfway up the staircase before Naz gave in to urgency. Making it all the way to the top wasn’t on the cards. Heather’s Nikes were off in a flash and her jeans soon followed. Then she was on her back and Naz was on a lower step, leaning in between her legs, assaulting her sex, first nibbling on her and then chewing.
‘Good grief,’ Heather almost screamed.
‘Mmnn, mmnn,’ Naz replied through a mouthful of fanny.
Trying to hold off was a waste of time. That chewing was impossible to resist. Heather bucked and wriggled and writhed as a big cum hit her. Naz rode the bucking and writhing like a rodeo champion, still determinedly gnawing away. It was good. No, better than good, it was awesome. Heather could feel herself starting to peak again straightaway. Except it wasn’t just a peak . . .
‘Naz,’ she warned, recognizing the signs. ‘I’m going to squirt. Good grief girl, you’re going to make me squirt!’
Naz never wavered. She pressed on and on. Meanwhile pressure built up and up inside Heather. Her body was getting hotter and hotter. No doubt about it, she was going to go off like Old Faithful.
‘I mean it, Naz. You’re going to get . . .’
Too late! Her geyser spouted and Naz got drenched. Not that she seemed to mind.
‘Amazing,’ she said. ‘And it doesn’t taste like pee at all.’
‘Bloody hell, lass,’ Heather gasped, ‘is there no end to your talents?’ She flopped as if her spine had been removed, all her muscles still twanging. ‘I don’t do that very often. And I don’t know what you’re laughing at. Your carpet’s ruined.’
‘It’s a tatty old thing anyway. And I took the brunt of it, not the carpet.’ Naz’s lovely eyes were glowing. ‘Get up those steps, Hev. I want to fuck you on my bed.’
‘I don’t think I can walk.’
‘Crawl then. Just get your sexy ass on my bed.’
Clad only in socks and T-shirt, Heather managed to reach the landing.
‘Bedroom’s on the right,’ said Naz. ‘I’m going to put my wet clothes in the wash basket. Be naked for me when I join you.’
Heather pulled off her top and, sitting on the bed, removed her socks. Her heartbeat had just about returned to normal and she had recovered her breath. She’d been right about her legs, though; they were still distinctly wobbly.
Is it time for Naz to experience whirlwinds and hurricanes? she wondered.
Perhaps it wasn’t. The girl clearly had other games in mind. She pranced into the bedroom and went straight to a set of drawers. ‘Big enough for you?’ she enquired, grinning.
Heather laughed. The dildo in Naz’s hand was rather large and exceedingly knobbly.
‘Well,’ Naz said, ‘is it?’
‘Oh it’s big enough,’ Heather replied. ‘But it’s not what you’ve got; it’s how you use it.’
‘I know that. Lie back. Let’s see how wicked I can be.’
(Friday, 26th April 2002)
Naz could be very wicked. An hour or so passed with her doing imitations of whirlwinds, hurricanes and tornadoes. Not that she was rough with it. No, she was passionate and persistent but not rough. Heather enjoyed her attentions enormously. In fact right now, while her lover took a timeout, she was impatient to return the favour.
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