A Mersey Mile (38 page)

She liked the house. The furniture was good, the rooms spacious and airy, while even the gardens were attractive. The man clearly had an eye for the good life. ‘Ten out of ten,’ she
said.

‘I had help from my mother and a designer. Are you hungry?’

‘Not for food.’

He led her upstairs. A sudden awkwardness hit him. She was out of context, she was in his house, and she now knew where he lived. Elaine Lewis had an agenda; she always had an agenda, since she
seemed to do nothing purely for fun. ‘My room’s there,’ he said when they reached the landing. ‘The bathroom, should you need it, is through that door.’ The warning
bell continued to sound dully in his skull, but other senses, over which he had little control, overtook him. Why was he afraid? He had no idea.

She repaired to the bathroom and changed into the diaphanous item she had purchased earlier. Looking in the mirror, she saw a beautiful woman whose hair needed a quick tidy. So this was the big
moment, then. She had read about it, and understood that women felt radically different after the first encounter. ‘Don’t dare to glow,’ she advised her reflection. ‘Do not
go all happy and silly.’

When she entered his bedroom, he was naked under the sheets, and she stood in the doorway for a while just looking at him. He had a strong face, good teeth and a pleasant smile.
‘Hello,’ she said. She might pretend that he was Frank.

‘Come here.’

She climbed into bed and they clung together. An experienced man, he had never before bedded a woman of Elaine’s calibre, so he was glad he had mastered the basics. Yes, she was a virgin,
and no, she didn’t weep. She screamed with joy, dug her nails into his flesh, wanted more and more and more than he could provide. For a first timer, she was bold, uninhibited and wild.

Bob was in good health, robust and eager. But three hours later, he had become comparable to a wrung-out dishcloth. ‘It doesn’t work that way, darling. A man needs a rest between
bouts. We’ve already gone three longish rounds, and the referee’s thrown the towel in twice. Look at me – I’m worn out.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you, though?’

‘I suppose so. Women are more capable, then.’

‘Some are. I’m sorry, but the male mechanism can’t be altered.’ She had definitely been inexperienced, so she’d told the truth in that area. ‘Have you never
been touched at all before? Honestly?’

‘Honestly.’

‘No kissing or fondling?’

‘No. I was too busy collecting qualifications. My aim is to prove that this is no longer a man’s world exclusively.’ She kissed him. ‘Don’t you want to play any
more? Shall we get the Monopoly or a pack of cards to pass the time until you recover?’

‘Later. Let’s go down and find something to eat. Did I tell you I’m an excellent cook?’

‘No, you didn’t. You go. I’ll have tea and a plain biscuit.’

He left the room, dragging in his wake a dressing gown.

So. That was it, then, she told herself. She’d collected another problem because she wanted more. ‘I’d need to keep two or three men, I suppose,’ she said, plumping
pillows so that she might sit up. Emotionally, she remained intact; physically, she’d had several experiences that might have blown her socks off, if she ever wore socks. It was a good thing
she’d waited, or she’d never have passed her driving test, let alone her degrees. Where was he?

Bob was sitting in a kitchen chair at the small breakfast table. He felt like an ailing stud horse that hadn’t quite lived up to the mare’s expectations. Elaine Lewis was lovely,
exciting and bloody dangerous. ‘I wakened a sleeping monster,’ he mumbled. Perhaps it was because she was learning; he must have given her a good time, since she’d demanded two
repeats. ‘Or maybe it’s part of her madness.’

He wasn’t sure about why he’d labelled her slightly unhinged. It was probably down to facial expressions, or the lack of them. She was obsessive. Items on her desk were always in the
same positions, no mess, not one quarter inch of misalignment. She visited the rest room at ten minutes past ten and at half past eleven unless telephone calls or visiting clients interrupted her
routine. She ate each day at the same clean restaurant, kept spare stockings in a drawer in case she developed a ladder, scrubbed out her coffee cup and looked after her nails. During the
afternoons, she went to the rest room at about three, circumstances permitting. Clothing and makeup were always perfect. It was as if she had stepped out of a painting, but had never managed to
become three-dimensional. Multi-orgasmic? She went like an Arab filly in a flat race. So many similes and metaphors, because she wasn’t real.

‘Oh God,’ he groaned, his head in his hands. Almost every man in the world imagined being with a nympho. But the one upstairs needed a bloke fitted with a jet engine and no brakes.
What had he started? How might he rid himself of her? Would she slow down in time? He looked up. She was standing in the doorway wearing the wisp of a thing she’d bought for the occasion. He
was an occasion, no more than that.

She tutted at him, stalked past and decided to make strong coffee. The man had no staying power; perhaps caffeine might wake him up. ‘Are all men the same?’ she asked. ‘Do they
fade away after a few minutes? Because if that’s the case, I’ll need stables where I can keep several.’

‘You really are a cold, callous bitch, aren’t you?’

Her hand stilled for a split second over the coffee pot. But she kept going, heaping in the grains until she thought the end product would be strong enough. ‘I love my mother,’ she
replied truthfully.

‘But you love yourself more, Elaine.’

She joined him at the table. ‘I’m pragmatic, I suppose. And yes, guarding me has been a priority since Daddy died. My mother’s a wonderful woman, but she doesn’t have the
strength he had. I look after her now. Whatever happens to me, wherever I go, she will be part of me. In a sense, the roles are reversed, since I am no longer a vulnerable child, while she weakens
as she grows older.’

She poured the coffee into mugs while he found sugar and cream. He passed her the biscuit barrel and, for the first time, saw the child in her when she took off the lid. ‘Gingerbread
men!’ she exclaimed. ‘Mum and I used to make these.’

‘I bake them for the children next door,’ he said. ‘Their mother’s been ill, and their dad’s a grand chap, so I make little cakes and so on for them.’

She liked that. It meant that he would look after her. ‘May I have one?’

‘Of course.’ He watched while she bit off the head, almost feeling the pain on behalf of her little victim. She ate the head before breaking off the limbs and lining them up on the
lid of the biscuit tin.

‘The perfect crime,’ she said. ‘Evidence consumed.’

‘Who did you just kill, Elaine?’

‘A gingerbread man.’

‘Really? Does he have a name?’

‘No, don’t be silly. Do you believe me capable of murder?’

He did consider it a possibility, though he offered no answer to her question. But he needed her to leave, as he didn’t want her to sleep here tonight. ‘When you’ve finished,
get dressed and I’ll take you back to your car.’

Unperturbed and without as much as the blink of an eye, she continued to consume her gingerbread. She had failed. This man would never want her again. She had to work with him, see him almost
every weekday, yet he would never again stand at her desk waiting for crumbs of comfort. ‘Would you like a leg?’ she asked.

‘No, thanks. I’ll . . . I’ll go and get dressed.’

Bob Laithwaite was not a nervous man. He had prepared briefs in defence of murderers, rapists and gangsters, and he’d never felt as chilled as this. But there was usually someone to hand
during interview, a policeman or a guard who would come to his rescue if things turned nasty. Here, he was alone with a stunning woman and he felt strangely disturbed. Perhaps he was learning to
recognize criminality, or perhaps his imagination was working overtime, but this woman scared seven shades of something out of him.

She was in the bathroom, probably dressing herself. He needed to get clean, to be rid of the slightest residue on his body, but he would have to wait until later. It was weird. The whole thing
was absolutely incredible, as he had felt drawn to her like base metal being pulled by magnetism, yet all the while he had known that she was different. Oh yes, she was certainly that.

Again, she stood in the doorway.

‘Elaine, why me?’ he asked.

‘Because you were there.’

‘But you feel nothing.’

She shrugged lightly. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

Bob fastened his shoelaces and stood up. ‘I don’t mean the physical. You, inside, whoever or whatever you are, you aren’t human.’

‘I’m a lioness,’ she said.

‘You’re not normal. Now, go downstairs and wait for me. I’ll drive you back to the city.’

The journey was made in silence. He felt affinity with women who sometimes described post-coital sensations as dirty, abused and cheap. The desire to scrub his whole body remained strong; he
needed to be free of corruption. What was wrong with her? When would the cool facade crack, and when would she bring down the firm with her?

Elaine’s cool facade papered over many cracks just below the surface. Frank hadn’t wanted her, and this chap seemed distressed, disappointed, worn out and keen to be rid of her. The
trouble with close encounters was that they were simply too close. There was no shelter, no clothing, no task behind which one might hide. At work, she dictated letters, answered the phone, saw
clients, visited police stations and prisons. In a horizontal position and unclothed, a person was suddenly open to scrutiny.

Furthermore, Bob Laithwaite had woken something in her, and—

‘Here we are,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’ She left the car and walked to her own. She heard him revving and burning rubber in his haste to get away. This should not have happened. He was supposed to be totally
in love, needful and lonely without her. He’d been her second choice, anyway, but where did she go from here? It seemed that no man would ever want her because she was perceived as strange.
Was honesty strange? Was a strong sex drive strange?

Her body still tingled. She wanted more, but not with him. On top of all that, the idea of working alongside Bob was unbearable. Tomorrow, she would be ill; tonight, she would look more
seriously at positions advertised across the city. Two men. Just two men, and both had become threats to her career. ‘Never defecate on your own doorstep again, Elaine,’ she whispered.
She drove home. It was six o’clock, but Mum wasn’t in, while no smell of cooking emerged from the kitchen. ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ she said.

Then she picked up the paper and started to search in earnest for a new job. Mum would come home eventually, and Elaine had plenty to do in the meantime.

When Christine and Norma arrived at Aladdin’s Cave, Frank was struggling with a Victorian tea table whose fold-down top would not stay up and act as a table, since its
mechanism was broken. He also had a couple of customers who were browsing through sundry items retrieved from house clearances.

‘Hello, Frank,’ Norma said.

He froze, screwdriver in one hand, small tabletop in the other.

Christine walked across the floor and stood next to him. ‘I need to talk to you about Elaine,’ she whispered. ‘And you’ll find your mother somewhat changed.’

He glanced at his mother. She looked healthier, slimmer and happier.

Wonders never ceased, he decided. ‘Would you two ladies care to wait upstairs, please? The shop closes in about an hour. Feel free to light the fire, and you’ll find tea, coffee and
biscuits in the kitchen.’

They climbed the stairs while Frank pondered Christine Lewis’s words. She wanted to talk about Elaine. Why? And did she want the truth, the whole truth and nothing but, as was often said
in courts? He decided to be completely honest, or Elaine’s mother might get a worse shock later in life. By the same token, the girl could improve, though he nursed grave doubts in that area.
It was something about her eyes, something about the way she spoke to people, as if she could not be bothered to imagine the effect her words might have on a recipient.

The two customers arrived with their spoils. Many young folk setting up home had begun to patronize the shop, because items like crockery and cutlery cost a lot less when purchased second-hand.
Frank kept any silver locked away until someone enquired.

It was time to close the shop, time to face Christine and Mother. He locked the door, comforting himself with the knowledge that he would soon be back where he belonged, with Polly.

Frank, only too aware that he was literally scared of what was going to happen, drew himself to full height before ascending the stairs. He didn’t know what to expect,
yet he dreaded going up to the flat. Christine Lewis, for whom he had always held great respect, wanted some answers, though he could only guess at the questions. Usually a calm and controlled
woman, she seemed very much out of sorts today. She was drawn, twitchy, and colourless.

He paused halfway up the flight. Living with her daughter for more than two decades had probably taken its toll, and he wasn’t in the least way surprised by that concept. But he dreaded
the inquisition. As usual, he would tell as near to the truth as he could manage without causing pain. How might he avoid hurting the poor woman in this situation? Oh, what a thankless task
parenthood could be.

He looked over his shoulder and checked security, just as he always had since the night he’d found Elaine Lewis with her key in the lock. He hoped not to clap eyes on the woman for the
rest of his life. The shop blinds were down, the door was bolted three times, but his mother awaited him in the flat. ‘Let joy be unconfined,’ he mumbled quietly. Oh well, it had to be
done; Mother must be faced some time, and that time seemed to have arrived.

Norma Charleson disapproved of Polly just as thoroughly as she’d disapproved of Ellen, so for Polly’s sake he regretted having been found. But sooner or later he would have been
discovered, as Liverpool was not the largest of cities, while advertising in local presses rendered him open to all comers. Never mind. He had better face the music, however discordant its
harmonies. He flattened his hair, straightened his spine and entered the living quarters he had been forced to abandon because of sheer, naked fear of one young woman who was madder than the least
sane of Lewis Carroll’s characters.