A Journey Round a Darker Sun
Simon Lowrie
Copyright © 2002 Simon Lowrie All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author. Cover Photo © Danielle Bedics www.whiterabbitstudio.com ISBN 1-58898-660-8
greatunpublished.com Title No. 660 2002
Dear reader I wrote this book some time ago, and the sites mentioned on the Dedication no longer exist. However I can be reached at www.simonlowrie.com and of course it’s always great to hear from readers. If you like A Journey Round a Darker Sun you might like to know that I have a newer one out now, called Marianne! – A Journey Round a Golden Sun. If you drop by my site you can find out where to read a bit of it and see how it’s getting on. Both my novels are available either in paperback from amazon, or in Kindle Reader format, or as instant download ebooks via paypal. My site has the details, naturally enough. All the best Simon Lowrie
Copyright © 2002 Simon Lowrie All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author. Cover Photo © Danielle Bedics www.whiterabbitstudio.com
To Linda for designing my wonderful site, and even more for being who she is. www.kissablecreations.com www.darksunsite.com
December 4th 1983
Tris came back from the off-licence with the fresh supplies of
Camels, wine and crisps for which he had been sent. Claire was much as he had left her, reading by her fire in jeans and T-shirt, but the buccaneer who had been ravishing her previously was now face down on her lap, interrupted from his bodice-ripping while she chatted down the line. The television was on-it always was-and he sneaked his chance to turn it down without being seen. ‘At last, prime-time,’ he thought, looking round for the corkscrew. Ah yes, prime time! The chaotic bustle of Claire’s home had finally subsided, as sundry friends and relatives had reluctantly departed one by one. Miles, Claire’s turbulent boy of three, had presumably entered fragile sleep upstairs, since his usual squeals and shrill entreaties could not be heard, but ah!-that phone! Inevitably she was on it as Tristan walked back in, but at least during his brief trip round the block she hadn’t become embroiled in one of her interminable conversations with some girlfriend, anxious for Claire’s advice on their latest man-related disaster, and with relief he heard her sending please-die pulses down the line: “…Right… right… okay Declan, I must admit you do make him sound quite interesting… yeah… yeah… alright, you don’t have to layer it on with a trowel you know… yesss, I know you’re away next week, but Sarah’s leaving-do isn’t until the Friday after-I’m bound to see you before then…” Another problem solved, thought Tristan approvingly as he saw the phone sink back exhausted on its hook. Nor, by the look of it, would he have to spend the precious hours before
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Claire went to bed-and before he therefore was sent homechecking over some performance appraisal, procedure review, or other numbingly dull document emanating from the huge corporation which had come north to follow the oil, and which employed his Aphrodite as a supervisor in the bowels of personnel. “…Be with you in a minute sweetie!-Just want to finish this chapter!…” No, it really looked as though his stoic patience would be rewarded, and for a little while at least, they would drink and smoke and talk. # Rachel shot a frantic glance at the grandfather clock in the hall, and panicked still further. It said twenty five past six, but the place was nothing like ready for Paul’s imminent arrival. She had of course made his bed, vacuumed the main rooms-though not as thoroughly as she would have liked-and cleaned the bath and toilet. She had also found time to fling his cast-off shirt, socks and underpants into the washing machine, albeit not with the usual reverence she showed for all things-other than herself, that is-which belonged to Paul. The train driver had wanted them all to stop for forty minutes to admire a dairy herd, and she knew this pastoral interlude would shortly cost her dearly. Paul would be coming home to find his dinner not quite ready even after he had enjoyed his customary shower and aperitif; not that he would mind that in itself, of course–for Paul was far from fair sometimes but never less than just, and was often sympathetic before pointing to his lap. What had he said the last time he had taken her to task in circumstances much like these? She should know-it was well-enough ingrained in her by now… “…I’m not blaming you for being late in itself, Rachel, but for heaven’s sake girl!-if you don’t have time to do everything you need to, then just get your priorities right and do what you
can, but do it with a little care! There’s never a good reason for doing things by halves, as it seems I’ll have to teach you yet again…” The incident that she recalled had happened last October, and nothing in it could be said to be the least unusual. Yet for some reason she could not say, it often came to mind these days and had become an inner mantra. By then, she had been brought to heel for several months and so the price was not at issue. She apologized to Paul and meant each word, bowed her head and pinched her skirt. Informed she would get thirty from his hand and four by belt, at nine o’clock precisely, she curtsied and resumed her duties. As the great clock in the hallway chimed, she tiptoed through the doorway. She waited there a little while, legs apart and hands behind her, and tried to use the time constructively by thinking of her poor behaviour. When the headlines of the TV news were through, he beckoned with a finger. She stood before him hands on head, and asked if she could touch her panties to present them on her legs. Once permission had been granted with his customary nod, she put her hands inside her skirt and took them down below her hem. Rachel’s underpants were bought for her and came in just three shades: cream silk was the staple fare she dressed in every day, and did no more than state the fact she knew why she was there. Sky blue was for discipline, a symbol of disgrace, and showed she understood her failings and would do her best to change. Deep blue was a rarity she dreaded putting on, a colour she could choose herself when deeply in the wrong. She looked to check her bird’s-egg panties were not crooked on her thighs, and showed three inches past her hemline as due etiquette required. She kept making small adjustments until sure they were correct, then neatly placed her feet apart so that the silk was bowstring stretched. Next she raised her little skirt, then opened out its wings, held wide and high between her fingertips as far as it would reach. Paul watched the progress of the world that day, and waved her to one side. She stepped smartly to his left at once, then
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reassessed herself. And there, with moist and gentle eyes unseen, she waited with her chin tucked down to have her discipline. All Rachel’s skirts were chosen fastidiously by Paul, who insisted on the proper blend of virtues: short enough to compliment her pleasant shapely legs, but demure in every aspect of their cloth, design and colour. The one she had held up that night was cut in Paris from cashmere, many-pleated, soft dove grey, lined with silk of rich magenta. At the conclusion of the bulletin, Paul drew forward on the sofa to receive her to his care. His fingers clicked to indicate her time had now arrived, at which she walked up to his lap and started bending there. She took his belt from out its loops and twined it round her neck, her manner calm despite her nerves, her true contrition evident. Her skirt held up so carefully she finished her descent, surrendering her dainty tail to meet its force majeure. She adjusted herself studiously, ensuring her couture could not possibly fall back again while Paul was being cross. The incentive to receive in full had been impressed on her before, so she made certain that her skirt was trapped, then hitched her silken blouse, rolled up tightly front and back to clear the target zone; Paul would add on fifty nude if it received the least protection. When sure her rump would stay quite bare she stretched her arms and legs, desperate that her buttocks be conveniently presented. Assisting in her own correction was essential for the girl, and a poorly offered bottom was an insult and the worst mistake of all. In the early days beneath his sway she used to pout and sulk at him, too tearful to quite comprehend the extra trouble she was in. But in the end, reluctant, slow, she always draped that black settee, to buck and bounce and writhe and sob twice more than need have been. At last Paul helped her overcome this phase by lapping her each night, nor did he stop at mere acceptance, Rachel running to his knee, but carried on till she was absolutely frantic to be good as good can be. Though Paul was only in his early twenties, he was raised by different lights than most, and already had ten years experience of making girls polite. His family was of good blood, his father
ruled supreme, and as a boy Paul watched young ladies learn their manners as a matter of routine. Their bottoms had been kept stock still until the lesson had begun, their faces flat down on the floor while pushing up their rumps. In this way they could make it clear they knew they had done wrong, that they were grateful to be tutored by a strong hand from above. Like his brothers Paul was raised for duty and success, but all such physical encouragements were only for the fairer sex. In that house by Lake Geneva age mattered greatly less than gender, and Paul’s father was immovable in his strange views on male ascendance. So when on Paul’s twelfth birthday Claudine dropped his candled cake, papa thought the time had come to help his sturdy son grow up: he called him to his study where the girl would make amends, and invited him to set the sentence and commence it by himself. Kind and pretty Claudine had been round Paul all his life, one of three young daughters of their family retainers. Paul’s senior by four years, the darling thing had always been his guardian angel, and adored him like a little brother. Paul did well for his first time, so his father proudly said, and when invited by the Head of House to do so while he changed ends with his son, the pinkened girl had whimpered she was also most impressed. From then on Paul could slap her skirt if he first asked papa’s permission, and two years on could educate her pantiless at his entire discretion. As it had been in his boyhood so it was now in his home, and he looked down on dear Rachel as she did her best tonight; thirty down and belt-times-four was minor in itself, and all that really mattered was the attitude she showed. And here she was, completely trained, the carpet at her nose, straining up her little bottom with each atom from her fingers to her toes. In keeping with tradition, passed from father to his sons, the girl then asked respectfully if she was suitable for him or whether more should still be done. To meet this last requirement before her helpless dance began, she whispered softly from the floor, “Is this okay for you, Paul?”
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He never let her call him sir or use inflated titles, although her underwear had long made clear just who was lord and master. This was, thought Rachel as her discomfort started, his solitary cruelty. He had cut out her heart. Cauterized her pride. Told her to go away. For weeks after a one-night stand, denied her even rights to beg. She knew she was a pretty girl, but not so striking as to ever hope to have and hold a man like Paul. And so she eked her niche out only by her fingernails, and had progressed by turns from casual fuck, unpaid domestic help, to deferential maid. Yet at their start she had so hoped to be a lover and a friend, and it had been scalding torment to be told to leave or bend. She wished he would complete the task and let her speak his rank, as nothing else could quell free will and snuff out all pretence. She was his property completely now and wanted nothing else, living only for his happiness and utterly his chattel. No, for this quiet receptionist, just nineteen, Paul was every breath and joy, her reason on this world. When the thunder had passed over, when Paul’s justice had been done, she promised to try harder as she knelt to kiss his hands. # Claire Kelsey was a phenomenon, and everyone around her knew as much. Still only twenty-two, yet her life had always been so extraordinarily full, with so many branches and byways that even she could never hope to know them all. So many phases and cycles, friends and lovers, colours and contradictions… life around Claire could never be boring and seldom be comfortable, and her effect on men was as disastrous as a magnet on a watch. Being near her was always an event, both to the few who despised her intensely, and to the many who admired or adored her with varying degrees of infatuation. For there was no middle way with Claire-the only reaction she could never arouse was indifference. She seemed to radiate an intensity and inner purpose even while asleep, or washing up, or changing nappies. She was not the kind of girl who pours
the slurry of grey reason down her front and lets it stain herinstead she felt and lived and did, precisely as it pleased her. And yet it was impossible to know anything for sure, for like all the beautiful insecure, Claire could lie like breathing. For Tris, just being in the same world as Claire was sufficient to put him in a perpetually heightened state; sharing the same room volted him with a sense of wonder, need, and despair combined that had narcotic power. His need for a fix of her drug, his utter dependency on it to give meaning to what was otherwise an arid life, would not, he felt, be much diminished if she lost her arms and legs. She was his goddess, but in some ways a curiously vulnerable one. At heart Claire knew entirely her attractions and her worth, but even so there were some traits-pangs of guilt about her fatherless son, worries about phantom fat-that Tristan found bizarre yet deeply touching. For some reason, he even associated her left-handedness amongst these counter-facets of his inimitable Claire; to see her coping gamely with lumpen objects designed by and for the mundane mass was inexpressibly moving, and there were times when his longing to cradle her in his arms surpassed even his sat-upon desires. But there was something else about her that compounded his addiction, and mocked all puerile thoughts of breaking free; Claire was-and only here could friends and enemies alike agree-a startlingly good-looking girl. This was not, however, the sort of concision Tris himself would use. If asked to describe Claire’s beauty-and it was often she who did so-he would throw his hands up at the hopelessness of the task, before trying every word of wonder that he knew. Men who simply passed her in the street were rather more succinct, and she had long since steeled herself to whispered exclamations never meant to reach her ears. Had she been asked to list them, plaudits she might recall spanned from the relative decorum of a simple “phaww!!” down to the crude if most sincere “Could I fuck that or what!!..” If pressed on the most common summary to waft back down the pavement, she might choose: “My! what a pretty face-nice
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figure too!”-a verbatim statement of the obvious from a man of eighty-two. But, given a truth-drug or the latter stages of a piss-up with the girls, she would have no choice but to repeat, with bashful pride, that so often-heard and plaintive cri de coeur, “Woww!!-just LOOK at the arse on THATT!!”
December 18th
“Hi Tris, it’s me! Don’t suppose you fancy coming round to baby-
sit tonight, do you? We’re giving Sarah her send-off down the Rio, but I won’t be back too late I promise, and you can stay over on the sofa if you like!” Tristan’s spirit paraglided at the unexpected honour, and he soared. His visits to Claire were normally the end result of protracted negotiations while she consulted her diary or her memory for any more pressing engagements she might have, made provisional dates, called the next to day to cancel, and so onward. The result was an average of two trips round a weekfour if he was really on a lucky streak. From past experience Tristan knew that such impromptu invitations usually led to quintessential late-night evenings with her; while Claire would be no more receptive to his needs and longings than she ever was, when she returned all mellow from the ferment of so many dead potatoes, she would more likely show a friendly tolerance should they happen to intrude. Ah! How good it felt! To be suddenly lifted up like this, from a prospective evening of drab TV, where every few moments some phrase or image would have conspired to remind him that Claire had lovers and friends and a life, while fate made him look down at the world of humans from a solitary moon-or rather, from the abandoned ufo that was his bedsit. He rummaged round first the cupboards then-in desperation-the pockmarked craters of his room, scrabbling to find clean socks and underwear. He cursed the unknown lodger in the shared bathroom, and tried his heart out to eject him with malign telepathy. #
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“Oh hello Beth-I’m supposed to be taking over sentry duty from you apparently.” “Hi Tris. She’s upstairs.” Beth lived just a couple of streets away, and had been Claire’s best friend ‘forever’ as they would put it, eternity having started ticking on the girls’ first day at school. The two households were therefore virtually interchangeable, and the girls each other’s babysitter of primary resort. Tonight though, Beth was also stepping out, and Tristan was pleased to hear that for the next few hours he was going to have sole responsibility for the continued life and happiness of both their boys together, and not the disembowelling torment of entertaining one all on its own. He was fond enough of Miles and Aiden in his way, but quite incapable of treating children as anything other than incomprehensible adults-an attitude which had instilled an amicable indifference on both sides. The two young visigoths never plagued Tristan the way they did their mothers or their other babysitters, because they were sorry for him and knew he would be quite unable to survive. Sensitive to their kindness, Claire’s diffident admirer returned the favour by never telling them what to do or talking to them in a squeaky voice. But while hosting one two-foot person remained a trial, Tristan liked few things better than to turn on the stereo and speed-read through his loved one’s trash romances, as before him all the while, his charges summoned up illimitable empires of the mind, and then destroyed them on the carpet. “Claire? Tristan’s here, so I’m off,” called Beth up the stairs. “Yup, hang on a minute!” The clomp of slippers overhead was followed by a towelwrapped head looming over the banister. “Okay Beth! See you then!-have a nice time!” “Yeah-you too! I’ll be round to pick Aiden up first thing.” Beth gave Tristan a third of a waxen smile and let herself out. She had slowly come to regard Tris as one of Claire’s less intolerable hangers-on; a bit of a prat undoubtedly, but basically
harmless. Quite what Claire saw in him remained as profound a mystery to her now as it had always done, but if Beth viewed him with restrained contempt, it was no more than the median of all Claire’s lovers, relatives and friends. Still, each in turn had long since given up quizzing her about this solitary satellite, as Claire was so fiercely protective of him that they ended up none the wiser. Down the years therefore, and one by one, they had come to grudgingly accept that all pretty girls are bound to gather up their share of waifs and strays, and Tris was only one of several barren rocks seen orbiting elliptically in journeys round Claire’s world. # “Hya Tris!-just give me two ticks to get decent! Tell you what-there’s some wine left in the fridge; d’you want to bring it up?” suggested the towelled head, but only after Beth had closed the front door behind her. Claire knew her best friend strongly disapproved of Tristan being allowed into her bedroom–‘but what was so very wrong about it?’ she wondered to herself. She did not think of herself as particularly inhibited, and was certainly no prude, but she had never been an easy catch and was not casual or immodest. Her lifetime tally of lovers and all-the-way one-offs had scarcely reached a dozen, yet given the same looks but fewer scruples, she could easily have notched up ten times that number just at work and on the Costa Brava. Right now it would only take a few seconds to make herself presentable for Tris, but she would need a whole lot longer before she was ready to go out, and these days she no longer expected him to wait patiently downstairs while she got dressed and did her make-up. She knew she had better get her skates on thoughClarissa and a couple of other girls from work were due to pick her up in under half an hour but, as ever, she was running late and had only stepped out of the bath a moment ago. This was partly why, when Tris came upstairs and edged cautiously into her room, he could hardly believe his luck. For
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there was Claire, sitting on the edge of her bed in her jaunty high-cut bathrobe, creaming her legs with hair-remover. Partly, yes-but Claire also had another reason… “Oh yes? Who’s the lucky guy then?” asked Tris, wondering where to put the glasses. “No one at all as far as I know-more’s the pity. I’m just doing this on principle before I turn into a cactus. Leastways, there won’t be anyone down there I haven’t seen a hundred times before. Nearly half the department’s coming down, or so I’m told. Everyone’s really sorry about Sarah going, me as well. Hope it all works out for her.” “Yeah, I liked her too. Hang on though, you say it’ll only be the same old crowd, but didn’t I hear Declan saying he wanted to bring someone along with him to hold his hand? Or did I get the wrong end of the stick as usual?” “Shit!-d’you know you’re right? I’d forgotten all about that! I’ve hardly seen Declan all week-thank God-but yeah, he was blathering on about some bloke he’s pally with down the squash club. Seems to think we were made in heaven for each other or something, but oh boy-have I heard that one before! Still, good thing you reminded me…” She followed the direction of Tristan’s wistful gaze and smiled. “Now now!-don’t go getting all excited! Even assuming his mate turns up-and Declan’s always full of crap as you well knowthere’s no way he’s going to get this lucky, sunshine!” she said, giving her calves a final pat. “Still, stranger things have happened at sea…” she added skittishly, as if a sudden thought had struck her. “Have they? When, exactly?” She brought her heels up on the bed, and dipped the jar again to do more leg. She chatted happily as she applied the depilatory in little circles, smoothing the succulently curving underbelly of her thighs. Tristan’s heart hammered on his ribcage like a claustrophobic waking in a coffin several sizes too small for him, as nonetheless, honed by many years of practice, he sat beside her on the bed and kept his end up in their breezy chunter-banter.
Deliberately, he didn’t attempt to conceal an occasional glance at her legs-he knew she wouldn’t mind so long as he didn’t overdo it; might even be a little hurt if he didn’t-but mostly he made sure his eyes stayed either on her face or on nothing in particular. Once Claire had covered about two-thirds of her upper legs-as much as she could manage the way she was positioned-she gave another sprightly look: “Right then! Well, even if Declan is right about this character-which is hardly likely as I say-I think that’s more than enough, don’t you? Come on sugar-d’you want to dry my hair while I do my face?” She brought her feet back to the floor and made to stand. But then another impish glance: “Mind you, Declan did say he was the best-looking bloke he knew.” “What? Declan said Declan was the best-looking bloke he knew? That figures.” Obtuseness as of granite blocks had always been an in-house speciality of theirs. “Noh, you pillock!-this mate of his!” “Ah! well in that case…” “Yeah?-just what I was thinking…” They shared the look that always bonded them in tonguein-cheek conspiracy. “The full works?” enquired Tristan, indicating the jumbled mix of skirts, tops and underwear which Claire had strewn across her bed. “Well, I expect it’ll just be one more case of pearls before-” “Declan?” offered Tristan helpfully. “I believe that’s the saying, yes. Mind you, before I put any pearls before Declan McGrath I’d want them safely bolted to my neck. Anyway, what’s he up to, I’d like to know? For months his tongue’s been trailing on the floor so bad I have to walk around it each time I go past his desk, yet here he is, trying to get me off with some mate of his-what d’you make of it, Tris?” “Hmm-hard to say,” pondered her companion. “I’m afraid my mind’s not really warped enough to understand Declan fully
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yet-but ask me again in a couple of months, and I don’t mind giving it another shot. But whatever it is, maybe you should just play his game a little harder than he bargained for-why not turn all your lights on for his little friend, and watch poor old Deccers look around for a place where he can die without causing too much fuss?” “Oh yess Tris!-I llike it! Let’s dooh it!” And Claire sat back down again, bouncing cheerfully on her bed. “Fine, but in that case I’m afraid these simply will not do-agreed?” With this, Tristan lifted up a pair of tights as though they were a slug with acne. “Tut tut! Dear me, no! And I think we’ll even go one step up from these,” she concurred, tossing some cherry-red satin panties into exile off the bed. “No, only the best tonight Tris! Alright-you know where they are as well as I do–in fact better probably, now I come to think of it.” “Huh! Damn cheek! I absolutely never go through your things-well, except when you’re not here of course,” huffed Tristan indignantly as he went over to her wardrobe. When he turned round again, Claire’s ultra-special-occasion underwear in hand, he found she now had one of her sunbronzed legs right up-far higher than before-so that its heel was actually resting on her other knee. She had re-opened the jar, and was kneading the cream into the very highest reaches of her thigh. She had, he mused in agony, been making good use of the sunbed he had bought her for her birthday. He looked at the mattress-edge, made a quick calculation, and sat down next to her again. He felt rather pleased with himself, considering. Despite being punch-drunk by what he had just seen, he still hadn’t missed his chance to reduce the gap between his leg and hers, and had reduced the separation of their souls from over four to just two inches. Even though Claire was sunk quite deep into the covers, a fleeting outline of her knickers had been visible as Tristan walked back to her bed, and he was palpitating visibly. She
started telling him about a problem she was having at work. He made a suggestion which greatly interested her, and she responded with her usual bubbling loquacity. Meanwhile she rubbed in the milky lotion more slowly than before, to make sure none got on the duvet. As he sat on the bed and listened, he could only sigh inside. Ah Claire! You and your bloody job! And what is your work tonight, my dearest one? Here in this moment I know already I will mourn for all my life? Yes, my beauty, yes, I think I understand. Your task is to ensure that if a man should stroke your legs tonight they will be creamy smooth for him, and blissfully inviting. And should his hands stray further while you dance, he will still find them as unendingly caressable, and he will know then that everything has already been prepared by you for his enjoyment, however high he wants to go. And later, when he decides to fuck you on the back seat of his car, your body will be like warm satin, made perfect by your preparations now. Yes, tend to yourself carefully, my darling, darling Claire, so that when he brusquely reaches up your dress, and tugs your pretty panties while you play-protest and giggle, he can please himself completely. Velveteen will be his happy journey as his hands slide up your thighs, and the silk that is your skin will offer ever less resistance to him. Then, when he tells you what he wants now, you will not be the least surprised, and you will gladly do as you are bidden. You will hitch your dress up round your waist, lift up for him, and let his eager hands submerge themselves. As she worked on one leg and then the other, in a way in which-until tonight-she had always required privacy, Claire and Tristan stopped talking about her day at the office, and went back to teasing each other as before, tussling about what she ought to wear and say and do when she met this mythical new gentleman. The only difference was that now Tristan kept his head turned abstemiously away, as confirmation that he knew the boundaries. They both accepted there was now too much on view for even little glimpses, and it was Tristan’s special treat to still be in the room. Claire looked at the back of his head endearingly. She so loved him when he was good.
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Claire knew well that Tristan was in love with her and jealous of her men-perhaps jealous even of her pseudo-date tonight, which she herself had genuinely forgotten. She realised how hard it must be for him, and down the years, she had always made a point of showing her appreciation when he accepted how things were. When he didn’t, and lapsed into glumness and self-pity, she tried her best to understand and be forgiving. Not that she was as naive about Tristan now, as she had been years ago. Back then, in their mid-teen years, they had not just talked bright-eyed moonshine about platonic love, but had truly made this vision come alive at times. She had been so hurt when one day he had shamefacedly confessed to more. “I know it’s hopeless but I just fancy you like crazy,” he had mumbled. It had taken a long time to sap the intense purity of his idealism, but she was hardly going to give him credit for that. Why should she? After all, she had never encouraged him in any way. Apparently though, two years of watching her playfully twirling round to show off her latest summer dress, or browsing thoughtfully down a rack of negligées, these and a thousand other slings and arrows had crushed his spirit down. When Tristan spilled his sordid secret, Claire felt she had lost a magic island where she could retreat at any time she chose. Was it really true that all men, even one as sweet as this, held their essential goodness in less esteem than a few pridepuffed inches of engorged flesh? Her girlfriends and now her own experience all seemed to tell her Yes, that sadly this was so. And where would she find her refuge now? Only on the shores of his deserted beach could she take shelter from the hungry eyes and straying hands that inhabited her carnivorous menagerie. She had wanted Tristan to remain her private sanctuary for ever, a covered hide, from which her other self could step out renewed, to face the lions and the cheetahs who prowled the jungle of her netherworld. Claire seldom cried, but she shed tears the night she heard those words. But all that was years ago, and as the woman came to grow beside the girl, she learned to be more compassionate and
understanding. Poor lonely boy. At least he had the good grace to be ashamed of such feelings as were out of place within their special kind of love. At least he still cherished her for herself as well, not just because she had the kind of figure all men seemed to hanker for. Later still, she came to recognise that perhaps it was only natural he should want her in this physical way, not just in mind and spirit. She said he need not be ashamed. That she was glad and proud he found her beautiful. He could tell her what he felt and thought openly and without disgrace, and together they would find a way. He need never face his longings on his own but from now on, they would be an anguish shared. Claire and Tristan had talked about the problem of his love time and time again, and such talks into the night, with their repressed intensity and passion, had long been one of the ties of trust that bound them. By now, she no longer felt any resentment or betrayal whatsoever about the presence of his feelings, just sorrow and disappointment when he tried to bully or oppress her. She wanted very much indeed to make her Tristan happy, but he made it so hard for her sometimes. She showered him with meals and attention, with advice on how to get a girlfriend of his own, on what to wear and who he should pretend to be, subterfuges that might pass him off as rational normality. Her own spare time she gave in spades-as much she could find-but even more than this, she gave him company and consolation and her very highest love, unadulterated by the grosser forms that fuelled the mainstream of her life. But it had never been enough, it seemed. “It’s like you’ve got this-I don’t know-this bottomless black pit inside you, and there’s nothing I could ever do to really fill it. You only think I can, but that’s because I’m something you can latch on to, and make-believe that I’m the cause of all your woes. It’s easier for you to put all the blame on me, because I won’t sleep with you or let you see me with no clothes on, but the fact is you don’t really love yourself, and sometimes I get frightened that you never will. Yet without that feeling deep down inside, no one can ever really help you, not even me.
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Don’t spoil it all, I’m begging you! Dear darling Tris-take what I give as precious, and pleeease don’t ask for more…” No, rather than merely granting him her body, Claire gave instead a privilege of trust that she had never given anyone before. So often though, Tristan would throw these lovely gifts back in her face, and parade instead his tantrums, and spew his mean remarks. “I take it this is my consolation prize then, yes? The crumbs from Ian’s table?” he once sneered when, just as tonight, she let him in her bedroom while she readied for a date. All she ever wanted to do at such times was to keep him company, and let him enjoy being what he was-her cherished friend, her guest of honour, a partner in the adventure of her life. She had no intention whatsoever of being a pricktease, as he had gone on to call her in the bitter row that followed. This evil slur had made her feel so dirty and betrayed. Hadn’t she invariably asked him to leave the room when she changed her dress or blouse, and turn around if she so much as hitched her tights up? Partly through her own sense of decorum certainly, but also to spare him precisely such distress. Why on earth then, should he make such horrible accusations? Why, when she was prepared to give so much that was unique, must he stubbornly whinge and whine for all the commoner privileges? Those aspects of her life which were, and must forever be, reserved exclusively for boyfriends? But however outrageous Tristan was at times, Claire always forgave her friend when he apologized, and he would be welcomed back with loving arms. For, whether next minute or next week, Tristan would always see sense again and tell her he was sorry. That he must have been mad. That it was a greater honour and delight by far to be allowed to look at her uncovered knee than see all other women naked. When Tristan said such things Claire only had to look at him to see he was sincere, and his remorseful words would wipe away her fears, and she would radiate with pride. Tonight, as she prepared herself, Tristan’s foul insult had sunk months into the past. Out of the tears, and the exile
and recrimination which had followed, something new and wonderful had slowly been emerging, as though an unsuspected seam of gold had glistened in the embers of their yearning. By now, just in these last few weeks, they knew themselves to be as close and loving as they had ever been, even way back in their beginning. Tentatively, cautiously, racked with doubt at first and needing much reassurance and encouragement, she had steeled herself to try an audacious new idea to help her friend. With ever-increasing confidence as her efforts met success, Claire was taking Tristan at his word… …If he so loved to see her knee, their mutual reasoning had been, then how much greater would be his honour, his delight, if she sometimes wore one of her little skirts? Not because she had it on anyway. Not because she was going out. Instead, a special gift from Claire with love, and meant for no one else. If even then he moped and moaned at any stage, or ogled too overtly, she would, with heavy heart, travel back into the past and go upstairs to put her jeans on. By so using her beautiful legs as reins, she had slowly learnt to guide him gently back to sanity each time he strayed-away and down a path that could only lead to self-destruction. By now, she was profoundly glad to have a way, at last, to make dear Trissy happy. He need only respect her trust to be rewarded, and tonight she had decided even before he came that, if only he would let her, she would give and give abundantly. Here beside her was Tristan at his very best, thought Claire as she gave her legs a final rundown. She leaned across her comrade, resting a hand affectionately on his knee. A wisp of her damp hair ran down across his cheek as she gathered up the knickers, stockings and appendages he had brought for her. She leaned back to her side again, and held up the suspender belt to let it straighten out. A notion popped into her head, and she smiled at its absurdity. And Claire had yet to give him that apologetic smile, and make her tactfully phrased request, when Tristan left the room. As he stood outside her door, Tristan hung his head. A few feet from him now, on the sunny side of that accursed piece of
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wood, she was now letting her high-cut bathrobe fall back to the bed, now easing down those workday panties he had glimpsed, and yes, here come those posh ones he had carried, the pair his hands had actually touched. Over one foot, and now the other, and up until they reached the light of all this universe… ‘Put on your suspenders Claire, and now your stockings: that’s it, one by one. Stand up again and fasten them. All done? Check in the mirror then, and smooth those knickers softly with your palms. Okay at the front? And now behind, across your shoulder? No blouse now to protect your divine breasts from my unworthy eyes-and no bra either. You’re not going to the office now, my dear, and you know full well that nothing made by hand of man could ever make them lovelier. As do we all, my wonderful… Ah! as do we all… Check the whole effect so far? Yes Claire, you’re right of course-not bad even though you do say so, quite frequently, yourself. Yes, that’s it-now comes that devastating little-’ “Okay Tris! I’m decent now! Can you come and do my dress?” # ‘…And where the fuck is Declan?’ Paul wondered as he looked round the massive nightclub. There was a lot of skirt tonight, that much was sure, but which lot was he meant to be looking at exactly?-the ones who were supposed to dance attendance on him all day long, hoping for promotion? And which was meant to be the little cracker he’d been drooling on about?-the teasing bitch with die-for tits who wouldn’t let him pork her? Still, his long trip into town would hardly be a waste of time, he reflected as he settled with his brandy. All he had to do was look, see what was on offer, and make his selection. The building was a multi-coloured slot machine with all the girls in stacks of one… lots of flavours… every size… some were free… and some were priced… And all the candy had been peering out their little windows,
too. It was only half past nine so they were no more than halfcut yet, if that-but even so, most of them had already done a whole lot more than look, staring at him brazen with their best come-fuck-me eyes. Those two, for example, those two over there; the ones giggling and pointing and whispering to each other like they want to dive their hands between their thighs. Any minute now they’re going to…-oh shit!–yes, here they come… I suppose the one on the left will do in an emergency though… read my eyes girls, read my eyes… You-you piss off, and don’t come back. You other one-maybe later if I let you know, but let’s hope it never comes to that… With their boyfriends, without their boyfriends-it made no difference. If anything, the ones out with their man looked at him more. He sat there for a while. Bored. He recalled a game he had played many times in Geneva and in Paris. A little game of solitaire… why not? At least it’ll pass the time… …Yess! What was that?-three minutes flat?-or maybe slightly under? Not an all-time record by any means, but even so, not bad… ah, yes, look! he’s gone all sad. He’s asking her so prettyplease to pay him more attention. No pet, Game Over as the coin’s run out. Sorry if I got your hopes up-mind you, I can understand why you kept on looking so surprised… but my eyesight’s fine I promise, and you’d better kiss and make it up before he actually cries… I’ll just get myself another drink and see if I can’t do better-those two over there look much more promising: far more of a woman… bit more of a man as well… …Yes, hello my beauty… no, no need to be confused… yes, of course it’s you I’m looking at… no one else… no one over your shoulder… just you… who else could it be?.. how could any other girl mean anything, now that I’ve met you?.. just you… that’s right… that’s better… Ah, I see…. I understand… you want to look but you know you mustn’t… I see… I see… don’t want to be a bad girl, do you?…He’s warned you about this kind of thing before, hasn’t he?… but it’s alright… I’ll look after you now… you’re safe and sound… see how completely under your spell I am already… you’re fabulous… you’re amazing… of course you are…--don’t even think about it my friend! Oh yes? Shall I stand
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up too then? Come on if you want to, come on! come on! You’re welcome to try, of course you are, but you know I’ll break your arms off if you do… don’t you?… don’t you? That’s it… sit down again… that’s better… …That’s right, it’s me again… See, my lovely? I’ll protect you now… look how much I want you… look!.. look!.. don’t make me endure the night without you.. I want to make your little pussy think it’s died and floated off to paradise… yes I do… yes I do… and you know I can do it too, don’t you… don’t you…? don’t you?… Yes, that’s better… Look at me… No, no-not at him… he’s history… he’s dead and gone… back at me… here I am… back at me… here I-’ “I thought you’ve been on your own for far too long, so I’ve decided to take pity on you!” Paul groaned inside. It was Lefty. He had been so absorbed he had let his guard down. Still-might as well put her on her collar now that she was here, and in the meantime find a church and pray out loud for something better. “Really? My! What a hospitable town this is-the prettiest girl in it comes and welcomes in a stranger. What can I get you?” “Oooh! Okay then Mr Stranger-thanks! Mine’s a Bacardi and Coke please!” As he went over to the bar, he noticed that the love of his life before he met Lefty was close to tears, looking guilty and downcast. Her man was tearing her off a strip, prodding her repeatedly with an accusatory finger. Paul smiled, and wondered how things might turn out for her later. “Here we are then, one Bacardi and Coke-unfortunately not in that order…” He noticed four girls saunter in from the foyer. “…So then!-whatever happened to your gorgeous fr-?” ‘Oh yes! Oh yessss!! Screw Declan, screw his bet, and screw his little cracker, because that one’s mine, all mine…’ #
Tristan watched contentedly as Miles and Aiden tried to replace the rotor arm of the helicopter using only hope and force. Eventually they gave up and looked at him enquiringly. “Alright, pass it here then.” He was good at fixing things. Broken objects seemed to sympathise with him. “You haven’t mended this Hoover at all, you lying dog-you’ve healed it,” Claire had once complained. He passed the helicopter back to grateful hands, and resumed again the memory of the scent of new-bathed Claire. It was many years since he had gone under her enchantment, in an age of innocence and confidences. He blessed the day a fair-haired dancing queen, young and sweet but still way off seventeen, had mysteriously befriended him. A time, it seemed to Tristan now, just before the world knew that it was dying. He recalled the very first time she had taken him home with her. She sat cross-legged on the floor, talking with intense animation, her eyes flashing with interest at the curious stranger whose rock she had turned over a few days earlier-this enigma whose strange insights and ideas she could extract with ease, as he seemed to have no experience of social norms, and talked with fewer constraints, and less regard for self-esteem or selfpromotion than anyone she had ever met. She listened as avidly as she talked, comparing his perspectives with her own, and saw in his cracked mirror extraordinary reflections of her own young life and doings. For the fifteen-year-old Claire, Tris became a canvass without borders, on which to paint the colours of an incandescent dreamwalk. From that first day of bonding, Tristan recalled also that as he sat upon the sofa and she close-by him on the floor, he had from time to time seen a small, brilliant triangle of lemon yellow-her knickers flashing like an intermittent beacon. The image had become a sacrament of purity within the teenage boy, and though its dazzlement had long since faded in his hurt, its traces were still visible. The wondrous sight had prompted not a single impure thought to stain the friendship he had found. No, his thrill had been to think that, even had she realised
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what she was accidentally showing, she would merely have adjusted her dress, and not immediately kicked him out in indignation, never to speak to him again. She would, he realised incredulously, have smilingly conceded his unwitting glimpse of that which only a proper boyfriend should ever really see. ‘Ah, boyfriends’, thought Tristan then, as now. Selected seemingly at random from those alien beings with large muscles and determination, who risked the chase and lost or won, but chased again regardless. Men who, far from realising that lovely women are ineffable, would call them ‘highly fuckable’, and treat their quarry roughly once they had been brought down, totemed on their sturdy poles, and shown off to others of their species. A breed apart who could shrug off both the vanquishedand the less-than-highly-fuckable-as cloying irritations to be summarily sent packing. Yes, thought Tristan, the voyeurism and the agony had surely come: the impotent, despairing longing to see and touch the body of a goddess, who for him, was Beauty made Alive in this world. But all that had yet to come… Back then, as now, Claire had been a prime-mover in a clandestine shadowland, the vibrant nightlife of her tough and windblown town. The fabulous Claire Kelsey, a cause celebre for whose sake plumbers and mechanics and all Real Men Who Live For Saturday Night would shout, and fight, impress with cars and throw-up over while the streets of the as-good-as-dead tossed fretfully, and tried to get some sleep. And yet this very same girl would happily sit next to him! Wouldn’t mind if he was only inches away! Several times, when they were laughing, he had even touched her hair! He would wake up every morning and shake his head but it stayed true… Claire Kelsey thought of him-him!!-no other!!-as one of her dearest, closest mates. From Claire he learned of the extraordinary parallel dimension that she lived on and described so well. The catfights and the internecine feuds, the intrigues, jealousies and passions, the moral victories and immoral defeats of youth and hope, and those byzantine lusts and twists of fate which follow in their caravan. For hours he listened to her stories, bewildered rapt
and mesmerised, not grasping that these were in fact just tales from normal life. To Tristan her depictions had the resonance of myth, but at the core of her unfolding saga was a motif he could not quite believe-except in his head, where such things matter least. Claire’s drama asked him to accept that girls loved boys and needed them; as much, and not so very differently in kind, as they themselves were needed. On this moot point, the entire plot depended. But to Tristan, men seemed incorrigibly thick and dull and boring, and how could women waste their time on them? Except perhaps in flirting and in fun, when they could sit and watch and giggle, while they made the poor little buggers’ heads spin? Feminine adoration must surely be a male conceit, and in truth, women only had sex with men to humour them. As he slunk the streets of his town on a solitary beat, he would stand at a modest distance and watch the nightclubs emptying and the beautiful parading-and those who were not beautiful but who yet understood the world they lived in-and it would overwhelm him that anything so astonishing as the softness of a woman and the whole principle of the feminine could have ever found a place within the patterns of creation. He would recall what Claire was always telling him-that he was reasonably good-looking and should he doubt it, he had but to look at some of the things extremely pretty girls were prepared to put their arms in. Maybe so, but what was he supposed to say to them? Teasings in the schoolyard, and mocking put-downs by a cool beauty of not yet six years old, had sent Tristan down a desolated road, and taught an uncommon knowledge to the one his little classmates learned. Love returned, and sweet success, were not for him. Never! Never! Never! the ice siren hissed before the bell went for the end of playtime and they had to go back in. And yet, because such images pervaded him, it could not be otherwise than that their counterpart and shadow also lurked within, and while eclipsed Tristan was haunted by mirages of cold Venuses, lifted roughly off their pedestals and reduced
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by bold corsairs to penitence and chippings. Yes, he had been twisted up and cursed yet, by some miracle, Claire cared for him-an enchantress of still greater power and beauty who could lift the leper’s bane. Dear Claire, who in full knowledge and acceptance of his outcast status, had run her lacquered fingernail around his shell, prised him out, seen what he was and still embraced him. For years she shared the secrets of her lovelife quite unconscious of the screw she turned, because it was too obvious to need saying she did not love him as she would some ordinary man. # Yes, Paul made his selection and got his money out, and Lefty was no more. He chose the stunning little kitten who was laughing and half-dancing over there. Some of her friends weren’t too bad either, but she would be the one. Her looks alone gave her the right to drop her knickers later on, and from the lustre in her eyes and the luscious curves of her provocative young body, it was clear that she would eagerly reward him. And now he knew for certain that his trip was not a waste-what else was there to know? Nothing probably, so having picked his handle he sat back and started pulling. # “Hi Tris! It’s me! Listen-me and some of the others are moving on down the Palais in a minute-is that okay with you?” “Yes, of course! Stay out as long as you like! Thanks for letting me know though.” “Ahrr!, you’re such an angel! Look-I’ll be back by half two at the latest, okay? Everything alright with the kids?” “Yup, fast asleep now, and there’s still loads of house left to come back to.” “I see-like that, is it? Don’t suppose I can push my luck and ask you to tidy up a bit, can I? I don’t think I’ll be in any state to face it tomorrow-I’m pretty much rat-arsed already, if the truth be known.”
“Yup-don’t worry! Already done-all part of the service, etcetera. Least I can do, I reckon, considering what a lovely time I’ve had tonight. Thanks Claire-and I really do mean that.” “Ah! You’re so sweet sometimes! No, listen–honestly-you’re extremely welcome Tris, I promise you. But it’s nice to be appreciated, all the same.” Their pact was still too new, too precious, and too embarrassing to both of them to be talked of flippantly. All other subjects were fair game. “Good! So then-any joy with this bloke you’re supposed to be falling madly in love with?” “Tuh!-you’ll hardly believe this, but Declan isn’t even here himself! His plane got grounded by the weather in Oslo apparently, so fuck knows whether his littul fwend is here or not-though to be honest, it’s still an awful struggle trying to believe he’s really got one. Hey ho! never mind!-there is someone I’ve got my beady eye on-haven’t actually spoken to him yet, mind.” “Poor bastard! What’s he ever done to you, for god’s sake?” “Huh! It’s what he wants to do me I’m worried about!” “Yeah-yeah-yeah. So will the poor little lamb come quietly, d’you think? Or is he going to waste his time, and try putting up a fight?” “Ooooh! Harkk at him! Well now, I’m afraid they never come quietly with me, Tris! You really ought to know that by now-no, their big problem is to get that far.” “Youch! You really are pissed aren’t you?-or I’d have never have walked into that one! So come on then, tell me some more about this vict-oh shit, your money’s running out. See you later. Have fun!” Tristan put the phone down and resumed his wank. Clairewaxing-her-legs was one of twenty or so individual categories of thrill that he collected, and one of the rarest and most soughtafter. Getting a glimpse of her knickers was another-a rather more plentiful species, true, but still extremely highly prized.
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What made tonight’s specimens unique was the way they had appeared in concert, and the resulting images were even at this moment being chloroformed and set in amber to be preserved forever. But that was not all-yes, truly tonight his cup was running over. Usually such sights were paid for by the difficulty and pain involved in walking home with a howling erection impeding every step, yet here he was, sitting at midnight in the very chair in which his princess sat. In just a few hours from now the most sensational girl ever to live and breathe would stagger in, pissed by parsecs from her skull and vastly pleased with him. He hoped his jealous pictures-those he had framed earlier and those he painted now-would all come true. The more fun she had tonight, the more she would say and do and let him see when she got home. That delicious expectation, added to the freshly-minted images of infinitely curvaceous thigh, precluded any possibility of sleep. This was, he knew, as good as it ever was or ever could be in the life of Tristan Cumberwell. # “Oy you! You never answered my question! What’s so wrong with Claire then?-eh? eh? It’s a perfectly ordinary name isn’t it?” asked the holder of that title, peevishly digging her companion in the ribs as the desk-porter handed out the key. “No, it’s not that at all, I assure you! Claire’s a lovely name. In fact… In fact it’s a … it’s a…” She watched him with a baffled smile as he struggled for control. The same mysterious private joke that had so stumped her earlier had evidently got to him again. “…it’s a cracker of a na-…!” But now her handsome playmate for the evening dissolved completely, just hooting helplessly. # Tristan felt he needed just one more stroke of luck, and his evening by her fire would be complete. Contentedly, and with his third spouting done, he settled back with another of Claire’s
popcorn books again. This was the fifth one he had tried-would it yield the prize? He scanned it with a practised eye: boring…. boring… even more boring… hopeless… no. Oh dear! Only three books to go that weren’t here the last time I stayed the night. How about this one, the one with the most ludicrous cover of the lot? Here goes: boring… boring… ah! captured by white slavers!… ah yes indeed, fine body of men… much more like it … definitely possible… could be…. promising… good lad… go on, teach her a lesson…that’s right… any minute now… oh shit fuck and bugger it! she’s being rescued!… why can’t the little tosspot mind his business?… anything in the last few chapters? Boring… boring… ah-hah!… does this get us somewhere?… No, does it hell. This one? Boring… boring… bor..–hey!what’s this? Ah!-yes, we might be on to something here… slow down… slow down… actually try to read this crap… yes, this is much more like it… good man-you tell the uppity bitch… you tell her!… come on pirate… come on my son… you can do it… yes you can… don’t let her get away with-… Yes!! Yess!! Yessss!! Hallelujah and glory be! You! You, Claire Kelsey, have held this very book in your lily-white hands, and your own eyes have actually read this paragraph! Well now, Miss dangle-’em-ona-string, Miss Tristan-leave-the-room; whatever did you think when you read that?’ He sank back, thrilled and deeply satisfied, to start work on number four. # “Yo-ow! Triss-ee! It’s mee-hee!” “Claire! Bloody hell fire! It’s half past sodding three! Where the fuck are you?” “Ohww! Pleeeash don’t get the knock Tris-I’m round at Clarissa’s.” “Fine, I see. But why though? Why are you at Clarissa’s? I could have sworn that you live here, but obviously I’m just being thick again.”
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“Owhwh! Don’t be like that! Look, er, she, ..well, there was something she-ooh! gerRoff!!-something she wanted to-hoooH! stopPitt!-something she wanted to talk to me about.” “Claire-would you mind terribly if I asked you what the fuck is going on there?” “What? That? Oh! Yeah… it’s.. um.. it’s Clarissa’s cat! Yeah, it seems to have taken a fancy to me something rotten-it’s got its filthy little paws all over me, and I just can’t seem to shake it off! Owooowh! Owwch! Listen-I’m going to crash out here, okay? Pleeease don’t have a go at me-I’ll make it up to you, I promise! Look, I’ll give you a call alright? Gotdta’go-Ni-ight!” He knew he wouldn’t see her again for days. No vodkasodden homecoming now. Just the blankness of this room. This was, he reflected in distress, fucking-par for the course in the life of Tristan Cumberwell. # “Oh no you don’t, you little toe-rag! Well, not until you tell me you don’t, anyway.” “Oh yes I do!” Paul corrected, his hands already in position. “You don’t listen too well, do you sunny? I just told you! Not.. un-til.. you tell me! So come on! out with it!-what’s so poxy funny about my name then, eh?” said Claire, slapping him down playfully. “Never mind that now. Come on! Lift up!” her new friend replied briskly. “Hey! alright, alright! Bloody hell! You’re a bit keen aren’t you?” Nonetheless, she pushed her hands into the bed to raise herself for long enough. “D’you mind if I keep these?” “What? My God, you’ve got a nerve!” But she knew his lazy smile was irresistible. Besides, he already had her panties in his pocket. Nonetheless, she tried. “Yes I bloody-well do! Honestly! What a sodding cheek! They’re my best ones, I’ll have you know!”
“Yes, and very nice too. But don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you…” He ran a hand back up again. “Hmm-that’s what they all say, sunshine…” She reached a finger out to tap him on the nose. But oh! His hand just felt SO wonderful! “Okay, I’ll tell you what-if I’m right I get to keep them, if I’m wrong you get half a dozen better ones-how’s that?” She interpreted his sign, and hitched her dress right round her waist to stop impeding him. Soon after, she saw another look and guessed correctly for a second time. “OoOoh! You’ve got nice hands lover, I’ll give you that!” said Claire after sinking down on waiting palms. His mouth came down, as though to find his hands. “hOhghh! Good bHoy!! Okay, I tell you what-if you’re a betting man, then fine! You’re on!”