My Blue Heron

25

My Blue Heron

    It was late when Mike got back to The Blue Heron Motel—ten to twelve, in fact. There was a light still on in the little office. He frowned as he got out of the Mazda. ’Course, it was none of his business... He should turn in; call it a day. He felt tired, but not sleepy; oddly restless. He unlocked the door of his unit, then, frowning, relocked it and walked away from it, over to the office.

    Molly Pettigrew was all alone at the switchboard behind the little counter, nodding over a paperback. She started at his step, and jumped up, all flustered.

    Mike looked at the round, pink, still-pretty face and the fluffy, ash-blonde short hair, rather ruffled and untidy, and frowned again.

    “What is it, Chief Inspector? Can I—can I help you?” she faltered.

    The frown developed into a horrible scowl. Oh, dear, what was the matter? No clean towels? TV on the blink? Run out of toilet paper? Men often got horribly embarrassed over that; but he couldn’t have, she’d checked his stock herself this morning, and even given him an extra roll—and he’d been out all day.

    “You shouldn’t be here all by yourself at this time of night.” he said abruptly.

    Mrs Pettigrew’s jaw sagged. “What?” she said faintly.

    The Chief Inspector went a bit pink. Oh, dear, he was a good-looking man! Her heart had begun to pound in the stupidest way, like a silly schoolgirl.

    “It isn’t safe,” he said. “Not at this time of night.”

    “But this is Puriri!” she protested.

    “That’s right—and there’s been a murder done just down the coast a bit at Pohutukawa Bay.”

    “But surely... you don’t think...” she faltered

    “Look, you’ve had one maniac committing a murder at the Bay—who’s to say there isn’t another one running round loose up here in Puriri?” Shit, he was making a bloody fool of himself. He glared at her, all the more angry and accusing because of it.

    “But it’s so quiet here,” said Mrs Pettigrew weakly.

    “GOD SAVE US!” said Mike at the top of his voice.

    She went bright red and took a step backwards.

    “Look!” he said, bracing his hands on the counter and leaning right over it, glaring into her face. “You’re a woman alone, stuck out here in the back of beyond,”—there was nothing but bush behind the motel, and empty fields on either side of it and across the road—“sitting in this bloody office with the light on and the door unlocked, all by yourself in the dead of night: don’t you think you’re bloody well asking for it?” He looked around him in exasperation and added: “For Christ’s sake—couldn’t you even get yourself a dog?”

    Mrs Pettigrew burst into tears. Her hands went up to her face and her small, plump body shook with racking sobs.

    “Christ,” Mike muttered. He hesitated, then reluctantly came round the counter to her. “Come back here, eh?” He led her through the door behind the counter into the living quarters at the back of the office. It was a neat little sitting-dining room: hardly enough room to swing a cat; everything scrupulously clean and tidy, but rather worn: the furniture had been cheap to start with—by the look of it, probably second-hand, too, most of it.

    “Come on, sit down here.” He pressed her gently onto the ugly little settee. She’d covered it with a flowery print that matched the curtains; being blue, it had faded badly.

    Molly was still sobbing—as much, now, from humiliation at having lost control in front of Mr Collingwood as from the original mixture of shock at his unexpected verbal attack and the sudden unbearable memory of dead Sandy, who’d got distemper and had to be put down only a year after Alan died.

    Mike looked helplessly down at her sobbing form, said abruptly: “Hang on—I’m going to lock up,” and shot through to secure the office door and turn the lights out. When he came back she was still crying, but more quietly now.

    She looked up at him blearily. “The phones...”

    “The switchboard’s closed,” replied Mike baldly.

    Molly Pettigrew subsided.

    “Look, I’ll make you a cup of tea, okay?”

    “Thank you,” she murmured faintly, mopping at her eyes with a soaking hanky.

    Mike fished in his pocket. “Here.” He shoved his handkerchief at her, avoiding her eye, and marched into the kitchen.

    The kitchen was quite a decent size, but very cramped: it contained two large refrigerators, a chest freezer, and what at first he thought was another fridge, but turned out to be a big upright freezer, crammed with frozen goods. Of course: she’d keep quite a bit of stuff in for breakfasts and for the guests who wanted to do their own cooking: the nearest shops were way back on the main drag. Outside in the tiny reception area there was a big commercial fridge with a glass door, full of chilled soft drinks. He began to wonder about the overheads on a place like this as he made a pot of tea. She had a microwave as well as an electric stove; must be a bit of a job, all the same, getting breakfasts when most of the units were occupied: she advertised cooked breakfasts and, from the smells that wafted out of the kitchen every morning when he came back from his run, a good number of the guests seemed to take advantage of the offer. She’d do better to stick to cornflakes and tinned fruit with toast like most of them did: miles easier, and much cheaper.

    He went back into the main room with a neatly laid tray and drew a little table closer to the settee. “Here we are.”

    The one small armchair was occupied by a large black cat, fast asleep, so he sat down beside her. He was obscurely annoyed when she edged slightly away from him.

    “I did have a dog,” she said in a trembling voice as he poured the tea.

    He stirred sugar into a cup. “You oughta get another.”

    “I didn’t like to... after Sandy died,” she said faintly. Another tear spilled down her cheek and she wiped it away furtively with the handkerchief.

    “Here.” He passed her the cup of tea with the sugar in it.

    Molly felt too weak to voice a protest, and sipped it obediently. Out of the corner of her eye she could see his strong, well-shaped hand—he had nice hands, she’d noticed that almost at once—delicately lifting his own cup—he’d used the best china, just like a man. Goodness! Was that how he liked his tea? Very, very weak, no milk at all, and no sugar either.

    Mike couldn’t think of a damned thing to say. He shot a quick glance at her. Well—at least she’d stopped bawling, thank God! Finally he said: “What sort of dog was he?”

    “Sandy? An Alsatian.” She took a good gulp of tea and added in a stronger voice: “One of those creamy ones—that’s why we called him Sandy.”

    “I see.” He sipped his tea cautiously—it was a bit hot.

    “He was Alan’s dog, really: my husband. He moped terribly after Alan died; he was just starting to get over it when—when he got that awful distemper and—and had to be put down.” Her voice shook.

    “I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly. Jesus—poor little woman! He’d assumed she was divorced. How long had she been a widow? Couldn’t ask that, though. Not looking at her, he said: “You’ve been running this place on your own for a while, now, have you?”

    “Five years.”

    “Got any family up here on the Coast?”

    “No—there’s only my brother, now, up in Whangarei; I have got an aunty down in Balmoral, but she’s getting on a bit…”

    Mike turned and looked into her face. “Nobody at all up here? None of your husband’s people?”

    “No,” she said faintly. “Alan’s parent’s were elderly—they died years ago.” She flushed under his stare, and looked away.

    Her eyes were a very light brown; not a hazel—more a sherry colour; most unusual. Her lashes—which she didn’t colour, he noticed automatically—were about a shade lighter than the eyes, short but very thick and curled. She set her cup down in its saucer and clasped her hands in her lap. The hands were small, plumpish, and work-roughened. He had a ridiculous impulse to cover them comfortingly with one of his own, and looked hurriedly back into his cup.

    “Bit hard for you,” he said gruffly.

    Molly Pettigrew felt her eyes fill again. Oh—stupid! “Yes,” she mumbled, clenching her hands together. She would not cry again! She was just feeling sorry for herself, that was all! She gave a defiant sniff and blew her nose hard on his handkerchief.

    “I do quite well in summer, of course,” she said loudly—too loudly, she must sound like an idiot.

    Certainly the motel had been almost full when Mike had first come here, before Christmas; now, in February, all the units were occupied: he’d been lucky that she’d been able to fit him in again, on a cancellation. –He had no idea, of course, that she’d rung up old Miss Randall, who always came up with her middle-aged niece in February, and alienated them forever by telling them that she wouldn’t have a unit for them after all at their usual time, she was double-booked. Old Miss Randall, who was as sharp as a tack still, had had some pretty cutting things to say about incompetent women who were unfit to run a business.

    “What about the winter?” he asked in a hard voice. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the hands twisting his handkerchief so hard that the knuckles were white.

    “Um, it’s a bit slack then, of course.” She swallowed and added hoarsely: “I get quite a few sales reps, mind you.”

    Mike wasn’t that thick. “Bit close to town for them, isn’t it?”

    She swallowed again. “Yes, but I’ve got a—a few regulars.”

    “A few?”

    “All right! Only two! What business is it of yours, anyway?” she cried, at the end of her tether; and to her own horror, heard herself burst into noisy sobs all over again.

    “Hang on—wait there,” he said hoarsely, and jumped up and ran out.

    Molly cast herself face down on her faded settee and sobbed and sobbed. She hadn’t registered what he said, and even if she had, she wouldn’t have believed he meant to come back.

    Mike ran to his unit, grabbed the unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label from the top of the chest of drawers, and bolted back as fast as his legs would carry him. Where did she keep her glasses? Damn! Then he spotted some in a funny little old-fashioned glass-fronted affair. As he opened it a sudden waft of old oak and furniture polish enveloped him and he was immediately carried back more than twenty years: the Mitchells’ front room, where Mr Mitchell dusted your breeches for you if he caught you with your feet on the furniture. They had an old-fashioned sideboard arrangement, too; much bigger, though. On very special occasions such as Mrs Mitchell’s birthday everyone got a tiny sip of the sherry that lived in one of its diamond-paned cupboards. Little Polly had hers with water, in a special wee glass that didn’t belong to the cut-glass set... Mrs Pettigrew’s glasses were cut-glass, too: heavy tumbler things, on a matching glass tray. Be a wedding present, the sorta thing that stayed in people’s sideboards forever. He poured a generous whisky for her.

    When he touched the heaving shoulders she cried out.

    “Hey,” he protested mildly.

    She peered up at him. “I didn’t think you’d come back,” she mumbled, scrubbing her fist across her cheeks like a little kid.

    “Sit up,” said Mike gently. “Drink this.”

    She sat up shakily, and he sat beside her, trying to push the glass into her hand.

    “I don’t—what is it?”

    “Whisky: do ya good.” –Bugger, he sounded like a nit. He gave her the glass. Her hand was warm and damp. He withdrew his hurriedly.

    “Neat?” she said faintly.

    “Just drink it,” he said tiredly.

    Molly flushed, but sipped it. She shuddered.

    “Go on—get it down you. –Police orders.” Shit, was that weak, or what! But she gave a shaky little laugh, and sipped again. The level of the whisky sank very, very slowly.

    He might as well have one himself; he got up to get himself a glass. He usually took it with water, but he’d have to go out to the kitchen— Somehow it seemed too awkward. When he turned round he noticed the cat had vacated the little armchair but he sat back down on the settee anyway. He swallowed a mouthful, and with difficulty managed not to cough. Jesus, it was a bit strong: poor little dame!

    The whisky was creating a warm glow in Molly’s middle. It tasted horrible—no wonder Alan had never drunk it. He’d never been much of a drinker at all, in fact: only the odd glass of sherry before tea. It had made him seem—sort of safe, somehow. She glanced nervously at Mr Collingwood. He wasn’t saying anything: he’d finished his whisky, and was just sitting there, bent forward with his legs apart and his elbows on his knees, twisting his glass round and round in his fingers. Somehow, in spite of the glow from the whisky, she felt a bit trembly. The room seemed to be very full of furniture, and a lot smaller, all at once. The settee definitely felt far too small; she felt confusedly that he was taking up far too much room—she shouldn’t be sitting so close to him.

    Mike looked up abruptly. The plump little body was quite visibly shaking.

    “Finish your drink.” His voice rang in his own ears as hard and unsympathetic, shit!

    She lifted her tumbler again but her hand shook violently.

    “Give it here.” He reached for the hand that held the glass. His shirt-sleeved arm brushed her bare one: she was wearing a very crumpled, pale blue sleeveless cotton blouse; there was a patch of sunburn at the top of her arm. At the contact her body jerked in a response that Mike was too experienced not to recognize as a sexual one; when his hand closed over hers she gave a shuddering sob. Mike eased the glass gently from her hand, put it down on the little table, and put his arm cautiously round her.

    The silvery-blonde curls tickled his chin; he stared grimly over her head at the opposite wall. The wallpaper was pale blue, with narrow, vertical stripes in a tiny vine-leaf pattern at widely spaced intervals. Where the sun had got at it it had faded badly: in the corners of the room it was quite a lot bluer. Bugger, what the Hell did he imagine he was— She was shaking; she felt very hot and very, very soft. Suddenly she grabbed a handful of shirt, just below his shoulder. Mike went on staring grimly at the wallpaper. Jesus, he did not need this sort of complication!

    “Ssh,” he said. “Hush—” Damn, he didn’t even know her name; he couldn’t say “Hush, Mrs Pettigrew”, it’d sound barmy! Not that every syllable he’d produced so far hadn’t, bugger it. “Hush, now,” he produced feebly.

    She gulped into his shirt and gasped: “I’m—sorry—Chief—Inspector!”

    Mike wanted to laugh—and then he felt as if he might cry; crikey, what the Hell was the matter with him? He needed a holiday, all right!

    “Mike,” he said gruffly.

    Her body jerked against him. “What?”

    “The name’s Mike,” he said feebly

    “Mike,” she said faintly. “I’m suh-sorry: I duh-didn’t mean...”

    Mike tried to ignore the fact that he could not only hear but also feel her laboured breathing.

    “Thank you,” she murmured finally in an exhausted voice.

    “That’s okay,” he said awkwardly. Repressing a barmy impulse to lay his cheek on the soft blonde curls, he gave her a little pat on the back, said in what was supposed to be a light but comforting tone: “Why don’t you pop off to bed, now? You’ll feel better after a good night’s sl—”

    She wrenched herself away, pressed right back into the far end of the settee and stared at him wildly.

    What the fuck had he said? The best thing to do would just be to go quietly away and leave her to it; but he couldn’t leave her like that, poor little woman!

    “Look—” he said uncomfortably, reaching out a hand to her.

    “Don’t—touch—me!” she said on a sob, and closed her eyes.

    Mike bit his lip. At this point any joker with a modicum of sense would walk out. So why he edged over to her and put his hand on her shoulder he couldn’t have said. Her face was very red, and terribly screwed up.

    “Don’t cry,” he said softly.

    “I’m—not!”

    Mike gave a shaky laugh, edged up further, and put his cheek gently against hers. He felt her tremble.

    “Don’t,” she said faintly.

    He turned his head and brushed his lips against the flushed cheek; it was hardly a kiss, just a touch. When she jumped a tremor of response ran through his own body.

    “I thought you wanted me to,” he whispered.

    She twisted violently out of his grasp and looked up at him with a red, desperate face, body jammed tensely into the corner of the settee. “All right! I do!” she cried. “You’ve made me admit it—now you can go away and have a good laugh! Go on, then: laugh! Go on!”

    Until that instant Mike would probably have taken his oath that all he intended to do was give her a bit of a hug, get her calmed down, and escape with as little fuss as possible. But suddenly he found himself tightly gripping the soft upper-arms, muttering: “I’m not laughing at you; please believe me.”

    The sherry-coloured eyes, blank with shock, stared into his. He felt himself redden like a nit. He tried to pull her gently against him. She resisted.

    Buggeration: what the fuck was he supposed to do now? His girlfriends had all been young, athletic, self-confident creatures; several lady lawyers amongst them. Their signals were unmistakeable: he’d always known exactly what they wanted and they’d known he’d known it. Their so-called relationships had been energetic, strenuous and only technically satisfying, lasting at most a few months; more than once they’d come to an abrupt end the moment the ladies with the liberal middle-class consciences had discovered he was one of the despised fuzz. There’d been no-one now for... must be nearly a year; nine or ten months, anyway. Somehow he seemed to have lost interest; they were all the same, anyway, and his work took up most of his time...

    He could almost hear Dave Short, or any of his peers, really, saying: “Get out of it, mate, before the dame starts yelling ‘Rape’.” He swallowed hard. Finally he said, as gently as he could: “I thought you wanted me.”

    “You know I do!” Her voice was amazingly bitter.

    “Well, then…” he managed feebly, not to say foggily.

    “You don’t want me!” she cried, turning her head away. “Don’t pretend! I’m too old—and too fat!”

    That morning Mike would probably have agreed with both these sentiments. Now he said gruffly: “No, you’re not.”

    Her head was still turned away; her face was all screwed up again. Another tear was forcing itself out from between the closed eyelids and trickling down her cheek. He was very far from being overwhelmed by desire, so God knew why he heard himself saying: “Suppose you come to bed and let me show you whether I’m pretending or not.”

    The plump body jerked under his hands and he felt a prickle of lust.

   “I— Look, what the Hell is your first name?”

    Her eyes opened in surprise. “Molly,” she said hoarsely.

    Mike pulled her gently towards him again. “Come here, Molly.” Her breasts pressed against his chest. The sherry-coloured eyes were wide; her nose was a bit sunburnt. Her mouth was very slightly open; the lipstick she’d had on this morning was all worn off. He wasn’t expecting anything, much, but she wasn’t resisting any more, so he kissed her.

    Jesus! he thought dazedly. Didn’t think I— As a matter of fact, he’d been sort of having a feeling lately, off and on, that he wasn’t ever gonna get it up again. Okay, he’d been wrong: thanks for that, Molly Pettigrew!

    He went on kissing her for quite a bit longer. But when he said huskily into the blonde curls: “Molly? Do you think—could we go to bed?” her body was suddenly tense in his hold.

    He pulled back and looked into her face.

    “Don’t you want to?”

    She blushed and looked away. “It’s not that; it’s just...”

    Mike’s heart was thumping painfully. “What?”

    She hung her head and whispered something.

    “What is it? What’s wrong?” She wouldn’t look at him; he put a hand under her chin and tried to turn her face up.

    “It’s just...”

    “Yes?” He had to bring his ear almost down to her mouth to hear it.

    “I’m not very good at it,” she whispered. “Alan always said... I was too slow.”

    Mike thought some very hard thoughts about the late Alan. “Hasn’t there been anyone since Alan?”

    She went very red. “Only once. And he— It was awful!”

    Mike’s mouth firmed. “Poor little Molly.” He hesitated. God knew it had been so long since he— “Look. I promise you’ll enjoy it. One way or another. See?”

    She looked up, startled. “But I—I didn’t mean— I was afraid that you wouldn’t enjoy it—that I couldn’t satisfy you.”

    Mike didn’t know whether his dominant feeling was a strong desire to laugh, or a fervent wish to have the late Alan’s fatuous face just a foot away from his clenched fist for just two seconds. He hugged her very tightly. “Hey, it’s the man’s job to satisfy the woman, don’t you know that?”

    “No,” she said faintly, not to say blankly.

    No, well. There was fair bit of it about. Maybe the women read the advice in the women’s mags but the blokes sure as Hell didn’t. Okay, a demonstration was better than a thousand words, eh? He kissed her again. That seemed to be working, judging by the heavy breathing, so he slid his hand down to her left breast. She was trembling again. He squeezed her a bit, smiling into her eyes. She went bright pink all at once. He went on smiling, watching her. His thumb had found her nipple. All at once her eyes closed, and she sighed. The nipple stiffened under his thumb. He was pretty stiff himself by now.

    “That good?” he murmured.

    “Oh, Mike!” she whispered shakily.

    “Kiss me?” he suggested. This time he was startled by the strength of his own response. It was all he could do not to groan a little. Mustn’t frighten her, though. When she paused for breath he put his hands heavily on her shoulders, holding her away from him. “Look, Molly—”

    She gave him a little, doubtful, scared look that cut him to the quick, and said in a tiny voice: “Yes, Mike?”

    “Had I better... I haven’t got any protection.”

    She looked at him dazedly. Why was he going on about guard dogs again? Then light dawned, and she went scarlet. “Oh! They—there’s some... there’s a shelf of chemist’s things out in reception: beside the fridge.”

    He smiled at her and squeezed her shoulders gently. “Why don’t you pop into bed while I look for them? Okay?”

    She nodded convulsively.

    When he came into the bedroom she was sitting bolt upright against the pillows with the sheet drawn up to her chin. The bedroom was all pale yellow walls and curtains, with a faded-looking fawn carpet. The sheets were yellow with a pattern of brown and green flowers, very washed-out looking. She had a bedside lamp on as well as the big overhead light. He hesitated by the door, then turned the main light off—she was shy enough as it was. When he began to undress in front of her she blushed and looked away. He couldn’t help laughing a little; at the same time he wondered again what the Hell had been wrong with the late Alan.

    “You can look at me, you know—I don’t mind.”

    She shot him a quick glance, but looked away again immediately. Grinning, Mike bent to slip off his underpants. When he straightened she was looking at him, still clutching the sheet up under her chin, redder than ever. He walked over to the other side of the bed, smiling at her.

    “Well? Not disappointed, I hope?”

    She gulped, eyes wide, and shook her head.

    Mike pulled back his side of the top sheet, still smiling. She was hanging on to her side of it like grim death. He knelt beside her on the bed and said gently: “You can let go of the sheet, now.”

    “Uh—yes!” Her hands dropped. Mike pulled the sheet down. He wanted very much to laugh: she was wearing a very elaborate, lacy pink nightie. That lace looked as if it must scratch her like Hell! Still kneeling, he pulled her gently to him. Her upper-arms were just so soft! He kissed her very gently and whispered in her ear: “That’s a very pretty nightie.”

    “It’s my best one,” she said faintly.

    He kissed her gently again and slid his hand down to that responsive nipple. Without the flaming bra she was so soft under that scratchy lace! He clutched at her, sighing, forgetting all about technique for a minute. Then he recollected himself, rubbed the nipple between thumb and finger, felt it harden, and pulled gently so that it stood right out. Molly gave a little gasp.

    He said in her ear: “Pretty as it is, I can’t wait to take it off you!”

    This time the little gasp was half shocked, half laughing. He moved his lips gently across the pink cheek and found her mouth again. He kissed her more urgently, and—three cheers!—she began to respond. Her hands touched his bare back tentatively, then clung. She began to breathe heavily, and pressed against him.

    But at his next words in her ear the gasp was definitely shocked. Her body was suddenly rigid.

    “What did you say?” she said faintly.

    She couldn’t be that innocent, for God’s sake! “I said, Put your hand on my cock. Don’t tell me you’ve never done that for a bloke!”

    Molly was scarlet. “No, I—yes, of course—Only Alan—”

    The late Alan must’ve been a real weirdo, that was for sure. “Alan what?”

    “He always—he always...” Mike was staring at her. She just couldn’t say it; instead she mumbled miserably: “He never liked... those words.” Well, it was true, anyway, she thought, not looking at him.

    Mike gave a yelp of laughter. “Is that all?” Jesus! He’d been so bloody disconcerted—she’d put him off his stroke a bit, to tell the truth.

    Her head was turned away; she was biting her lip.

    “How old are you?” he said, still grinning all over his face.

    “Forty-one,” she said miserably. Only three years older than him? He’d thought she might be around forty-five or so.

    Suddenly he realized she was close to tears. Shit: clumsy idiot! He was damned if he was gonna turn himself into a weirdo like the late Alan on the strength of it, though. Off-putting though the whole scene was.

    He pulled the stiff, unyielding figure close again. “Listen, Molly,” he murmured gently into her ear. “Most men like those words; no—” as she swallowed uncomfortably and tried to twist her head away—“don’t be like that, darling; listen; those words are okay between a man and a woman; they’re not dirty then.” He nuzzled at her ear. “Molly? Kiss me?”

    Slowly she turned her head and looked shyly into his eyes. Mike kissed her very, very gently. Unfortunately this didn't seem to work, as far as he was concerned: blast!

    “Molly?” he said in a muffled voice.

    “Mm?”

    If only she was a bit more sophisticated, she’d notice what was the matter! But if she was more sophisticated it wouldn’t have happened, of course. “I thought you didn’t want to touch me and I...” Damn! Now he was behaving like a tongue-tied idiot! “I’ve gone a bit soft,” he said into her neck.

    “What?” she said blankly.

    “Jesus, woman! I’ve gone soft—I’ve gone off!” He waved at himself in exasperation. “My cock’s gone soft!” he said loudly and furiously.

    The round eyes were wide and scared. “I’m sorry, Mike,” she said in a small, guilty voice. “I... what can I... Is there anything I can do?” Her eyes filled with tears.

    Mike took her hands gently in his. Shit, shit, shit! It wasn’t her fault if her husband had been a clumsy clown and he, Mike Collingwood, was a tit, was it? “Listen, sex should be fun,” he said softly, “not an ordeal.”

    She swallowed painfully. “I’m sorry.”

    “No—don’t apologise. Just try to relax—okay?”

    She nodded convulsively.

    He drew her closer. She was still rigid. “Molly,” he said gently, “when you stiffen up like that—when you pull away from me like that—that’s what really turns me off. I—I’m only human, you know.” His voice shook; he took a deep breath. “I want to feel you’re enjoying me, darling.”

    She looked at him, eyes wide; she seemed not to understand at all... Just how bad had the late unlamented Alan been? “What is it? You’re not afraid, are you?”

    Molly hung her head. “Just a bit,” she mumbled.

    “Afraid of me? Afraid I’ll hurt you?” said Mike incredulously. God, that bloody bastard! “Did he hurt you—Alan?” he croaked.

    “Sometimes,” she whispered.

    Jesus. How far had it gone, for God’s sake? Maybe the man had beaten her up as well as what he was now bloody sure had pretty well been rape within marriage.

    “Darling Molly,” he said haltingly. “I promise I won’t hurt you. I won’t do anything until you want me to—I promise!” She was silent, and he added, trying to joke her out of it: “Did you think I was just going to plunge it straight into you, or something?”

    “They always do!” she blurted.

    Jesus! Well, that explained a lot. “Come here—come down in the bed.” He pulled her down beside him and hugged her gently. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

    “Mm,” she said into his shoulder.

    He reached across her and turned the light off. “I won’t do anything until you’re ready for it—until you want it,” he said into the tangled curls. “I promise.”

    Molly gave a strangled sob, and clung to him. “Alan—Alan... he always...”

    Mike stroked her back and said gently: “He always what?”

    Molly blushed in the darkness; but it was easier to explain when she couldn’t see him watching her make a fool of herself. “Well—when you wanted me to—to touch you...”

    “Yeah?”

    Somehow she found the courage to continue. “He always made me touch him, you know; and then he’d do it.”

    Mike wasn’t all that surprised; nevertheless, this was the nineteen-eighties, post-Hite Report and so forth. Okay, the late Alan, like most of the male half of the population, hadn’t known, hadn’t bothered, and hadn’t cared. Christ, if he said “foreplay” she probably wouldn’t understand him!

    “I see,” he said weakly. “Well, listen, darling, poor old Alan... well, he obviously didn’t know anything about what makes women tick.”

    “Oh.”

    “No. And that other joker—the one you said was awful—well, he musta been just as bad.”

    “Worse,” she said simply.

    Mike nestled closer. “Kiss me?” Kissing her gently, he could feel the resistance in her, and said softly: “It’s all right, Molly, don’t be frightened—I’m not gonna plunge it straight into you.”

    “No,” agreed Molly obediently.

    “I’m going to make sure you’re really ready, first.”

    “Mm.”

    He kissed her again, prolonging it; gave her a sec to breathe, and started in again. She began to respond; her breathing changed. He fumbled for her breast.

    “Let me take this ruddy nightie off you.”

    “All right,” she whispered shyly.

    At the touch of his hands on her body she quivered and gave a little squeak. Mike grinned in the dark: Bloody Alan didn’t know what he’d been missing!

    It’s gonna get better, he silently promised her. He slid his hand down to her thighs, caressing her flank, smiling as she gasped. Oh, yes, it’s gonna get much better, Mrs Pettigrew, you’re not gonna know what’s hit you!

    It did get a lot better, later on; it got wonderful, in fact; and if Mrs Molly Pettigrew, who’d never been south of the Bombay Hills in her life, had never, as she assured him earnestly, dreamed that there could be anything in the world as marvellous as that... well, Chief Inspector Michael Collingwood, B.A., LL.B., had to admit that he’d never enjoyed himself so much, either; not since—well...

    “Never, Mike?” she whispered incredulously. “But—”

    “You’re the best!” repeated Chief Inspector Collingwood firmly in the dark.

    Drifting off to sleep with his head pillowed against her boobs, his last conscious thought was of Mrs Mitchell in the fuzzy angora cardy she used to wear in winter.—Okay, call it Freudian or Oedipus complex or whatever, and maybe he did have a need to be mothered, but who cared?—Of Mrs Mitchell in her fuzzy angora cardy: kind of a bright pink—magenta, that’s what it was—when she hugged you her boobs were all soft and spongy, too, just like Molly’s: you kind of sunk right into them...

    Out at the far end of Kupe Street the unfortunate D.S. Short stretched and blinked. Bugger, nearly dropped off. Mike was bats, sending him out here! But since he wouldn’t have put it past the D.C.I. to turn up in the middle of the fucking night to check up on him, he didn’t dare to snooze off. He opened the car door, sighing, and got out to take a leak.

    Well—might as well check the place out for nutters, since he was on his feet. In what he imagined was a soundless manner, he walked through the long dry grass of the rough track that went up to Matai Street. Nothing. Not a sausage. The whole place was silent as the grave.

    Across in the Reserve a morepork was motionless, watching and listening as the intruder crashed across its territory. In Matai Street two gorging possums in a plum tree abruptly stopped their feasting, clinging tightly to the branches, furry bodies tensed, ready to flee at the first sign of danger.

    Dave sighed. There was nothing at all to see except a sort of glow from Carrano’s place where the patio lights had been left on. What that joker’s electricity bill must be—and he wasn’t even home! Well, yeah: nice work if ya could get it. He was dying for a smoke but he’d given it up and didn’t have a single fag on him. Bugger. He got out some Nicorette chewing-gum, made a sour face, put it back in his pocket, and got out the remains of his last Crunchie Bar instead. He’d chucked the wrapper away before he remembered what Mike had said about starting a grid search of this stretch of track tomorrow. Fuck! Where the Hell had it gone? His torch batteries were at their last gasp: he’d left the thing in the car. He fumbled around for ages, but couldn’t find it. All right, no way was he gonna own up to it, and anybody could have thrown it away, after all.

    It was getting bloody nippy out here: what a dump: why anybody’d want to live way out here beat him! Shivering, Dave tramped back to the car and put his jacket on.

    As the noise of his progress died away life on the hillside gradually returned to normal. The little owl glided on silent wings across Roger’s garden, swooped on a mouse in the field, and returned with it to its favourite tree. The possums finished the ripe plums and took off for the old orchard behind Polly’s cottage. Under a bush a big grey cat’s ears pricked; then he turned round and round, trampling his nest into a more comfortable shape, and slept again.

    Later, when the mouse had been eaten and digestion was under way, the morepork called softly from its tree: “More pork!” An answering cry came from deeper in the Reserve, and another, from way back in the pohutukawas near the main road…

     Mike roused with a start in the dark. What the—

    “More… pork! More pork!”

    Just like down home, he thought, smiling and closing his eyes again.