He was certainly beginning to regret his act of chivalry.
The Bay Horse public house in Gateshead was a place you generally called into for a quick drink on the way to somewhere else. It was a dirty, sleazy place and so were the clientele.
You had to avoid taking deep breathes otherwise your lungs would be violated from the tar filled fog of hand-rolled cigarettes and the inadequate drainage from the toilets. And most of the seating was held together with duct-tape and the carpets were so old and threadbare your shoes stuck to the floor.
The glass had barely touched his lips when a young girl walked onto the dance floor and removed all of her clothes. Under the hypnotic spell of Norman Greenbaum singing ‘Spirit in the Sky,’ she danced around the room with a carefree confidence, swaying her hips and flaunting her breasts, floating in a dreamy trance, oblivious to the world around her.
The unexpected exhibition quickly attracted an audience of curious eyes.
Testosterone loaded males with bulging eyes and bulging pants gathered around the dance floor like a pack of hungry wolves, their voices laden with crude suggestion, willing the girl to open her body and give them a solo performance.
A guttural voice behind him interrupted the glass touching his lips.
“She’s a loon mate.”
Turning quickly on his heels a short middle-aged chubby man with an unkempt appearance and an unshaven face smiled back from behind the bar. His shirt was open at the front revealing a covering of perspiration on his chest and sweat marks under both arms.
“The wheels spinning but the hamsters dead,” he sniggered, showing stained and uneven teeth, his bulging eyes crawling shamelessly over her naked body, shifting position and craning his neck, anxious not to miss a second of the erotic performance.
He took an instant dislike to the lecherous pervert who felt it necessary to scratch his balls as he questioned him about his vindictive comments.
“I don’t understand. What do you mean? Does she have a problem?”
Wiping a layer of sweat from his brow and crushing a cigarette into an overflowing ashtray, leaning over the counter until their faces were almost touching, his cheesy smile showing yellow stained teeth and his breath smelling of cigarettes and the inside of a sewer.
“This is not the first time she’s stripped naked and given a performance,” he grinned, a cigarette dancing between nicotine stained fingers. “Apparently she exposes herself in other pubs in the area,” he declared, putting his hand inside his trouser pocket just as the young girl bent over and opened her legs.
His next question interrupted the pervert’s hand playing inside his pants.
“Who is she, and why doesn’t anyone stop her?”
The disgusting man ignored the question. He was too preoccupied with trying to get himself off and made it rather obvious that he only had one thing on his mind and wasn’t in the mood for exchanging words of sympathy.
The lecherous man pulled on his cigarette and shuffled his feet behind the bar, trying to get a better view, his hand gathering pace inside his pants, a tardy reply to the question muttered between heavy breathing, something about the girl having mental health problems and she was the daughter of the Vicar of the local Methodist Church.
A depraved audience of cowardly predators circled the dance floor like vultures watching over their vulnerable prey, some of them chanting obscenities, others offering crude suggestions, one man with his cock in his hand encouraging her to perform oral sex.
He finished his drink and glanced at his watch, the timepiece reminding him that he should be heading for the casino.
After giving the barman a look he reserved for perverts he pushed his way through the throng of predatory filth, picking up her clothes from the floor, lifting her into his arms and disappearing through a door, ignoring the onslaught of verbal abuse following in his wake.
During the short drive to her home he offered her a cigarette and tried to find out her name but she didn’t reply. She just stared into the distance as if he wasn’t there.
Apart from an ambient light above the entrance door the vicarage was in darkness.
The tyres crunched in quiet protest over the long gravel drive, the headlights lighting up the eerie grounds, casting haunting shadows of tall trees over the sinister looking house.
Before the brass knocker had time to find purchase the heavy oak door was already opening.
A nose appeared and then a mouth, a cautious eye peeking through a small gap in the door.
“My names Mark Brand,” he volunteered. “Your daughter.....” he added, his voice fading under the ominous sound of deadlocks turning and chains rattling as the door opened.
A tall man wearing a tweed jacket and sporting a dog-collar introduced himself as Alistair Bainbridge, the vicar of St Andrews Methodist Church and the father of the girl.
After a brief explanation of the events at the Bay Horse pub the vicar seemed unperturbed, but nevertheless thanked him for returning his daughter.
The discourteous movement of the door closing in his face informed him that the vicar had nothing more to say, so he turned around and headed for the car. As he drove away from the house he glanced in the rear view mirror, a little surprised to see an elderly woman had now appeared at the door and Alistair Bainbridge was writing something on a notepad.
The following day a police officer arrived at his door and questioned him about the events of Friday night. Alistair Bainbridge had reported the incident to the police and had given them the make and registration details of his car.
The officer told him that he wasn’t under arrest but asked him if he would come to the police station and make a statement so they could complete their report.
After moving into the flow of traffic without indicating, the sound of a car horn behind him was enough to clear the thoughts from his head.
George Logan was travelling with him today and he realised that if he wanted to get them both to Stockport in one piece he would have to push Alistair Bainbridge and the police at the back of his mind.
The rain hammering against the windscreen and the poor visibility made the driving more demanding and required his deep concentration. He was also aware that the ache at the back of his neck was the prelude to a thunderous headache.
Fortunately he had travelled the route so often he could almost set the car on auto-pilot.
The week ahead looked promising, both for work commitments and for sociable events.
On their working agenda, he had to survey a building in Manchester and George Logan had to attend a client progress meeting. On their social agenda they had both been invited out for dinner with Charles Henderson and Beverley Jackson to celebrate his birthday.
With the A1 motorway relatively quiet, he lit a cigarette, turned the volume up on the radio and listened to James Taylor singing ‘Fire and Rain.’
It was only six-thirty in the evening and the hotel bar was already filling with locals and strangers, catching a quick drink before heading to Old Trafford to watch the match, others pulling up stools at the bar, content to watch the game on the television.
“I think we should pretend to be Manchester United supporters for one night. The last thing we need is a confrontation with diehard supporters.” George whispered, trying to disguise his North East accent, as he handed him a drink.
“We’ll beat those bastards tonight,” growled a drunken supporter, waving a red scarf above his head as he headed for the door.
“We will,” Mark replied, hiding his loyalty to Newcastle United behind a limp smile, catching a glimpse of Beverley Jackson standing at the top of the stairs, her beauty almost taking his breath away.
Gliding down the stairs in a whisper of movement, a figure hugging black dress caressing every curve, the front cut low exposing a deep cleavage, her long slender legs growing out of a pair of towering black heels and a heart stopping smile on the most perfect lips.
Bruno Dante greeted his guests in the entrance foyer of the Bella Roma restaurant.
After hugging and kissing everyone on both cheeks and making a fuss and commotion as if they were Hollywood celebrities, he welcomed them into his humble establishment.
“The best table in the house,” Bruno announced, skipping across the floor, a waiter holding a bottle of champagne following quickly on his heels. “Compliments of the house,” Bruno smiled, pouring wine into glasses, a couple of waitresses moving anxiously around the table, forcing smiles, clinking cutlery and handing out menus.
“Happy Birthday, Charles,” Beverley toasted, smiling and raising her glass.
“Happy Birthday,” voices echoed in unison across the table, wine glasses chinking in melodious greeting.
Food delivered to the table and empty plates taken away, wine bottles emptied and quickly replaced, compliments following compliments, smiles and laughter flirting under a veil of stolen glances, pledges and promises and truth and lies smothered under the sound of raised voices and clattering plates.
The taxi dropped them back at ‘The Royal Belvedere Arms Hotel’ just after eleven .
After staggering unsteadily through the door, Beverley made a quick detour to the kitchen returning with a smile and a bottle of champagne in each hand.
Corks popped and the wine flowed, too many toasts inviting too many drunken off-key choruses of ‘Happy Birthday,’ Beverley deliberately letting his age slip into the song and casually announcing that at forty-two she was twelve years younger than Charles.
Standing at one end of the bar, George and Charles giggled and laughed like a couple of teenagers, swapping lewd anecdotes, telling dirty jokes and making suggestive innuendos, unaware that their voices were too loud.
Sitting on stools at the opposite end of the bar, Mark and Beverley talked quietly over the commotion, flirting with each other at any given opportunity.
George’s overexcited and overloud voice broke their flirtatious interlude.
Holding his hands about ten-inches apart he proceeded to tell a joke about a large penis, but with an alcohol fuelled memory lapse he missed the punch line and in an outburst of hysterical laughter he pointed a finger at his friend and colleague shamelessly announcing that he was hung like a horse.
She smiled into his eyes, dipped a finger into her wine and sucked the liquid from her finger with flirtatious suggestion, a mischievous smile curling the corners of her mouth.
“Is that a fact? I always thought you were a bit of a dark horse.”
The sound of the telephone ringing interrupted the sexually charged atmosphere.
The landlord from the Red Bull and some members of the golfing club were discussing the next golfing tournament in Portugal and because Charles was the secretary of the golfing society he asked him if he would come to the Red Bull to agree an agenda.
After quickly draining the contents of his glass, Charles announced that he would take George with him. With a smile and a dismissive hand, they were gone.
In the darkness and disquiet hanging between them they shared a smile and clinked glasses.
“Happy Birthday,” Beverley muttered disapprovingly into her glass, before lifting off her stool and pressing a button on a black and chrome box behind the bar, the velvety voice of Frank Sinatra singing ‘In the Wee Small Hours,’ filtering through speakers, soothing the room with the perfect music for seduction
Taking his outstretched hand and sitting back on her stool, the intimacy of touch fuelling the fire of passion, lust and desire heightening arousal, brushing his hand across her face, tracing the outline of her mouth, her full red lips delicious and soft, the kind that pleaded for the most gentle of kisses and offered the most passionate response.
Faces came together, noses touched, lips met and mouths opened, tongues sweeping over teeth, duelling in an orgy of saliva, two mouths feasting on the heat of each other’s breath, flirting in an intimate dance of promise and expectation .
