Creed (34 page)

He felt the warm bubbling begin deep inside his loins, a frenzy looking for release, and his motion became more languid, more stretched, and more powerful.

‘No,’ she said, ‘not yet. Please not yet, Joe.’ Her limbs tensed solid.

‘Babe . . .’ His turn to plead.

‘Wait,’ she insisted. ‘This way, this way . . .’

What the hell was she doing? Hey no, she was pulling away, turning over.

‘Prunella . . .?’

‘This ’ay . . .’ She was having trouble speaking. Prunella crouched on elbows and knees, offering herself to him again.

He went in from behind with no problem at all, hoping he hadn’t misunderstood and was taking the right route – anal sex wasn’t his thing at all.

‘Bedroom,’ she murmured. ‘’ere’s bedroom?’

‘’own a hall,’ he replied, having difficulty with words himself now.

She began to crawl and he almost lost her. He quickly shuffled forward on his knees to keep up. Daft as he felt, he wasn’t going to spoil the fun at this stage. Besides, who could see him? Grin, solemnly watching as they passed by the lounge, didn’t count.

He fondled her pendent breasts on the way, resisting the urge to pull down on the left one for direction as they reached the bedroom door.

‘Through . . . there . . .’ he managed to say, almost out of breath.

They crawled in, Creed crouched over her, Prunella taking most of his weight. They made it to the bed and her upper body sprawled over it; she bit the duvet as though to muffle her own cries. It was easier for him now and he moved backwards and forwards in regular rhythm.

‘That’s
so
good,’ she sighed.

As his hands massaged her back, then her buttocks and the back of her thighs, he mentally agreed with her: it was
soooo
good!

‘Wait!’

He groaned.

‘This way, Joe, this way.’

She dragged herself on to the bed.

‘Prunella . . .’ he complained.

But her legs were apart and she was waiting for him again, and she was so different, so alluring as she rested on one elbow, her hair tangled down over her face, a sleepy kind of lust in her eyes, her lips no longer prim but pouting and shiny, her breasts revealed, exquisite rather than small, and . . . and . . .

He lunged at her and was inside without even aiming. Her legs rose around him and he was racing to his climax and she was in the race with him and they hadn’t far to go and she was squealing in his ear and they were in perfect time and he was squealing too and everything was flowing . . .

And suddenly in his mind it was the woman, Laura, he was spilling himself into . . . and then it was Cally . . .

And finally, when he was almost through, it was Prunella once more.

They made love twice more after that – if that’s the right, term. ‘Went at each other’ might be more appropriate, for there was no finesse and certainly no fondness in these mutual acts of self-gratification. They followed on in quick succession (much to Creed’s amazement) and without diminishing vigour (much to Creed’s
and
Prunella’s amazement); there was very little dignity to the proceedings. Creed wondered at himself and it was the second coming, if you’ll pardon that expression, that he realised the stimulant was not the woman on the bed with him (although Prunella certainly played her part) but rather the bizarre episode in the disused office earlier in the day. To be more precise, the memory of Laura’s tantalizingly sexual display and the subsequent interrupted but erotic coupling; even the horror that followed immediately after – the slimy smothering by that membranous substance, which he’d had to tear and step through to the other side (could it be the ultimate rupturing of the maiden’s hymen by the entire male form as the excessive and unified penis? Dr Ruth might know) to escape suffocation – had added a perverse yet undeniably thrilling (in retrospect, of course) dimension to the carnality of it all. What had happened up there on the seventh floor had left lingering sexual images in his mind; the terror had not been forgotten, but oddly was less accessible to his thoughts than the dubious pleasure.

Finally, thoroughly depleted, they lay naked on the bed, Prunella snuggling her head under his chin, one hand resting on his hip. She was thin and small, her body like a nymphet’s and surprisingly pleasing in the fading light.

It was then that Creed told her everything – well, almost everything; he left out the bit about demons, and vampires, phantoms, office tornadoes, black voids, etc., as any sane person (as any person wanting to be considered sane) would. So what was left? Plenty. Threats, violence, kidnapping; enough to leave Prunella aghast and anxious. Mentioning the man who should be dead didn’t improve her disposition.

Her hand, which before had strayed occasionally to tinker with his wearied genitals, became affixed to his hip, its grip tightening as the story progressed. When he had finished, her reaction was fairly predictable. ‘You’ve got to tell the police.’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘It’s the only thing you can do.’

‘If it was your son would you take the risk?’

She paused before saying, ‘Yes.’

‘I’ve been warned not to.’

‘Well they would do that, wouldn’t they? Joe, what do you expect to do on your own? What can you do? You’ve already given them what they wanted and yet they still haven’t returned Sammy to you.’

‘Cally will be in touch.’

‘How do you know that? They might just be giving themselves time.’

‘For what?’

Kill the boy and teach Creed a lesson, then disappear. She didn’t say that to him. ‘Organize a ransom demand?’

‘I don’t think they take me for an eccentric millionaire.’

‘All right. Perhaps they’ll hold Sammy as a permanent threat to keep you quiet.’

‘You mean just keep him? For ever? That’s crazy.’

‘According to you they’re crazy people.’ She looked up from beneath his chin. ‘Tell me more about this girl Cally.’

‘I’ve told you all I know.’

‘Yes, she’s Lily Neverless’ granddaughter and somehow she’s involved with this sect. But why is she helping you? If that really
is
what she’s doing.’

‘She might not be involved in that way – I mean, not as a cult member. Maybe because of her grandmother she feels some kind of loyalty towards them.’

‘What loyalty could she have towards someone who’s supposed to be dead? I’m talking about Nicholas Mallik, not granny. Then again, how can you really believe this person is still alive? You’ve read those old newspaper reports of the hanging yourself, so how could Mallik be around still to terrorize you? It’s not credible.’

‘Who the hell knows what’s credible? Look, a war was beginning, so maybe the government, the War Office – I don’t fucking know who or what – maybe they realized they needed someone like Mallik. He was a foreigner, wasn’t he? Could be he had valuable information about the other side. Or they wanted to use him as a spy for England. He had important connections, we know that. But they couldn’t pardon him, for Christ’s sake, not with the crimes he’d committed – the public would have gone wild, war or no war.’

Creed sat up in bed, excited by his own reasoning. ‘Maybe it was better that everyone thought Mallik was dead – what better cover for a spy. That’s it! It’s gotta be it.’

‘You’re getting carried away, Joe. What you’re suggesting isn’t possible.’

‘Isn’t it? You’re a journalist, you know the score. Would you trust a politician, let alone a government, who knew its country was about to enter one of the bloodiest wars in history? They’d use any means and anyone to get an edge. It makes sense, it makes perfect sense. That’s the only possible way Mallik could have escaped the noose.’ By now Creed was elated with his own theory, even though it hardly helped his cause.

‘It’s too far-fetched,’ was Prunella’s view.

‘But not that unbelievable. Come on, think about it. The big one’s coming, the war to end all wars. Hitler’s might is on the move, storming through Europe, heading our way. We know we’re in deep shit. We’re not ready – we don’t have the weapons, we don’t have the trained manpower. So any advantage we can rake up, no matter what, is something we’re gonna use. It has to be the answer, don’t you see? Whatever else Nicholas Mallik might have been, he could still be useful to our side in some way. That’s why he was spared. He was more useful alive than dead no matter what public expectations demanded. News of his execution lasted one day, didn’t it? There was nothing else in those copies you gave me.’

‘I couldn’t find any more.’

‘Exactly. It was totally forgotten. The authorities wanted it that way. And now he’s turned up again and that’s an embarrassment for all concerned.’

‘After all these years? What does it matter?’

‘It’s another example of devious government – doesn’t matter how far it goes back and who was in power at the time. A known killer – a child killer at that – is still free. But worse than that, the man was sentenced to death and was in custody! They let him walk!’

‘But you said the man you’ve dealt with doesn’t look old enough.’

‘What do I know? I’ve seen him at a distance, I’ve seen him in bad light. I’ve never been close. He’s no spring chicken, I know that.’

Prunella bit into her lip. ‘It would be a great story, if it were true.’

‘Yeah, wouldn’t it just. But I couldn’t use it, I couldn’t risk Sammy’s life.’

She pulled away from him, laying her head back on the pillow. ‘I could write it for you.’

He frowned. ‘I told you, I couldn’t use it.’

‘Yes, you’re right, you couldn’t take the risk. But it might give you something to bargain with. If it turned out to be right.’ She gave a small huffing sound. ‘I still think the whole thing is too fantastic for words, though.’

‘But you’d write the story.’

‘Only if there was no other choice. And providing you came up with some proper evidence, of course.’

‘Like what? What could I prove? Where would I start?’

‘First you’d have to show that Nicholas Mallik is still alive.’

‘And how would I do that?’ He was quickly losing patience with her.

‘Find out whether or not he was really hanged.’

‘Sure. Any ideas how?’

She nodded her head on the pillow. ‘Ask the hangman.’

That wasn’t as silly as it seemed – or so Creed was to discover much later.

He hadn’t wanted to leave the house in case Cally called (he also hadn’t wanted to face Freddy Squires and explain where he’d been all day for, although he may have been independent of the newspaper, he was still contractually obliged to it). Prunella had returned to the
Dispatch
while he had dressed, drunk coffee, smoked, and generally fretted. It seemed like hours before the telephone rang. It
was
hours before the telephone rang.

‘Yeah?’

‘Joe? It’s Prunella.’

‘I know that. What the hell have you been doing all this time?’

‘Digging for you, as I said I would. It hasn’t been that easy.’

‘Okay, so tell me.’

‘Antony hasn’t turned up yet.’

‘I’m not interested in Blythe.’

‘Everyone’s a bit mystified here. It’s not like him.’

‘Prunella . . .’

‘We’ve got a deadline and no star diarist.’

‘Make something up. That’s what he usually does.’

‘That’s not quite true.’

‘You’re making me unhappy, Prunella.’

‘Sorry. I know how anxious you are.’

‘Just tell me what you’ve learned.’

He heard her take a breath. ‘I spoke to features first and they put me on to the right department of the Home Office. They have the list of qualified executioners on record, you know.’

‘We don’t have executioners any more.’

‘I mean the old list. They’re still all on file.’

‘They told you who hanged Mallik?’

‘Of course not. That’s not allowed. But remember those old newspaper clippings mentioning that he’d been hanged by the Home Office’s principal Official Executioner? I asked them to verify that. They wouldn’t, but neither did they deny it. They probably couldn’t be bothered to look it up even if they were permitted to tell. But I think it’s fairly safe to assume that in a crime so grievous and with such public interest they would have used the top man. And if what you suspect is true, then all the more reason to assign someone they could trust implicitly.’