The Unburied Dead (10 page)

'How about tomorrow?' I suggest. 'We could do lunch. No, not lunch, expect I'll be too busy. After work?'

'Aye,' she says after a hesitation. 'It's not urgent, I just need to talk to someone, that's all.'

'You don't have any plans for the evening? No parents or fifteen year-old strapping boyfriends to see?'

'Parents are in Inverness. I'm going up for New Year. I wasn't really planning to do anything other than watch
Mission Impossible 3
again.'

'All right, I think I can save you from that.'

We stare at each other for a minute. Crosses my mind that she really is young enough to be my daughter, and almost feel paternal. Reminds me of my real daughter.

'Look, sorry, I've got to go.'

She smiles. 'I'll see you tomorrow. And I'm sorry about the other night. I was rude.'

Don't know what to say to that.

'Right. See you,' I say, and turn out the door, the smell of her still with me. Along with that bloody nuisance, curiosity.

Standing on the doorstep of Miller's house. The doorbell has just rung with a comforting lack of affectation. I was expecting it be the
Hallelujah Chorus
, or something equally grandiose and pretentious, but instead it was a fairly close approximation of ding dong.

God, I'm talking pish. I have to relax. She's only a woman. I've had hundreds of them. No, really. Try not to wonder why I'm here, because that's not going to get me anywhere. I've been thinking about her since I saw her topless; maybe she's been thinking about me. There's weirder shit than that in life.

Maybe she wants to talk about all the war shit. She knows a little of the story, and every now and again she makes some comment about how she must learn more about it, it's so interesting, and on and on… I don't believe she's interested in my part in the Balkan wars any more than I want to go back there.

My part in the Balkan wars
, for crying our loud.

Still in a mild state of excitement after the first meal of the evening. The kids were all over me, after ignoring my instructions and opening the presents there and then. They went down a bomb. I'll have to thank Harrison. Nearly fell out with Andy over the ridiculous fusty moustache he's attempting to grow, but then he's a teenager and he'll do a lot more stupid things than that before he hits his twenties.

Anyway, their mother arrives, not just to pick them up, but to sit and have a drink. So there we were, the happy family. I hand over the gift to Peggy, she does the same opening it there in front of me routine, then nearly freaks. In a good way. You could tell the kids loved it. All the while I was wondering what Mr No Personality would make of it if he were to walk in but then the way the conversation went, I got the impression that he had taken his deficient character back to Paisley and was leaving my family alone.

They all ended up pleading with me to come and spend Christmas dinner, to which I agreed, leaving myself with the quandary of what to do about the delicious Bathurst. Almost asked if I could bring her along, but thought better of it. So I'll check out of work tomorrow at five, and rejoin the family; and if the merchant wanker has just walked out, it looks like I timed my expensive present to perfection. There are two things women never fail to fall for – diamonds and occasional displays of maturity. They work every time, and I managed to pull both off in the same day.

The door opens. Superintendent Charlotte Miller. I stand and stare at her. Her eyes, I'm looking at her eyes. She leans against the door.

'Are you going to come in, Thomas? You look freezing.'

I'm no fashion freak – another plus to my character – so I don't know what you'd call what she's wearing. Sort of pyjamas. And blue.

Walk tentatively into the house, not sure whether I'm going to find anyone else there. Had the sudden thought on the way down here that maybe she was inviting about twenty people from the station and we were all keeping it quiet thinking we'd been specially selected.

I wander into a dining room, low lights, roaring fire, soft music, two place settings at the table, one very obvious bottle of champagne. Christmas tree in the corner.

'Can I take your jacket, get you a drink?'

I take my coat off, hand it to her. I've got that weird feeling in the throat you get sometimes when you know you're about to have sex.

'Vodka tonic, please.'

'All right,' she says, and shimmers out the room.

Jesus. Just bugger the questions as to why I'm here, I can worry about them tomorrow. Plenty of time. Relax and enjoy yourself, Hutton. And it might finally be time to stop feeling guilty about all those lascivious breast-related thoughts.

I start looking at the pictures on the walls. Sailing ships and big seas mostly. I've heard tell she's a member of the Royal and Northern Yacht Club just around the corner. Doesn't sail, just goes there to hang out with the rest of the local money and to shag whatever big stick she can get her hands on. Very admirable.

The mind rambles on. If I had to guess I'd say the music was Mozart, but that's only because I saw
Amadeus
twenty-five years ago.

She comes back into the room, rid of the jacket, and clutching a bucket of ice and a bottle of expensive looking French white. Pitches up at the drinks cabinet and sorts out my v&t. Pours herself some wine.

'No art can compete with life whose sun we cannot look upon,' she says, as I stare at a picture of some old sea battle. Stevenson, I presume, but I don't encourage her by asking her to explain what in the name of all fuck she's talking about.

She hands over the vodka, raises her glass.

'Merry Christmas,' she says.

Raise my glass in reply. 'Right,' is all I can think to say. I'll have to do better than that.

She wanders over to the comfy seats by the fire, sits down. Her smell is intoxicating. I want to smother her in ice cream and spend hours licking it off. I want to rub chocolate sauce into her breasts and drink vodka from her belly button. I want to swathe her buttocks in cream and thrash them senseless. I want to pour syrup over her pubic hair and vagina, bury my head between her legs and emerge five hours later a sticky, gooey mess.

'Sit down, Thomas, for God's sake. And relax, you look like you're scared shitless. I'm not going to eat you.'

Damn.

I take the hint and sit down on the next available seat. Take a large draw from the vodka, which contains a comforting lack of tonic. Feel the warmth of it descend into my stomach; instantly relaxed.

I sort of smile at her and then stare into the fire. Hypnotic flame. Relaxed by it and by the smells in the air. Charlotte, burning wood, the real Christmas tree. A fantastic, festive erotic dream.

Feel her looking at me, but keep staring into the fire. She asked me here, she can make the first move. Take another drink from the vodka and realise I've nearly finished it already. Better slow down or I'll be making a knob of myself.

'We don't talk much, do we?' she says.

I drag my eyes away from the flame. Her lips are moist, her nipples are obvious against the satin. I get that weird feeling at the back of my throat again.

'We're all too shit scared of you,' I say. Not sure about my candour, but it's out there.

She smiles. Sips her wine. Eyes shine in the light of the fire. 'It's good to get to know one's people a little better,' she says.

I nod. I want to smother her backside in honey, and drink champagne from her ears.

'I don't know what sort of things you'll have heard about me, Thomas. I'm sure I must have a reputation.'

I nod again. I don't really think that about her ears. I'm just rampant and not looking at my crotch because I don't want to know how obvious my erection is.

No idea what she wants me to say to that. Well, darling, we all think you're in it for the power, and you'll sleep with anyone who'll help you on your way.

'Well, it's all true,' she says. Finish off the vodka. 'Frank and I have an understanding.' She runs her hand through her hair as she says it. Smiles. Fuck.

'You sleep around and he doesn't mind?'

She laughs. 'That's about it, although it's not that one-sided. He's spending the night with some Malaysian tart in Gleneagles.'

The face betrays something as she says it.

'Sounds as if it bothers you.'

She shrugs.

'Why should it?' Then, 'Well, maybe you're right. It's funny. I do it often enough to him, but sometimes I think he's driven me to it.' Could be about to get the marriage history. Usually I'd take this opportunity to go to the toilet and hope they'd changed the subject by the time I got back; but this I want to hear. She disappoints.

'Sorry, I won't bore you with that.'

'I don't mind.' A sensitive, new man.

'Some other time, Thomas,' she says, shaking her head. 'I want to relax and enjoy myself tonight.'

The fire crackles, the music trundles along, all string quartets and harpsichords. There is a semi-uncomfortable silence between us. Want to break it, but I haven't the faintest idea what to say to her. Stare once again into the depths of the flames, because when I look at her I'm back in her office on a warm day in late summer, and I can't look her in the eye.

'I think about that day a lot too,' she says. 'I was surprised how much I enjoyed you looking at me.'

I manage to look her in the eye this time too. The elephant in the room. I hadn't actually realised it was an elephant, but then maybe that's what elephants are when they're in a room.

What in the name of God am I thinking?

She stands, slightly discomfited by my continuing silence and says, 'Get you another drink?'

Beginning to realise that maybe she's as uncomfortable as I am. You get impressions of people and usually it's more extreme than the reality. We're all made from the same mould, that's the cliché I'm pointing to. Some guy might be an idiot but he probably won't be too much more of an idiot than you are yourself. It's just how he comes across. Same for every cool bastard, every comedian, every Neanderthal. Every foible, every personality trait is magnified under the eyes of the rest of humanity, when underneath we're not really that different. And so it might just be with Charlotte Miller. Strong, sometimes bruising exterior, all the better for climbing up the ladder and putting men in their place; but underneath she's not that different from everyone else.

Here we go. Hutton, the classical fucking humanist.

We stare at each other, the back of my throat tingles and goes dry. Hand her the glass, our fingers touch. Feels like electricity stabs through me. Decide the signs are right and to go for it. She's only human, same as the rest of us, and she hasn't asked me down here to discuss whether Thistle'll ever get back into the Premier League. Stand up, imagine myself as James Bond – before he got brainwashed by the Russians, or whatever it was that happened to him.

My head is about a foot away from hers, we stare at each other. My mouth waters. She smells glorious and I fight the urge for this to start in a frantic passion. I lean forward and kiss her lips – hardly any pressure – and taste the wine in her mouth.

I run my fingers down her neck as we kiss and I feel her shudder, and then down her back and I slip them inside the silky material until my hands are resting on her buttocks. Absolutely beautiful soft skin, perfect shape to be caressed by two desperate, needing, wanting hands. Our kiss becomes more passionate, her arms are round my neck, and I squeeze those fantastic butt cheeks, moulding them, caressing them. God, I'm so hard, so damp, my cock pressed against her. I can't wait to feel her, to slip my hands between her thighs to see if she's as damp as I am, so I move my hand round, feel the touch of her neatly shaved pubic hair, and then run my fingers down over her pussy and ease two fingers quickly inside her. She's soaking, as desperate for it as I am, and at the touch of my hand she gasps and thrusts herself against me, her mouth wide, her tongue all over me.