The Dark Place (9 page)

“W
ould you prefer I dimmed the light?” asked Ivana, watching Vincent’s anxious face while guiding him into the bedroom.

“I … don’t know … I’m sorry … this is kind of new to me.”

Ivana dimmed the light – but not too much.

“There’s no wrong way to do this,” she said smiling, trying desperately to reassure him.

He was blushing and looked on the verge of running from the room. His innocent face made her feel weak at the knees, the urge between her legs growing stronger by the second. She wanted him badly, but was terrified of scaring him away. Wanted it to be so good for both of them.

“Here, let me do it for you,” said Ivana, touching his shirt, slowly unbuttoning it from the top down.

A static shock suddenly popped Ivana’s fingers.

“Shit! Did you feel that? Are we electric or what?”

He grinned and then nodded. “Right through my chest. It was a cracker.”

The shirt fell to the floor and he pushed out of his shoes, fumbling
at the socks.

Ivana unbuckled his Levi’s, revealing a pair of white Calvin Klein’s. The front of the cotton material looked dark, heavy. She almost fainted with anticipation.

His hand went instinctively to holding the underwear. “I …”

“Shhhhhhhh. Easy …” she whispered, pulling gently but firmly on the offending garment, revealing a large but flaccid cock.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “It’s … it’s just that I …”

Ivana went to the kneeling position, peeling the foreskin back, revealed a bulbous strawberry head. It looked shiny and new, untouched by human lips. She suddenly felt faint again.

“Oh my,” she managed to whisper, before taking the shiny new toy in her mouth, taking it all the way to the cock’s border where sac and balls meet.

He moaned.

She found it difficult to moan, but did her best while repositioning herself, wiggling out of panties, all the while holding him in her mouth.

He was getting bigger by the second.

Defeated, she quickly came up for air.

“Whoa, big fella! You get any bigger and I’ll have to call a lumberjack.”

He laughed. There was edgy relief in the laughter.

“That was … that was great, Ivana.”

“Ha! We haven’t even started, lover,” said Ivana, quickly removing the remainder of clothing, pulling him headlong on to the bed.

“I … don’t have a condom,” admitted Vincent. “I walked out without one.”

“Usually my rule is no glove, no love,” said Ivana, grinning. “Luckily for you, I’ve a larger supply than Boots.”

From a top drawer, she removed a box of opened Trojan condoms, and extracted one.

“Lock and
load
,” she quipped, releasing the condom from its greasy enclosure, before slipping it expertly over the hardening cock. “Extra large.”

Less than a minute later, resting on her back, Ivana watched Vincent’s head manoeuvring over her body; felt the texture of his wonderful
tongue do wonderful things. It feasted on her nipples, suck suck sucking like some greedy baby, thirsty for milk. On it went, travelling down, exploring the bellybutton before quickly moving to the moist, sensitive area between her legs.

“
Ohhhhhh
…” she moaned, closing her eyes, feeling his muscular body gliding upwards before straddling her. There was an urgency to his movement. Slightly awkward. Almost virginal.

While Vincent slipped into her, an idea suddenly slipped into her mind – unwelcome, unbidden, shocking in its content. She wanted to have her cock back, just this once, and fuck young Vincent in the arse. The image was there, so convincing. Sex, like some roaring train: piston halves pumping, motor chugging, everything rattling. She hated to admit it, but at times like this, she missed her old meaty member and its power to fire her up …

Just over an hour later, they began dressing. The smell of post-sex was heavy in the room. It smelt like dead flowers and wet talc. A cool breeze filtered in from an open window, bringing with it the hush of traffic faintly humming in the background.

There would be no more sex tonight, much to Ivana’s frustration.
The so-called youth of today
, thought Ivana. She had tried stroking and sucking his cock, but she might as well have been handling a wet sock, for all the good it did. Vincent’s manhood had disappeared back into the hood and was refusing to come back out, no matter how much tender loving care she promised it.

“You … were great,” said Vincent, face flushed. “It wasn’t what I expected.”

“Thank you, Simon Cowell, for your vote. You were curious to fuck a transsexual? Is that what this was all about?” She hadn’t intended to sound so bitter.

“No … I mean … I didn’t know what to expect. That’s all. I fancied you from the first time I saw you in Billy Holiday’s. I just didn’t realise you could be so sensitive … tender …”

“The Ivana in Billy Holiday’s isn’t the real Ivana, Vincent, dear boy. I play into people’s perception of me. It’s a game, a charade I play, measuring out my life in perfect coloured pills. They help take away all
the nastiness and loneliness.”

“You … you’re crying.” he said, his face suddenly anxious. “Did I do or say something you didn’t like or want to do?”

She leaned to his face, kissing him lovingly, while harnessing herself back into a silky black bra.

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong, dear Vincent, only the joy to make me think one last time of an old friend, dead and gone.”

Alone two hours later, after Vincent’s departure, Ivana sat listening to the radio’s
Oldies but Goldies
.

“Things are finally beginning to look up,” she said, wishing it were tomorrow night, when she would be with Vincent once again. “Vincent, Vincent, Vincent …”

The thought of his youthful body pouring itself all over her gave Ivana a lovely shiver. She felt a hot flush and wetness coming on between her legs. Thought about the large pink dildo in the top drawer; considered furnishing herself with it and doing some delightful fucking.

“Should I or shouldn’t I?”

Blinkingly, something caught her eye. Something on the carpet, round and shiny.

Bending, she picked the item up before studying it. It made her heart beat in a bad way. A wedding ring.

“Oh, Vincent … you silly, silly boy.”

Suddenly the doorbell buzzed, interrupting her soliloquy.

Quickly fisting the ring, she pocketed it before standing, glancing quickly in the mirror. Lipstick. Hair. Teeth. Everything looked in place. She quickly fanned her face, cooling it down a tad.

The bell buzzed, once more.

There’s no fool like an old fool
, she thought, opening the door, dreading the lies she would hear, but willing to forgive.

“Hello, Francis.”

K
arl entered his office just as the early Friday morning sun began rising over Belfast’s dishevelled skyline. Naomi would hopefully be sound asleep – thank goodness – though this time he wasn’t dreading a confrontation.

His clothes stank of cigarette smoke and spilt liquor as he began peeling them off before stepping into the shower.

While the water washed away his stench, he kept thinking of his winning hands at the card game, over the past six hours. Three aces. Three kings. Numerous straights. And then the final
coup de grâce:
a royal fucking flush!

He could simply do no wrong. If he wasn’t a grown man, he would have wept with joy.

Showered and dried, he counted his winnings, again. Almost one thousand, nine hundred quid – a small fortune, at the moment. And to add to his pleasure, most of it taken from that cheap prick Marty Harrington, owner of a chain of funeral parlours – Heavenly Harrington’s – peppered throughout the city. Unlike Karl, though, Harrington
did
weep.

Thirty minutes later, a naked Karl crawled between the bed sheets,
squeezing in close to Naomi’s deliciously warm body. She stirred and growled in protest at the coldness of his touch.

Disregarding the warning, he snuggled in closer, inhaling her early morning, womanly smell.

“Leave me alone,” she hissed, turning away from him, offering up the emptiness of her back. “You didn’t mind leaving me alone all night.”

Her early morning hoarseness was titillating. He felt an erection stirring.

“It’s time to get up, sleepyhead.” He nuzzled her neck and stroked her warm bum. “I have an early morning present for you.”

“You know where to stick your early morning present, don’t you? And it’s not near me. Get your hands off my arse.”

“Don’t be like that, love.”

She opened her eyes and blinked a couple of times. “I have to pee.”

He pressed hard against her bum, his erection adding an exclamation mark between her buttocks.

Yawning, she tried moving out of his grasp. He held her close, resisting her feeble efforts.

“I
have
to pee,” she whined, getting out of bed. “I can’t hold it in.”

“Be quick, my dearest.”

“Get stuffed,” she pronounced, walking towards the bathroom, braless breasts bouncing seductively, small buttocks see-sawing mischievously. As she passed the window, morning sunlight wafted in around the curtains and stole through her thin cotton T-shirt, tantalising him with the silhouette of her nakedness hidden beneath.

“Hurry, my dearest …” he sang.

She mumbled something nasty before scurrying into the bathroom, slamming the door loudly behind her. A few seconds later, Karl could hear the toilet seat falling, followed by the familiar tinkling sounds. It made him think of his royal flush, again.

Less than a minute later, Naomi re-emerged, poker-faced. He couldn’t help but grin at the T-shirt’s slogan:
The only Bush I trust is my own
. A glaring caricature of George Bush, depicted as a monkey, looked down upon Karl disapprovingly.

“Your T-shirt’s a bit out of date, don’t you think?”

“I’m not talking to you, Karl Kane.”

“You just did.”

“Well, you can put that tiny dick back in its matchbox. It’s not lighting my fire any time soon.”

“
Oh
. You sure know how to crunch a man’s ego,” smiled Karl. “How does two nights in Dublin at the Shelbourne sound, with five hundred quid for your good self thrown in?”

“What?” Her drowsy face suddenly looked alert. “What did you say?”

“Thought you weren’t talking to me?”

“You won, last night?
Didn’t
you?” a smile was slowly emerging on Naomi’s morning face. “Tell me you won.”

“I won!” exclaimed Karl, suddenly pulling the sheets away, exposing his full meaty erection resting beside a wad of money. “
Big!
”

“Oh, Karl. For little me?” smiled Naomi, falsely fluttering eyelashes, approaching the bed on tiptoes.

“For you!
Come!
And I mean that in more ways than one, you sexy thing, you.”

Naomi practically leapt from the floor on to the bed and into Karl’s waiting arms, money and erection.

That was when his mobile phone rang on the bedside table.

“Shouldn’t you answer that?” whispered Naomi hoarsely into his ears, her hand cupping his balls as if weighing them.

“Answer what? I don’t hear a thing except the sound of someone playing ‘Tubular Bells’ on my balls.”

The phone stopped ringing.

Both Naomi and Karl smiled.

It rang again.

“Fucking nuisance! I’m turning it off,” said Karl, reaching for the accursed piece of plastic.

“No … don’t. You better answer it. It could be important.”

“What’s more important than early morning sex with the woman I love?”

The phone continued ringing.

Naomi reached and handed it to him. “Just answer it. We still have
a business to run, despite all your winnings.”

Sighing, Karl spoke into the phone. “Yes? Tom? This better be damn –”

For the next thirty seconds, Naomi watched the blood siphon from Karl’s face.

“What is it, Karl?” she asked, as soon as he clicked off the phone, two minutes later. “What’s wrong?”

The sun spilling into the room accentuated the lines on Karl’s suddenly weary face.

“That … that was Hicks. It’s … it’s Ivana. She’s been murdered.”

A
pproximately a quarter of a million people have been buried on the site of Belfast City Cemetery, including politicians, inventors and writers such as Robert Wilson Lynd, one of the finest scribes Belfast has ever produced and friend to J.B. Priestly and James Joyce. The cemetery itself is dotted with beautiful cast-iron fountains and even boasts its own stream running through it. Local myth claims the stream is a purification, washing away the sins of forgotten and lost souls.

Over the years, Karl had attended numerous funerals at the cemetery, some sparsely attended, others labelled “a good turn out”. But nothing had prepared him for the gathering crowd from the gay and transsexual community thronging the grounds as Ivana’s pink coffin was slowly being eased into the clay on this clear-skied Wednesday morning. Local news reporters – predictors of a circus-type funeral the day before – seemed bitterly disappointed at the dignity of the mourners and onlookers, and suddenly became instrumental in fulfilling their own dark prophecy by acting like clowns, jumping over nestling headstones like horses at the
Grand National as they jostled for position using cameras and elbows as weapons.

Granted, a goodly number of mourners
were
dressed in brassy outfits of orange, pink and rainbow-coloured garments, but the vast majority – including Karl and Naomi – wore sombre blacks and greys.

“Oh Karl,” sniffed Naomi. “Poor poor Ivana … she … she never did anyone any … any harm. Did she?”

“No. Of course not,” replied Karl, his suspicious and cynical mind thinking the opposite.

“But why … why poor Ivana?”

“I really don’t know, love,” replied Karl, wondering the exact same question.

“Has Tom told you anything about how it happened?”

“The cops have stated it was a burglary gone bad. There’s been a spate of them in that area over the last two months. They’re working on the theory that it’s the same person or persons,” replied Karl, deliberately omitting the grisly details of Ivana’s gruesome murder: her throat had been cut from ear to ear, almost severing the head.

Naomi sniffed more, dabbing tears with a wet Kleenex. “They’re evil … evil, Karl.”

“Hello,” said a voice, directly behind Karl and Naomi, interrupting the conversation.

Turning, Karl stared directly into the face of Detective Malcolm Chambers.

“Hello,” said Karl, trying to control the rise in his voice. “Naomi, this is Detective Malcolm Chambers, one of Detective Inspector Mark Wilson’s
new
and
improved
men.”

“Oh … hello,” sniffed Naomi, reaching out her hand.

“Hello,” responded Chambers, smiling, shaking Naomi’s hand before directing his attention back to Karl. “This is weird, but I still don’t know
your
name.”

“What are you doing here?” asked Karl, easing Naomi back, closer, away from the smiling Chambers.

“I’ve been put in charge of the Gilmore murder inquiry.”

“The Gilmore? Oh … Ivana.” Hearing Ivana’s surname being spoken
was almost alien to Karl’s ears. “Don’t take offence, Detective, but just how many murder inquiries have you been involved
in?
”

“This … this is actually my first.”

“It’s good to see the police are taking this seriously,” replied Karl, sarcastically.

“Have you any suspects, Detective Chambers?” asked Naomi.

“Well …” Chambers looked uncertain. “Actually, the inquiry is ongoing, and I’m not supposed to divulge anything to the public.”

“We’re … we were Ivana’s best friends. Practically family,” assured Naomi. “Surely you could tell us?”

Chambers glanced over his shoulder. A police photographer stood a few yards away, snapping pictures of the mourners and gathering onlookers. “We have a suspect in custody.”

“Oh my goodness!” exclaimed Naomi.

“That was quick,” said Karl, his face knotting slightly. “Who is it?”

“Please, don’t breathe a word of this to anyone – especially the media.”

“No. Of course not,” said Naomi, easing closer to the young detective.

“A Mister Vincent Harrison. He was seen leaving the Gilmore house at the time of the murder.”

Naomi’s face paled. “Oh my goodness.”

“He’s denying everything, of course, but it’s only a matter of time before he admits it. Initially, we thought it was a burglary gone wrong. But we got a tip from a member of the public on the confidential phone line, stating they saw Harrison leave Gilmore’s house at the time of the murder.”

“That was nice and confidentially convenient,” stated Karl.

“You sound almost disappointed,” replied Chambers.

“Forgive my scepticism. Being an agnostic probably has something to do with it.”

“Well,
we
know for certain that Ivana had a date with Harrison,” cut in Naomi. “She told us that only a few days ago.”

“She did? That’s great,” proclaimed Chambers. “That’s a vital piece of information that could strengthen our case against Harrison’s denial, Naomi.”

“No,” corrected Karl. “That’s
hearsay
. We don’t know for a fact that Harrison ever went to Ivana’s. And we certainly aren’t
certain
of it, at all. Just what Ivana told us, at the time. It’s circumstantial and would be thrown out of any court in the land.”

“No need to be so gruff, Karl,” admonished Naomi, face flushing slightly. “I’m only telling Detective Chambers what Ivana said to us.”

“You seem to know a lot about the law … Karl,” said Chambers.

“I know a lot about everything, which makes me an expert on nothing.”

“Well, the evidence is piling up against Harrison, and that certainly won’t be hearsay.”

“What evidence?” asked Karl, not expecting an answer.

“I … I shouldn’t really be discussing it.”

“You can tell us,” said Naomi. “We won’t tell a soul. Promise.”

Chambers looked at Naomi, and then at Karl, before returning his gaze back to Naomi. “We found a wedding ring at the scene. It was traced to Lunn’s jewellers, in Queen’s Arcade. It was one of a pair specifically designed for Harrison and his wife, Sinead.”

“He … he was married?” asked Naomi, her face failing to hide the shock.

“Two years. His poor wife fainted when she heard the news. Probably more stunned about her husband having sex with a …” Chambers’s voice suddenly trailed off. “I mean … you know …”

“A transsexual? You can say the word,” said Karl, feeling a bubble of anger rising to the surface. “If the world had more Ivanas, it would be a far better place.”

“I didn’t mean it in that way.”

“No, of course you didn’t. Tell me, Detective Chambers. Have you ever heard of a man by the name of Robert Hannah?”

Chambers suddenly looked uneasy.

“I … don’t think so. Why? Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Probably just plucked his name out of the air. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have to go,” said Karl, gripping Naomi’s elbow before heading off towards the far gate of the cemetery.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Naomi, as they reached the gate.
“He’s only trying to find justice for Ivana.”

“Who? Charming Chambers with his Tom Cruise smirk? He couldn’t find a needle if the thread was still attached.”

“He gave us information not available to the public. Don’t you believe what he told us about Harrison?”

“I believe Harrison did what most married men would do when confronted with having an affair – especially an affair with a transsexual. He denied it. Now the cops are wasting time, hoping to coerce a so-called confession out of Harrison, when in fact, they should be out there focusing on the real murderer. Want to know something interesting?”

“What?”

“Remember I told you I passed that information about Hannah on to the cops?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it was smiling Detective Malcolm Chambers who took the call.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed. And he just claimed never to have heard of Hannah.”

“I think I need a drink.”

“You read my mind. Come on. Let’s go,” replied Karl, easing Naomi towards the car, but not before looking over his shoulder just in time to see Detective Malcolm Chambers instructing the police photographer to aim the camera lens in Karl’s direction.