A Choice of Evils (6 page)

The London rush hour traffic was beginning to thicken as I weaved my way home. It was that time of evening now when everyone thought they owned the road. It was almost 7 o’clock by the time I got there. I quickly picked up the photos from the carpet. Now it was on with some jazz music and a large scotch before I showered. A rub of Paco Rabani aftershave put the tingle on my chin. I was ready for anything.

At 5 to 8 the doorbell rang. I dimmed the lights and lowered the music a little before opening the door. Sharon was like a breath of fresh air coming in. Her long brown hair bounced with each step as she came inside the hallway in her tight fitting floral dress. Her breath was warm and minty as I pressed my lips to hers. Just for a moment I savoured the fragrance of her. My hands followed the shapely contours of her body. She well approved of that!

In the kitchen I poured her a chilled white wine as she sailed into the bedroom to change into her apron. Her tiny pinafore hid nothing except her belly button. My eyes feasted over her beautiful protruding breasts and I marvelled at her shapely legs that led up to a fine pair of rounded buttocks. Her movements teased every bone in my body. She knew it and I knew it. But it was all part of our seduction plan!

We had a good thing going. Sharon liked to flirt and set the music to match the mood. Now Beethoven’s pastoral sympathy No 6 filled the house. It awakened happy memories and brought together our union of friendship. The music unlocked our memories of the countryside, walks in the woods, picnics and lazy rivers and the smell of the earth that our love blanket had shared in an idyllic place. It all came back as she made preparations for the meal.

I just loved to watch as she teased me with suggestive postures. A flirty wiggle of her buttocks and a swing of her melon breasts captured my attentions. An occasional glance at her sole captive audience held me prisoner until at last she came to sit next to me. We drank some more wine until desire got the better of us. Then before I knew it, I was free of my protesting clothes.

Gently and skilfully she played with my toys until her lips sunk over me. For some ten minutes she worked her magic until the roof of my head exploded into oblivion. For a moment, there was stillness as the music filled in the unspoken words.

Sharon rested her head upon my thighs and gave a smile of satisfaction. Her delicate fingers kneaded the soft shaft of my pride until she was satisfied I was spent. This was always her prelude to a protracted evening of pleasure.

Now it was my turn to reciprocate attention. My hands stroked and rubbed in the oils she had brought to glide over her soft silky skin. I paid special attention to the nape of her neck and shoulders then worked my way around to her breasts as she rolled over. Her nipples stood erect and proudly pink as my tongue found its way around them. Then like a hungry baby, I kissed them with a suckle while my hand felt the moist response in her pink inviting vagina. As she pushed me down towards her, I could smell the want awaiting me in her swollen clitoris. Sharon responded with pleasurable thrusts as I got lost inside every crevice that required attention.

It was some few minutes as her cries of pleasure locked me into her euphoria. With fast and shuddering movements, she came with an almighty wetness that left me wanting for breath. We lay for a while in each other’s arms.

The smell of the cooking dinner alerted us to the joy of food. Sharon moved to the kitchen continuing to use the emphasis of her body for my approval. I made an effort to straighten up the cushions and replenish our empty glasses. It was more white wine for Sharon and an extra-large scotch for me.

Beethoven’s music had finished just as the beef risotto became ready. It smelt delicious. It was back to the jazz again as we sat at table looking out at the river Thames. It was an enchanting setting. We brought each other up to date after denying there was no other woman in my life. It had to be that way as a cat fight between Aisha and Sharon would not be a pretty sight. And there was another woman called Louise who had been giving me the eye in my local shopping centre. But we had not got around to a meeting, just yet!

I gave a vague account of how life was for me. I told her about the new novel. It was coming along nicely I reported. It was a good job my mind was not a window she could see through. My business with Dr Ahmed and the intrigues of my recent tribulations would spoil the magic of our relationship. She knew I had been a rascal and had collided with the police occasionally, but not that I had stolen from the rich and famous over the years. No. It was always better to heed the golden rule. Say nothing to change nothing. I led the conversation back to her and told her how beautiful I thought she was. But that part was true.

For a while we sat, talked and stargazed. Our trance was broken by the 10 chimes of the carriage clock. To coincide with that, the phone rang. It was Danny the dipper. He had the pass. Could I meet him in the morning at 10.am at Surrey Quays tube station? It was just a short walk from my house.

I could hear Sharon in the bathroom upstairs cleaning her teeth. I went up after hearing her move into the bedroom. I detected a faint smell of Anai’s Anai’s fragrance. It was a perfume she knew I liked on her. I went through the ritual of my own ablutions taking care to clean my teeth and freshen up what was a joy to behold. Then I retraced Sharon’s steps into the bedroom. She lay naked as I took my place beside her. Our lips and tongues went in search of the signals that mattered. We explored, tasted and teased until we came face to face. Then as nature intended, I entered her warm wet inviting pussy as she arched her back to meet me. In a synchronised rhythm, we maintained our drive until like an erupting volcano, we both exploded into a heavenly oblivion. After the moans of fulfilment had abated, we lay in silence spent from the forces of need.

Sleep came quietly as our bodies locked together in a delicious perspiration. What dreams took place remained a secret between us as the hours swept past into morning.

I had set the micky mouse clock for 8.am. He came to life with his usual burst of laughter. Sharon was lying on her back with both ends of a pillow curled over her ears to shut him out. I stabbed the off button to silence him. That bought me a kiss.

We both left the nest in all our naked glory and showered together. The usual toast and coffee was on the agenda. It didn’t take long to demolish it. A hug, kiss and the promise of a phone call marked the end of her visit. We went through the usual ritual at the door before she left and went off to work. I started getting my day together.

I checked the post box. There were some bills to pay and this reminded me to ensure Danny the dippers £100 was in my pocket. I next called at the paper shop before arriving at Surrey Quays station. My adopted dog friend was waiting for a Good Samaritan. It had to be me.

Danny was waiting all too innocently when I got there for 10.30.am. He had probably been eyeing up a victim to pickpocket. As usual, he was sharply dressed in suit and tie with a grin spread over his face when he saw me. We shook hands like long lost friends.

Oblivious to the commuters, he gave me the pass in return for the money. Now he wanted to sell me a watch which somebody had dropped into his hand from their wrist. The 18ct gold Rolex gleamed in the morning light. It was not the sort of thing I wanted to wear on my wrist. I suggested he tried Two Tone Tony a publican, who was known to buy dodgy items like jewellery and watches. He could sort a price out with him. That said, we went our separate ways.

On my way home I phoned Peter the pen from a call box and made a meeting for 3.30 in the afternoon. It fitted in with my plans to visit the Ahmed and Bruce homes to check on the recorders I had concealed there. Whatever I would learn from the tapes it would tell me something I had never known before.

Once I had the forged pass back from Peter, I would be able to get into Bruce’s laboratory. There was surely some place in the building I could hide until the workers had left for the day. Then I would have the whole night to examine and locate Bruce’s Lab. The XP42 formula was in a red bound file according to Ahmed. It was constantly referred to during various parts of certain experiments that went on there, he told me. No one scientist knew the complete composition of the formula except Dr Bruce who was solely responsible for its safety and security. It made sense that as it was an on-going experiment, it would be in his lab or at his home. For the next few hours, I typed out some more pages of my novel until it was time to meet Peter the pen. Shortly after this, I was out my door, into the car to meet him at the Warrior pub in Lower road, Rotherhithe.

Like most of my contacts he was bang on time. He had his face stuck into a newspaper as I approached him. He was a different character to Danny. He was small, thin and wispy in fact almost delicate. His big brown eyes darted everywhere. Unless you knew him, he could have been a fragile bank clerk having a quiet drink while mother wasn’t looking. But in truth, he was highly intelligent and methodical in his habits let alone his forgeries.

It was a pint of lager for Peter and a scotch for me before I handed the stolen pass over to him and he went to examine in the gents toilets. Back at our table, he told me it was easy to copy. He could have it done in 48 hours and we could meet up again at the Warrior tomorrow evening. It was all so simple. He had something I wanted and I had something he wanted. Cash! That’s what made the world go around. Cash!

It was an economic meeting with simple small talk. Or should I say, I made all the small talk while Peter just listened. He was not a man of many words and it was time to buy him another drink and excuse myself for other business.

Back in my car, I drove off for Willifield Road, Golders Green as my first stop. I had not forgotten my tools and micro light torch. It was now approaching the build-up to rush hour traffic as I ferried myself through the Old Kent Road traffic towards North London. It looked like it was going to be like one of those barmy evenings on the road.

It took me a good hour to get there and was almost dark at 5pm which suited my intentions. I soon found a tidy parking spot up the road from the house. For a few minutes I scanned around to see if everything looked right. It did. Then I checked I had the replacement tapes, torch, screwdriver and penknife. It was a habit of mine to do that. Willifield Road was quiet. It seemed just the sort of place that a scientist like Dr Bruce would live.

Satisfied my timing was right, I made my way to the location. This time I went quickly around the back in a circle to the front door again. There were no lights on so I performed my ritual of the ring and knock exercise. Of course there was no answer but you could never be sure. I liked to work with the odds in my favour.

The extension ladder was where it had been previously left by the shed. I soon had it up in place by the window. Within a minute I was up at the window and gently eased it open to climb in and step onto the bedroom carpet. My first thoughts were to look around for a safe or see if there might be a copy of the formula somewhere. It was a forlorn hope as there was neither. I ensured my enquiry had disturbed nothing and climbed back out of the window.

It was easy to exchange the tapes from the recorder under the conservatory eave. After I had it back in place I checked the window was shut properly then put back the ladder where I had found it. Shortly after, I was back in my car again driving to Ahmed’s house in Notting Hill. Now I was just part of the evening traffic. It was almost 6pm and in half an hour I would be at Lyndon Gardens.

My timing was just right to see a car just leaving the handy parking space where I had parked before. I quickly did my preliminary observations to ensure things looked right and made my way to Ahmed’s house. As before, I swiftly circled the back then to the front door again. There were no signs of life or lights as I rang the bell. No answer invited me returning to the back of the house. It was always a good feeling when a sash window slid open easily which it did. My legs were soon over the sill to land both feet on the carpet. With the torch, I crept around doing a meticulous search like I had done in Bruce’s house. It was curiosity that got the better of me. I was not looking for anything to steal but I was troubled by the sparse furnishings in such a large house. It didn’t seem right, but conscious of the time, I was soon up into the attic retrieving the recorder from under the water tank and changing the tapes. Having done that, I quickly left the house exactly as I had found it. A few minutes later, I was driving home; very keen to learn what conversations took place in the households of Ahmed and Bruce.

I arrived home in time to hear the carriage clock chiming for 7.30.pm. After pouring myself a scotch, I fitted the tapes into my playback recorder and listened in the quietness to whatever I was about to hear.

As the tape played, I identified Ahmed’s voice talking to somebody with an eastern accent. The conversation was socially convivial. Other calls followed about cars, relations, and enquiries about Iranian Embassy appointments. It was all seemingly innocent stuff. Then just as I was about to get disappointed, I heard a voice ask Ahmed if there was any developments? There was a slight pause before he answered. ‘We must not hurry him,’ he had replied. ‘He has the best incentive in the world. He will contact me as soon as he has it.’ The enquiring voice then sought reassurance. ‘He does not suspect anything?’ Ahmed replied, ‘No.’ Again the voice spoke, ‘Good. All our people are in place. Let us hope our wait is not long. Goodbye.’ Other social conversations followed that call as the playback finished. But now I was intrigued by what I had just heard. I would play it again after I had listed to the tape from Bruce’s house.

Again, I tuned in my ears to listen into the conversations. The first call was a female. They obviously knew each other well and by all accounts had recently shared a bed. Now they were fixing a date for an evening out. The next two calls were about some airport plane arrivals. But the fourth call preceding two others of a domestic nature was an urgent request for Bruce to phone the MOD (Ministry of Defence) on an extension number.