Death in Brunswick (10 page)

She looked at him sideways with narrow black eyes.

‘Yeah. Great. Let's get a cab.'

He felt an erection growing embarrassingly in his jeans.

‘Oh, hang on, Sophie. You got any dough? I forgot to go to the bank. I'll pay you back tonight. You're working, aren't you?'

‘It's OK. Auntie Martha's given me twenty bucks for Con.'

They hailed a cab and sat in the back. She gave the driver directions to a street in Brunswick of which Carl had never heard.

‘Is that close to the club?' he asked.

‘Sure is. I wouldn't miss tonight with the Divinyls. There better be a big crowd. Yanni'll go broke soon if it doesn't pick up.'

‘Is that right?' said Carl, thoughtfully. ‘Listen Sophie, what's going on there? What really happened with Mustafa the other night?'

She gave him a warning look and nodded toward the driver.

‘Nothing. I'll tell you later.'

They sat in silence as the cab turned up Sydney Road. She held his moist hand. He remembered with sudden panic certain episodes of shaming impotence.

Maybe I wont really try. I'll just see if I could if I wanted to.

He looked at her profile. There was a bloom of fine dark hair on her upper lip. Her full mouth was slightly drawn up over her white teeth. She sat relaxed and quite composed. Despite her youth, her big Greek nose gave her real authority. He dropped her hand hopelessly.

‘How
old
are you Sophie, for God's sake?'

‘Seventeen. Why? How old are you?'

‘Um…nearly thirty…one. I feel a bit old, compared to you, you know?'

‘What for? My girlfriend Helen, she's married to this guy, thirty, and she's only sixteen. Anyway, you don't seem like as old as him.'

‘Oh, right, yeah, good.'

He took her hand again. She smiled at him and tickled his palm. Starting, he looked round. The cab had turned left past the Town Hall and they were heading into West Brunswick.

Here the houses were shoddy, jerry-built, twenties villas, all crumbling stucco and ugly little diamond paned windows. On their front porches sat shapeless black clad women. The streets were wider here and papers blew about in the gritty wind. Dark clouds loomed to the west over the freeway.

The taxi drew up outside a block of red-brick flats. She paid the driver and they crunched over orange scoria spread on ragged black plastic. Discouraged palms drooped over a line of letter boxes stuffed to overflowing with advertising leaflets.

‘This is a real dump!' She ran up the concrete steps. ‘Come on!'

He tried to keep up with her. A studded belt was slung around her hips. He followed her round bottom.
How
do
they get those jeans on?
After the third floor, he was panting.

‘Where is it, for Christ's sake?'

‘Here we are,' she called down, her voice echoing in the concrete shaft. He plodded up slowly.

She was unlocking a scarred front door. There were kick marks all over the lower part.

‘I bet that's young Con.'

‘Yeah, but he's not really a bad kid, just a bit of a smart-arse. Shhhh now. Come in. The neighbours are real nosey round here. They're liable to tell Auntie Martha and she'll tell Dad.'

He looked round cautiously and saw a curtain move at the next flat. He slipped inside without telling her.

She shut the door. Clumsily, he grabbed her.

‘Hang on. I'll just pull the curtains.' She moved away. ‘Want some coffee?'

‘Yeah, OK, I guess so,' he said awkwardly.

She went out. He looked around.
Jesus!
He was in a lounge room lined with what seemed a hundred icons and photographs. Melancholy Hellenic eyes followed him as he paced about restlessly.

He sat down on a low couch covered with hard slippery green plastic. Facing him was an immense TV set. On the top, he saw with interest, was a collection of bottles. He got up and looked: Metaxas brandy, ouzo and some anonymous purple liquid. Glancing round, he had a quick swig of ouzo. Its aniseed flavour reminded him of sweets. He drank again.
Wow! That's stronger than I thought.

He heard Sophie returning and sat down.

‘You like Greek coffee?'

‘Yeah. I don't know. I never had any, I don't think.'

It was thick and sweet and went pleasantly with the taste of ouzo. He sat back.

‘What's all these holy pictures? It's like a church!'

‘Yeah,' she said, giggling. ‘Auntie Martha's really holy all right. Her husband got killed back home in Cyprus and she's always trying to get hold of him. She has holy women round here all the time. They have…you know? Like in
The Exorcist
? Look, here's Uncle Nick and here's Dad.'

Carl examined the photograph.

‘Which one's your dad?'

‘Dad's the biggest.'

Oh yeah, he would be.
A huge peasant with a heavy moustache glowered from the picture. He held a rifle in his knotty hands.

‘Jeez, he looks a bit…grim. Does he give you a hard time?'

‘Yeah, sometimes. I got in a bit of trouble a while ago, at school, you know, and he thinks no one's going to marry me.' She shrugged. ‘Ma sticks up for me. She's all right but, 'cept she doesn't speak any English and I don't speak Greek too good now.'

‘What kind of trouble?'

‘With this guy at school. I was going to East Brunswick High and Dad took me away and sent me to a Greek school, but I left.'

‘Poor Sophie.'

He put his arm round her.

‘It's OK,' she said, smiling. ‘I'm pissing off from home as soon as I save enough money.'

‘What does your old man think of you working at the club?'

‘He knows Yanni's family. He thinks Yanni's a nice boy—the fat suck! If Dad just knew!'

‘What do you mean? Jesus, that place gives me the creeps!'

Carl stood up and nervously roamed round the room.

‘I'll tell you another time.' She was frowning a little. ‘Don't worry about it. It's nothing to do with you.'

Carl sat down again.

‘Rotten place,' he said fretfully. ‘I'm leaving soon anyway.'

‘Yeah? We didn't think you'd last long.'

‘I'll miss
you
though, Sophie.'

‘Oh yeah.'

She put her hand on the back of his neck. Taking heart, he put his arms round her and pushed his hands up her T-shirt, stroking her warm smooth back, trying to work out the mechanism of her bra fastening. She arched her body against him.

I'll just go a
bit
further.
He was haunted by memories of sexual fiasco. He gave up on the bra clip and moved to her front, cupping his hands over her breasts.
How different bras are now.
He remembered the sturdy constructions of his youth, all bones and rubber. His wife had never worn one. He thought of her aggressive pointed dugs with distaste.

Sophie leant back in his arms with her eyes closed. She sighed deeply.
Shit! I think she's enjoying it.

‘Sophie, do you really like me?'

‘Yeah, of course. My girlfriend, Helen? She saw you the other day. She goes: “Carl's a real spunk, like David Bowie,” with your blond hair and that. It's really nice the way it's all back at the sides.'

He passed his hand over his head, remembering to avoid his temples.

‘Yeah, really. David Bowie, huh?'

Encouraged, he continued his explorations, pushing his hand down at her back.

‘Ow!'

He sat up in pain; his wrist was caught in the waistband of her stretch jeans and the studded belt raked his stomach.

‘Hang on,' she said smiling and stood up, unfastened the belt, unzipped her jeans and started to pull the T-shirt over her head. His eye caught the photograph of her father.

‘Hey, Sophie, shouldn't we…'

‘It's all right. No one'll be here for hours.'

She dropped the T-shirt and unclipped her bra. Her breasts were very large but shapely; despite her youth they dropped a little and had light stretch marks, and they swayed a little with her movements. Her nipples were a delicious pinky-brown. Carl was overwhelmed.

Jesus—like…octopus heads!
His desire faded—he sat helpless.

She sat down and unbuttoned his shirt, pushing her body against him.

‘Gee, you're thin, I'm so overweight, I'll have to start going to the gym.'

‘No, no,' distractedly kissing her.

She pulled him down; he felt smoothed by warm Greek flesh.
I'll have to try—she really wants to.
Sophie was breathing heavily in his ear.

He stuck his hand awkwardly into her crotch and rubbed her through her jeans. She lifted her hips and opened her legs. He pulled at her jeans ineffectually—they were so
tight.
Kicking off her sneakers, she slipped them down, raising her buttocks from the couch. He looked down—she wore dark blue cotton panties reaching to her waist. He was a little disappointed, expecting something more exotic. He attempted to draw them down but she caught his wrist.

‘Don't look!'

She grabbed the rug hanging on the back of the couch and pulled it over them both. He felt for her groin again—she was removing her pants. His hand encountered a dense mass of springing hair. He pushed back the rug; curling black tendrils reached toward her navel, and strong stubble showed where she had shaved her thighs.

Suddenly he was unbearably excited, it was so
black
, so
thick.
She crossed her legs and looked away.

‘What's wrong?'

‘It's awful! I can't wear a bikini—don't look!'

‘No, no, Sophie, it's beautiful, honest! Oh Jesus!'

He ran his fingers down the crisp curls and touched the soft moist outer lips.

‘Oh Jesus and Mary!' he groaned, lost, and opened his fly. His erection was more than satisfactory.

He guided her hand. She encircled his cock with two fingers and caressed him gently. His fingers glided up the wetness and found a strong womanly bud; she moved her hips urgently.

All his fear was gone, he wanted desperately to fuck her and yet he could have lain like this forever with her hand on his cock. Usually, caught between impending impotence and premature ejaculation, he made his sexual encounters as short as possible, but this was so different.

He explored her wet vulva, slipping two fingers into her vagina. It felt surprisingly big—how he wanted to get in there! Carl, who was usually repelled by the normal human smells, inhaled her strong moist odour with delight.

Like…like sea shells.

‘Oh Sophie!'

She smiled slightly, her eyes closed, and put his cock between her legs.

He thrust forward but there was no room for movement on the narrow couch.
Shit!

‘Wait, get up.' She slipped away. ‘Gome on, get off.'

He got up, shielding his rampant penis with his hands, his jeans round his ankles.

What
is
she doing?

She leant over and pulled the bottom of the couch forward. It slid out, the back dropping, and made a bed. As she bent he saw with deep pleasure the thick black hair that sprung between her round buttocks.

‘Come on then!' she said, and he sat down, a little uncertain. She pushed him back and sat astride his groin, taking his cock and sliding it expertly between her legs—it went in without hesitation.

She leaned forward and started to move her hips vigorously. She glued her mouth to his—her great breasts spread warm and soft on his narrow chest.

He felt pinned like a butterfly. He tried to move his arms.
Shit! I've still got my shirt on!

He struggled out of it, the plastic cold on his back. Sophie slid her legs back and lay full length on him, her hips pumping.

‘Oh! Oh!' she panted in his ear, ‘Baby! Baby!'

Too soon the hot, delicious sensation rose from the base of his cock.
Oh no! Not yet!

Just then a rib in the couch caught him painfully in the back. The shock steadied him and she heaved on, biting his neck with her white teeth, her pubic bone grinding into his. Looking over her olive shoulder he caught a sad icon gaze.
Jesus! Like doing it in church!

Bemused, his hand fluttered over her bum; he felt the coarse hair on the back of her thighs—it was enough.

He came with a low cry: ‘Jesus! And Mary! Oh God.'

She pumped her hips a few more times, sighed deeply and rolled off.

He turned toward her, his cock leaking a little come onto the plastic.

‘Did you?…You didn't, did you?'

‘No, nearly but, don't worry, it was really nice.'

She lay with her big thighs apart, her breast gently rising and falling. He could hardly get his breath:

‘Oh, Sophie, I really loved it.'

She kissed him quickly and got up, wrapping the rug around her.

‘You want some more coffee?'

‘No thanks.'

She left the room and he heard a door close, the flushing of a toilet and running water.

What about some ouzo?
He stretched luxuriously.
No, I can't be bothered getting up. That was really…wonderful!
He felt as if he had never done it before.
I've always fucked such
boyish
women.
He thought of his wife's spare figure, her sapphic tastes; he remembered the slim, small-buttocked girls of his youth.
Sophie's so …so luscious, like one of those Italian movie stars in the fifties, like Gina…what was her name? or Anna…something…Pity she didn't…never mind, next time.

He rubbed his cock reflectively; it stiffened somewhat. Delighted at his potency he sniffed his fingers, inhaling Sophie's rich odour mixed with the chestnut tang of his come.
Jesus, I could do it again, now!

Sophie came back carrying a glass of water.

‘Got a smoke, Carl?'

‘Yeah, sure, in my jacket.'

They shared a cigarette in silence.