Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown (7 page)

"
We were lucky,
"
she told him, casually.
"
You should have fixed the hand brake. You knew it was faulty. Somebody could have been hurt. I think you need a reminder to be more careful in future.
"
He didn't say anything but he knew what was coming. She allowed him a few minutes to think about it, then she reached under the bed for the switch. She had picked it up from the trail during one of their Sunday morning walks on Hampstead Heath, carrying it like a prize, playfully swishing it through the air. It was birch, about 30-inches long, thin and whippy.
"
Are you taking that home?
"
he asked her, smiling.
"
I am,
"
she had replied. At a roadside flower shop across from the bus stop, he bought her bunch of long-stemmed lilies and shyly presented them to her.
"
Why, thank you, sir,
"
she responded and hid the switch among the blooms away from the curious eyes of their fellow passengers during the ride back to Pimlico. That night she had been the first to feel its sting. Now she was on her feet and she had it in her hand.

At her bidding, George turned over and raised his hips so she could slip a pillow beneath him. Satisfied he was sufficiently elevated she laid the switch on the bed where he could see it and took up a position on her knees alongside him. He saw her reach for it and felt it tap lightly on his buttocks. Then, swish, swish, swish.
"
Listen to it swoosh,
"
she said.
"
I like that sound.
"
George liked it too. The birch rose and fell. When his bottom was striped she bent to kiss it, her lips as soft as the wings of a moth. They both stood and she flung her arms around his neck. Then she bent and spread her legs so George could take her standing up.

Afterwards, they rested for a while before she prepared a simple salad which they ate sitting side-by-side by candle light at the van's little table. George had brought a crusty baguette from his favorite bakery on the
Kings Road
and they tore chunks off it to dip into virgin olive oil. For a while they didn't say anything, comfortable together in silence. Then he turned on the interior light and gave her a hug.
"
Your birthday is coming up,
"
he said.
"
It's a bit early, but I want you to have your present now.
"
He produced an envelope from behind his back and handed it to her.
"
It's a special treat for your fortieth. And, in case you're wondering, I already checked with your office. It's okay, you can get the time off.
"

"
What's okay?
"
she said.
"
What's my birthday got to do with the office?
"
She tore open the envelope and pulled out its contents, squealing with excitement when she saw a return air ticket to Bali plus a confirmed reservation at a five star hotel at
Kuta
Beach
.

"
Oh my God, George. I can't believe it's been ages since I went back. Thank you, thank you. What a wonderful surprise. But only one ticket? Where's yours?
"

"
Pem, I'm sorry, I can't go with you. We're redrafting the bylaw on wetlands development permit applications and it's going to be crazy busy at the office. This will be a chance for you to spend time with your family. Plus, you have a couple of months to get organized. We'll have our own special celebration when you get back.
"

"
Oh, George. You're so sweet. I love you so much.
"
She refilled his wine glass and while he reclined on the bed she undressed slowly in front of him, a sexy and impromptu striptease for an audience of one. Then she gave him a long, loving massage. The marks on his bottom had already faded.

They went together to the airport on the day she left. George felt it was better to be early than late and they stopped for coffee after she had checked in. In ten years of marriage they had never spent time apart except for a few short trips he had made on council business.

"
George, I've been thinking,
"
she said, using her spoon to scoop up the foam that had settled in the bottom of her cup.

"
Uh oh.
"

"
We have a good life, don't we? We have it all, a nice home, jobs, we're healthy, we have pensions to look forward to.
"

"
And we have each other.
"
George was wondering where this was going.

"
We need to give something back.
"

"
You mean volunteer?
"
A life time of dealing with elected officials had taught George not to volunteer for anything.

"
I don't know. I was thinking. Something like Meals-on-Wheels.
"

"
Hey, that would be perfect for you, just up your ally as a former flight attendant.
"
He laughed.

"
What's so funny about that?
"

"
Half an hour after you take them their meals, you'll be back with the drinks trolley.
"

Pem smiled.

"
Then just when they're trying to get some sleep, you'll come clattering by with duty free.
"

Pem laughed, seeing the funny side.

"
Seriously, though, what do you think?
"

"
I think it's a lovely idea. Tell you what, When you get back we'll look into it.
"

"
Promise?
"

"
Promise.
"

Pem looked at her watch.
"
I had better get going, the gate opens in thirty minutes.
"

They walked hand in hand to the entrance to security, the parting of the ways.

They hugged for a long time, not wanting to let go.

"
Goodbye, Mr. Wheels.
"

"
Goodbye, Mrs. Meals.
"

They laughed together.

"
See you in two weeks,
"
they both said it at once.

"
Safe travels,
"
said George and he turned away.

It wouldn't be so bad, he consoled himself. He had a lot of work to do at the office, and time would pass quickly enough.

Her birthday was the night before she was due to come home.

Half a world away on the evening of October 12, 2002, on the beautiful
island
of
Bali
where she was born, Pem was getting ready to go out to dinner with her mother and two sisters at their favorite downtown restaurant. She wore traditional dress and a white orchid in her hair and at that moment she was as happy as she had ever been. She had had a wonderful time but tomorrow she would return to
London
and she was looking forward to sleeping in her own bed. Damn the traffic, she thought, as the taxi crawled along. It was moving so slowly that five blocks from the restaurant on Kuta's main thoroughfare she decided it would be quicker to walk.

George's predictions about late nights at the office had proved correct and it was after 10 p.m. before he finally got back home. As it was her birthday he was hoping she might phone. He flipped on the TV to catch the news and poured himself a glass of wine, only vaguely aware of what he was seeing, the smoky ruins of a nightclub somewhere, people running, screaming, rubble everywhere. In a world gone mad, it seemed to George that the news was always bad.

"
A devastating bomb attack outside a popular nightclub in
Bali
has killed scores of patrons, many of them Australians,
"
said the news presenter.
"
A number of British tourists are also believed to have been killed or wounded. Our reporter is at the scene.
"

"
A powerful car bomb exploded without warning outside the Sari Club, just down the road from where I am standing, shortly after 7 p.m. local time, killing or wounding hundreds of people,
"
George heard an Australian voice saying.
"
According to police reports, the carnage started when a suicide attacker detonated a bomb in his backpack outside Paddy's Pub, across the street from the Sari Club in
Kuta
Beach
, a popular haunt with young travellers.

After the first bomb exploded, patrons fled into the street. Fifteen seconds later a second, more powerful car bomb hidden inside a white Mitsubishi van was detonated by a second suicide bomber directly outside the nightclub, killing or wounding hundreds of people. Damage to the densely populated residential district was extensive over several blocks, destroying buildings and shattering windows. The explosion left a crater one meter deep. I'm two hundred
meters
from the site of the blast, but even from here it is possible to see the extent of the damage,
"
the reporter continued, his voice calm, professional, totally devoid of emotion.
"
Smashed roof tiles and window glass are strewn everywhere. Before the area was cordoned off by police I managed to get close. I saw bodies being pulled from the ruins, flip flops in the rubble, a white orchid, the random detritus of those who died.
"

"
Oh my God, Pem,
"
he thought.
"
But she doesn't go to night clubs. She wouldn't. It couldn't be.
"
Just then, his phone rang.

"
Thank God, it's her,
"
he thought. But it was not. It was the British High Commissioner in Denpasar. He was sorry to be the bearer of bad news.

Pem Surjani had been among the passers-by killed in the
Bali
night club explosion. Her remains had been identified by her family and turned over to them for burial.

He was too shocked to cry. He threw a few things into a suitcase and got a cab to the airport, catching the first available flight to
Bali
. He barely remembers how he got there. On arrival, 23 hours later, he took a cab to the scene, which was cordoned off behind police tape, still smoking, and there the full weight of the tragedy struck him. He wept, not only for Pem, his beloved wife, but for all the dead. His shoulders shook uncontrollably and tears coursed down his cheeks.

Years passed. In the efficient Indonesian way, those responsible for the bombings were tracked down, tried, convicted and executed by firing squad, but their deaths brought no closure for George. Even now, five years later, he regularly visits the memorial to the victims of the bombings at Clive Steps, across from St. James's Park. He runs his fingers across the surface of the marble globe on which are engraved 202 doves, one for each of the dead, and he reads her name and those of all the others carved into a stone wall behind it.

In a classroom on the third floor of the City of
Westminster Trade
, Technical and Performing Arts College on the
Kings Road
,
Chelsea
, George Aloysius Brown, recently retired as municipal manager Putney & District, occupies a desk at the back of the class and daydreams of making love to his late wife. In his mind's eye he is stroking her lovely Balinese bottom which is wriggling for the sheer joy of his undivided attention.

"
And that brings me to George…
"

Hearing his name jolts him back to reality.

The talented – and much lauded – poet Wanda Gravely, once short-listed for the job of
Britain
's poet laureate, is delivering her end of term analysis on the collected short stories of her students in Creative Writing 101.

"
George,
"
he hears her saying,
"
your story about a whistle-blower who prevents an unscrupulous developer from building condos on the last existing wetlands in Putney, is well written, nicely structured but, frankly, a little on the predictable side.

"
You were a civil servant, yourself, were you not, weights and measures, wasn't it?
"
It was not, but George nods in agreement anyway as at this precise moment he is mentally measuring her breasts, finding them of perfect proportions, revealing in a purple tank top just enough of their contours to attract attention short of inciting civil unrest.

Oblivious to the scrutiny of the man from town hall, Wanda continues her critical analysis.