The Public Prosecutor (12 page)

Authors: Jef Geeraerts

BOOK: The Public Prosecutor

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On foot to Waterloo Boulevard. A solid hour picking, choosing and chatting with a gay shop assistant. Endless dithering in and out of the fitting rooms. Finally an insanely expensive outfit with earrings and shoes to match. Fortunately no handbag. Bill: a mere 117,950 francs. His monthly salary after tax, give or take. Amex gold card, confirm the amount, nonchalant signature. Back to the multi-storey parking garage on foot. Peak traffic hour. Twenty minutes to clear the Leopold II tunnel at a snail’s pace. Still not a word. Serious pain near the exit for Sint-Job. Insisted on going for a ride. Saddled Yamma and headed off alone. In the bathroom mirror he looked like an eighty-year-old. Straining to pee. Igor sensed he was in pain and sat down beside him with his head on his lap. Troubling attack of self-pity. (I’m too old for her. She’s fed up with me. She doesn’t love me any more. But I’m still head over heels with her. When was the last time we made love? Two weeks ago. It used to be every day with her, but now she doesn’t seem to be interested.)

Albert opened his eyes and gulped at his whisky. He called her number again. No answer: mobile off. For some strange reason he was reminded of
The Bold and the Beautiful
, the soap he watched without fail every evening. Just as crap as
Place Royale
, which turned Amandine mushy every Saturday. He fancied a snack. Would Maria already have gone to bed? He didn’t want to bother her. Poor creature. Sixteen thousand francs per month. Pure exploitation. She had told him that she had saved enough money for two dairy cows. The pain returned. He could barely stay seated. He closed his eyes and groaned. He dialled Jokke’s number.

“Hello.”

“Jokke. Alberto.”

“At this hour, man? What’s the matter?”

“Jokke, can you recommend a good urologist?”

“Problems?”

“Pain, you know where. Peeing is a nightmare.”

“Mm. You better have that checked out. Stop by the hospital early tomorrow and let me do a preliminary. Don’t panic. I know a good urologist if you need one.”

“What’s the procedure?”

“First a rectal.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Not a bit, idiot. A finger, nothing more.”

“Bah!”

“The urologist, is he good?” Albert persisted.

“Among the best, if you ask me.”

“Is this kind of stuff normal at my age?”

“How old are you?”

“Sixty-four.”

“Nothing abnormal about it. King Boudewijn hit the jackpot at sixty.”

“Hmm… Now I feel a lot better! Tell me, Jokke…”

“Mm?”

“After the operation… will I still be able to, you know, do the business?”

“Absolutely, but with one minor difference.”

“A difference?”

“Yep. Retrograde ejaculation.”

“What the hell’s that?”

“The sperm doesn’t come out.”

“What?”

“You come internally.”

“Ouch!” he yelped.

“Have you been drinking?”

“A touch. Internally?”

“In the bladder. But there’s no problem. It’s a bit late to be thinking about children. You come as before, only nothing gets wet. We call it a dry orgasm in the trade, ha ha ha.”

“You wouldn’t be laughing if you could feel what I feel right now.”

“Nine out of ten it’s a false alarm. I’ll see you in the morning about ten thirty, OK?”

“Fine.”

“The class structure is part of God’s plan.”

“You can laugh: better to say that God has monthly scores to maintain.”

He hung up and immediately called her number.

No answer.

Skin against skin (she on his lap, her arm round his neck), Louise and Johan D’Hoog sat on the floor, stroking Igor’s head.

Louise kissed D’Hoog’s naked shoulder and her Labrador’s snout in turns. She was wearing beige satin panties edged with lace, delectable against her smooth, straight thighs. Her nipples were like unripe raspberries on her small breasts. D’Hoog’s hairy chest was just as brown as Louise’s East Indian skin. He looked like a flamenco dancer.

Louise suddenly took hold of his neck, rested her head against his ear and whispered: “I love you more than ever, my wild gypsy thoroughbred, my Julius Caesar, my sizzling stallion.”

“Crazy as ever,” D’Hoog growled, gently squeezing his right middle finger into her anus (which he called
my little poop hole
).

“Mm, Johan… keep it up and you’ll make me come…” Louise groaned, biting his shoulder, tugging his body hair with her teeth.

“We leave tomorrow for
Botswana
!” he shouted all at once, turning to face her and kissing her passionately.

Igor lifted his head with a jolt.

“Silly Billy, you’re scaring our baby boy!”

“Come, let’s stroke his head together while I work your little rosebud.”

“I prefer
little poop hole
.”

“Come closer so I can kiss you.” He leaned forward and took hold of her buttocks. She threw back her long black hair and settled onto her belly. He pulled her panties aside and told her it was an octopus, a burst fig, a soft-boiled egg. He licked her gently and she whimpered.

“Go ahead. Do whatever you want with it. As long as you
mate
with me like a stallion.”

“Your stallion’s ready to go.”

“Come. Doggy style. Your mare is waiting.
Mate
with me!”

“You’re not going to kick me like a true thoroughbred mare when a stallion gets close?”

“Shut up and get on with it.”

He lay down beside her and caressed her back, like fine silk to the touch. She opened her thighs. His penis was erect, immense and brown, its head purple and throbbing.

“Are you wet enough?”

“Drenched!”

“Whoa, horny mare.”

“Come, my stallion, my stud, come!”

He groaned as he glided inside her, gently rocking to and fro.

“Deeper!”

He pushed deep inside her until he felt his penis touch her womb. She slipped her right hand under her legs and started to finger her clitoris.

“Are you ready to come?” he panted, his mouth against her ear.

“If you shoot, I’ll come.”

He picked up the pace.

“Ah… I’m coming!” she squealed. “
We’re mating, we’re mating
.”

He grunted and ejaculated while she clawed the carpet and tossed her head from side to side.

“Twelve rounds, I counted,” she said as they lay gasping. She puffed and giggled.

“With you it just keeps on coming, fucking
bitch
.”

“Johan…” she said, all girly and helpless.

“Mm?”

“I can’t live without you.”

“What about the old man?”

“Leave it. He’s out of the picture.”

“He still pays his visits—”

“Yeah right, to exercise his horse and complain about his wife who won’t give him a divorce, and the New Political Culture they finally managed to contain, and the never ending magistrate appointments, and how lucky he is they haven’t abolished the fucking system.”

“Doesn’t his wife have a touch of blue blood?”

“Yes. Stinking rich, apparently. But hopeless in bed, if he’s to be believed. Holier than the Pope. Last week she took a train full of sick people to Lourdes. Played the nurse.”

“Pff. Why didn’t she become a nun? What about him?”

“Used to be OK, but now… forget it.”

“What age is he?”

“Sixty-four.”

“Hmm, public prosecutor,” D’Hoog pondered out loud and sat upright. He then burst out laughing and kissed her nipples each in turn.

“Come, let me clean you up,” she said. She took a towel that was lying on the floor beside her and started to dry his half-erect penis and kiss it at the same time.

“Dry that pussy of yours, twit.”

“Are you going to take me again?”

“Later. I’m hungry.”

“Me too. There’s all sorts of stuff in the fridge. Fancy some champagne?”

“Do you need an answer?”

“And there’s smoked salmon, crayfish and caviar.”

“Sounds like a feast.”

She got to her feet and wobbled towards the kitchen, the towel held between her thighs. “Shall we eat on the floor?” she shouted.

“If you want.”

She returned with a plastic bag from which she produced three tin-foil parcels and a tin of Iranian caviar. She spread everything out on the floor and headed back to the fridge to collect the bottle of champagne Albert had opened that afternoon and recorked. She placed two crystal tulip glasses on the floor and D’Hoog filled them to the brim.

“Chin chin.”

They drank. She knelt down in front of him and squirted champagne in his mouth.

He did the same and then removed the tails from the crayfish, which were already cut open, and they began to eat. He opened the tin of caviar and sniffed at it. Igor joined them and stared at the tin with interest.

“Is he allowed that sort of thing?” D’Hoog asked, his mouth full of food.

“He’s crazy about caviar.”

He balanced some on his thumb and Igor greedily licked it up.

“Caviar’s not really my thing,” he said.

“I love it,” she said, “but not tonight.”

“Sevruga,” he said, reading the text on the lid.

“Not the best. Beluga’s my favourite, but a kilo costs seventy thousand.”

“Pampered, eh? Shall I give him some more?”

“Yes, but leave some in the tin in case he asks for it.”

D’Hoog shrugged his shoulders, closed the lid and tossed the tin on the floor.

The computerized voice of the Travel Pilot RGS 06 announced the Oude Baan. Voorhout, who was at the wheel of the Mercedes van, stepped on the brakes. The headlights revealed a dirt track leading into a pine forest.

“What a fucking jungle,” said Materne.

“Let’s drive a bit further.”

The track was bumpy and overgrown on either side with silver grass. They made slow progress.

“Look,” said Voorhout, catching sight of a car parked ahead of them, near a house with lights burning inside. A grey Volvo hatchback. He stopped and took a photo of the car with the 3200 ASA mini digital camera, which dangled permanently around his neck. They drove past the car. Materne noted the number plate and punched it into the computer. They stopped again a little further along the track.

“Registered under Jan D’Hoog.”

“The vet.”

“Correct.”

“It’s ten-past eleven already. That pussy of hers must be in pretty bad shape.”

“Shall we take a look?”

“OK. Bring Rambo.”

“Rambo…” Materne muttered flatly.

The dog was lying at his feet and raised its head. They got out of the van. Materne did some stretching exercises. The dog turned in circles and finally lifted its leg against a clump of silver grass.

The shaft of light from Materne’s torch flickered through the pine trees. “Looks like the lady’s into privacy.”

“And she has a
male
visitor.”

“And she’s
refusing
to answer the phone.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions.”

They made their way towards the house.

Voorhout directed his torch towards the front of the Volvo, illuminating the vet sticker on the windscreen. “That confirms it.”

“As if there was any doubt.”

They stayed close to the car and looked towards the house. The blinds were down, but light was still visible inside. A bird screeched somewhere in the woods.

“An owl,” said Voorhout.

A mist had formed over the paddock behind the house and a first quarter half-moon hung high in the sky. It was silent as the grave. Not a breath of wind.

Voorhout flashed his torch into the car and tried to open the passenger door. It was locked.

“D’you want me to open it?”

“No need.”

They slinked towards the front door. Not a sound inside, only the whinny of a horse in the distance.

Rambo suddenly bolted and disappeared behind the house.

“Rambo! Here!” Materne shouted, smothering his voice.