Under a Silent Moon: A Novel (24 page)

This was more of a turn-on than anything, and in order to obey he had to almost throw her off him. For a moment he lay on his back, wondering if he could hold off when he was so close.

Then she threaded her fingers through his hair and without warning pulled him roughly around to face her. Her breath in his ear was loud, and fast. “Fuck me with your mouth,” she said. She pushed his head down, down her body. While he licked her, she encouraged the pressure by digging fingernails into his shoulder. The pain was intense, and erotic.

“Stop. Stop.” Her voice was quiet, calm. Not angry. He raised his head, trying to see her in the darkness.

“Lie on your back,” she said.

He moved back up the bed and lay back. The pillows were whipped away from under his head. She sat astride him again, but this time higher up, over his face. She pulled at his shoulders and tucked her calves behind them, kneeling over him, tantalizingly out of reach. His hands were on her buttocks, trying to pull her down to him, moaning softly. And as she lowered herself onto him, one of the pillows was pulled over his forehead, covering his eyes, denying him the pleasure of the view. For a crazy moment he thought she was going to smother him. But as hard as it was pressed over the upper part of his face, his nose and mouth were clear.

“Can you hear me?” she asked. Her voice was quiet, but clear. He could imagine her barking orders at the junior nurses, expecting an immediate and compliant response.

“Yes, Nurse,” he said, unable to help himself. Smiling.

“This is what’s going to happen. I am going to sit down, and I expect you to try your hardest to make me come.”

“Yes, please.”

“Don’t interrupt me. I expect you to make me come. You will find it hard to breathe while you’re doing it. Do you understand?”

“Sorry. Yes. I mean—”

“I will be in control of when you can take a breath. You will need to trust me. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Raise your right hand straight up if you want to stop. Do it now, to show me you understand.”

He raised his hand obediently into the air, left it there for a second, and then reached forward blindly until he found her skin, her bare arm, the muscles on it flexed and holding the pillow tightly over his face.

“Good. Are you ready?”

He answered with a sound. He was absolutely ready. And then he felt her against his mouth, and nose, and he kissed and nuzzled and licked as best he could while his heart thumped; she was pressing into him, moving very gently, and there was no way he could have taken a breath. At first it was fun, if a little strange. Then it became intense, urgent; his lungs began to burn and just at the moment he thought he was going to have to push her off him, she lifted herself away from his face. He gasped in a fresh lungful of hot, damp air that smelled like sex. Another long breath in and she was back against his face again, and this time his tongue worked faster against her, and as well as the fear that she would not get up in time for him to breathe, he felt something else—a thrill, a buzz, a surge of vast erotic delight that rose and swelled within him. Oh, this was good, this was so good . . .

Sooner this time, she raised herself, and, muffled by the pillow, he heard her make a sound that might have been one of pleasure. Barely time, then, to heave a breath in and she was on him again. He felt the panic building together with the desperate need to do this right, to get her to come quickly so that he would be allowed his own satisfaction—but even more so to please her, to impress her. He blocked out the voice in the back of his head that was becoming shrill—
Fuck, she is going to kill me like this
—and his brain was bursting with stars and lights, his pulse pounding in his ears, the slick wetness of her skin sliding against his face. Sensation surged through his whole body like a drug, like pure energy.

When everything started to spin, he began to raise his hand feebly; and at that moment she tensed, the muscles of her legs closing around his shoulders with a grip that was painful. He held on for another few seconds while he floated inside himself, observing his lack of oxygen in a way that was now almost calm, that almost made him want to laugh. Who needed air, after all, when this was what lay beyond it?

She lifted herself away from him. The air surged painfully back into his lungs in a long, noisy, uncontrollable rasp that was followed by a choking cough. His throat was raw with it. Another breath, another. The stars were colliding behind his eyelids. She untangled her legs from his shoulders and moved away. The pressure on the pillow lightened, and he could have moved it off his face, but his arms didn’t work.

Andy had managed perhaps three or four recovery breaths before her hand closed over his erection.

“Hold your breath,” she said.

I can’t, I can’t do it
, he thought, at the same moment knowing he wanted to. He reached out blindly and caught her other hand, pulled it up to his mouth and nose and pressed it against his wet face. And after a moment of her denying him breath again, the stars were back, the panic died away at the same moment as the floating sensation returned, and this time the stars were brighter and denser and he felt like he could almost reach out and touch them. And his body sang with it, every part of him burning. He didn’t even know what she was doing anymore.

The stars began to fade and a darkness approached, sidling up to him like sleep. She took her hand away from his face and for a moment nothing happened. Space. Then she slapped him, hard, across the cheek, and he heaved a breath in. With it came sudden panic, his eyes wide open. She had stopped everything.

“Please,” he gasped.

“Take some breaths. You need to be fully conscious.”

When he could speak, he said again: “Please.” Not even knowing what it was that he wanted.

“As this is clearly your first time, I will permit it.”

Permit it?

“There are rules. Do you understand? Say yes if you understand.”

“Yes,” he coughed. His limbs, his body—everything was liquid. He could barely move.

“You do not touch me unless I tell you to do so. You ask for permission before you come. As you will be silenced, you will have to gain permission from me now.”

“Please, can I—”

“Please,
may
you what?”

“I need to come—
please
.”

“I am going to restrict your breathing again. Remember you can raise your hand. Do it now to show you are in agreement.”

He lifted his hand. It was like dragging a weight from the surface of the bed, his fingers feebly curled.

“Very well. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

This time it was the pillow, over his face, held down with one of her hands. Her grip was so strong, both on the pillow and on his cock. It wasn’t going to take long, and, although it was difficult, he could get shallow breaths through the fabric. There was more panic this time, less bliss, until the moment when he came. It almost took him by surprise. He felt the orgasm in the whole of his body at once, a jerk that pushed him physically off the mattress and crackled through his nerves and muscles and sinews like an electric current. His head was spinning. The sensation of it lasted longer than he had ever, ever experienced. Minutes, hours maybe. He was soaring. The pressure on his face did not let up.

And then, after the thudding in his ears, silence.

Day Four
Sunday 4 November 2012

08:10

Lou woke up and before she opened her eyes she had a headache. It was dark except for the bright light coming from the digital alarm clock beside the bed, and looking at it felt like looking into the sun.

Time to get up.

Downstairs, her mobile phone bleeped intermittently, signaling that a message had come through. Lou groaned. It shouldn’t be legal to have to be awake this early on a Sunday morning. Unfortunately that was one of the hazards of working incident rooms, particularly this early in an investigation.

She showered in the dark, not daring to put the light on, but when she got out of the shower her head had eased a bit. By the light of the orange streetlamp outside, she found a blister pack of paracetamol, popped two and swallowed them, cupping her hand under the tap to get enough water to wash them down.

Downstairs the kitchen light felt unnaturally bright, the tiled floor freezing under her stockinged feet. In her living room she fished around for her phone.

The message was from Ali Whitmore, timed just after seven:

She dialed. “Ali? It’s me. Who’s Lorna?”

REPORT

Re:
Lorna Paulette NEWMAN DOB 18/02/1962 of 11 Downsview Road, Winterham, Norwich

Sunday 4 November

From:
DC 9952 Ron MITCHELL

To:
Op NETTLE

Phone call received from Mrs. Lorna NEWMAN. Mrs. NEWMAN claims that Barbara FLETCHER-NORMAN has been a close friend of hers for a number of years. She last spoke to Barbara by telephone on the night of 31 October at about 2100hrs.

Mrs. NEWMAN states that Barbara FLETCHER-NORMAN had been having an affair with her tennis coach named as a Mr. Liam O’TOOLE and was planning to leave her husband for him. However it seems that the tennis coach had apparently run away with some of Barbara’s money and this was the cause of Mrs. FLETCHER-NORMAN’s upset that evening.

Mrs. NEWMAN claims to have in her possession a number of letters written to her by Mrs. FLETCHER-NORMAN and believes the letters provide some insight into the state of mind of the deceased.

R Mitchell

08:52

Flora’s eyes opened and for a moment she wondered where she was. The last time she’d slept here was less than a week ago but already it felt like a lifetime. So much had happened, so many changes, her life no longer felt like her own.

Polly was dead.

She tested the thought, rolling it around in her head, realizing that it was somehow less panic-inducing than it had been even yesterday.

Her watch told her it was nearly nine. Surprised at how well she’d slept, she suddenly recalled the peculiar events of last night. It seemed unreal, dreamlike, in the bright sunlight that filled the room. Had that really been him? Surely it could have been anyone. She often had visitors, the woman downstairs.

Since Flora had moved in a couple of years ago, she’d seen her downstairs neighbor a few times but they had never exchanged more than the occasional polite “hello.” Flora had seen her in the small courtyard garden at the back from her bedroom window. She was much older than Flora, but still beautiful, with a good body, fit. Flora had often wondered if she went to a gym somewhere.

Pulling on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a hooded top, she padded down to the kitchen to put the kettle on. And then she reached for the phone.

It was the answering machine—probably too early for Taryn or Chris to be awake on a Sunday. “Tabs, it’s me. Give me a call later on if you can. I saw the strangest thing last night—still can’t quite believe it. I’ll come over and pick up my car this afternoon if that’s okay. Oh, and thanks again for everything. See you later.”

09:02

Finally, after weeks of cold, gray days, wind and rain driving the last reluctant leaves from the trees, Sunday had burst into bright, cold sunshine. The light streamed in through the blinds, over the white duvet, up to the closed eyes and sleep-crumpled face of Andy Hamilton. It disturbed him, but instead of opening his eyes straightaway he turned his head, glancing across the bed to see if it was empty. Determining that it was, and that he was alone, he pulled the other pillow over his pounding head and plunged back into darkness again.

Oh God.
What had all that been about? He had never had sex like that, never experienced a thrill like that before. He had been too drunk to refuse, of course, or too intoxicated to realize that being smothered by a woman he’d only just met was possibly not the cleverest thing to do. And yet—if he hadn’t done it, hadn’t allowed her to control him like that, he would never have known how it felt. He was twice her size and possibly twice as heavy, he could have thrown her to one side if he’d wanted to. And yet—and yet, she had controlled him utterly. At that crucial moment when he felt like he was flying, he could not have moved or spoken or asked for help if his life had depended on it.

You will have to trust me
, she had said. He hadn’t understood what she had meant, then, still pissed from the beers, thinking it was funny. Thinking he was going to get a shag and a warm bed to sleep in after all. She had even told him what she was planning to do, and the roaring in his ears must have drowned out the alarm bells that should have been ringing; but the drunk, the thrill seeker, the Andy who relished a challenge, particularly when a woman was involved, went with it.

He must have passed out last night. He knew this because she brought him round from it. He heard her talking to him, saying things like, “Open your eyes. Andy, look at me . . .” and the funniest thing of all was that he thought he was in hospital. She had that tone of voice that said “nurse” even more than the uniform did. He had opened his eyes and the room was still dark, but he could see her leaning over him. She did not look concerned.

She did not need to, after all: she was a nurse. She knew he was fine. Of course he could trust her—he was in the safest hands possible, wasn’t he?

Half awake, he became aware of sounds. He moved, stretched, felt the soreness on his back. He opened his eyes to see her lithe, brown legs as she came back into the room. A steaming mug of coffee was placed on the bedside table beside him. He raised his head, his eyes traveling up her body, taking in the ironed uniform, the blond hair shiny and blow-dried, the makeup.

He reached out a hand toward her but she did not come closer. She sat on the chair in the corner of the room, facing him, crossed her legs elegantly. “How are you feeling?”

He thought carefully about his response. “Tired,” he said.

She smiled. “That’s to be expected.”

Hard to know what to say that didn’t sound idiotic. In the end, he settled on: “I’ve never done anything like that before.”