TABOO TALES(erotica)

Ben stared at him. “How did you get this information?”

“That is what I do, Mr. Rogers. You can see why it is inadmissible.”

“Of course. Please go on.”

“She made a similar call the following day, also in the afternoon, to an address in Sunnyvale. The house is rented to a Mr. Samuel Robards – 61 years old, married with grown up children. He’s a merchant banker. The property is a flat in Jasmine Circuit. I took a photograph of her leaving the car – you can see why.”

Ben stared at the glossy photographic image. The depth of field was very narrow, suggesting the use of a long telephoto lens, and the background was a blurred patchwork of light and shadow. It served to highlight the image of the girl, as sharp and clear as if he was standing next to her. She was dressed as a schoolgirl – a short plaid skirt, bobby socks and little black shoes, and a school tie with a loose knot at the neck of her white blouse. The shutter had frozen her in an instant of time – her pony tail bouncing free of her shoulders with the sun glinting off the shiny golden hair, and one foot poised in the air as she stepped forward. She was gazing at the building, her head tilted upwards and a small smile on her lips. Her face was alight with excitement and she looked very young and achingly beautiful.

Ben closed his eyes, remembering last weekend – the same little school uniform paraded for him, the press of her nipples against the blouse like sweet ripe cherries and the crease of her tight little buttocks peeping from under the skirt. He had taken her over the sofa, hearing her squeals as he fucked her, legs splayed out and her little silk knickers twisted around one ankle.

He felt the sharp pain of betrayal but he set the photograph down with the others without expression. “How long did she stay?”

“Just over two hours.”

“I don’t suppose he was giving her financial advice?”

The Detective smiled without humour. “I don’t think so, Mr. Rogers.” He consulted his notes again. “She left a few minutes before him, and made a similar trip to the bank.” He leaned forward, indicating the bank statement. “Another deposit of five hundred.”

Ben closed his eyes. It was much worse than he had thought. “And the final visit?”

“Last Monday to the house that you drove past – 28 O’Connor Avenue. It belongs to Mr. Ramal Hussein. He’s 40 years old, married with one child and is a very successful middle -eastern businessman. You may have read about him from time to time – a buyer and seller, although there is talk of him being heavily involved with certain criminal elements – prostitution, drugs and the like. It’s only hearsay, but the rumours have been persistent. He’s certainly very wealthy.” He paused, as if checking to see that Ben was paying attention. “She arrived before him and let herself in with a key, dressed in a very smart red business suit and carrying a small bag. He arrived shortly afterwards and they remained inside for nearly three hours. He left first and she followed about twenty minutes later, dressed in jeans and a tee shirt.”

“Did she go to the bank?”

“Not at first. She called into Nightingale’s in the High Street – you know, the women’s fashion boutique, and she paid a large sum of money against an account. I could not ascertain the amount but it appeared to be in the order of a couple of thousand dollars. She then went to the bank and made a deposit of just over eight hundred.”

“I see. Is there anything else?”

“She made a number of phone calls on her mobile phone during the time I observed her.” He drew another sheet of paper from the file. “Here’s a print out of her cell phone account with the numbers and their times and duration. I regret I did not have time to match the numbers to names, but you will see that there are some that appear quite frequently. If you call each one I’m sure you might get an impression of who they are.” He paused. “I’d suggest you use a different name, and don’t use a phone that leaves its number.”

Ben nodded. “Anything more?”

The Detective passed a final piece of paper to him. “I ran an identity check on her, just to see if it threw up anything of interest. It was a convoluted trail, but I believe that her original name was Donatella Marcella Sassounion, born in Sydney in 1991 of a single mother, Maria. They lived in the poor side of town. Her mother had numerous convictions for prostitution and petty theft, although she never served time – probably having a young daughter saved her from goal. She died in 2005 from a beating inflicted by persons unknown.” He looked at his hands. “Sophie left home just before then although it’s not clear where she lived. She did well at school and has no prior police record.” He looked up at Ben. “From what I can find out she had a very tough childhood, if that’s any consolation.”

“Thank you. Is that all?”

“Yes, but I can find out more about her if you wish.”

Ben ignored the suggestion. “What do you think she was doing?”

The Detective regarded him, and for the first time his voice was sympathetic. “I believe she was selling something. There’s no other explanation.”

“You mean drugs, or something?”

“No. There was no merchandise. She was selling herself.”

Ben nodded and closed his eyes for a moment. It was so easy to see, once you knew – her behaviour patterns fitted into everything he had learned in the last twenty minutes. He reached into the drawer of his desk and drew out another packet of banknotes. “You have been very thorough, Mr. Howard. Here is the balance of what I owe you. I believe that we can rely on each other for complete discretion?”

“There are no copies of any of the material that I have given you, and I don’t ever talk about clients.”

Ben held out his hand. “I wish your report had been other than what it was, but I appreciate your thoroughness and your sensitivity. Good day to you.”

*****

Ben sat in his office with his head in his hands, his elbows resting on the soft leather surface of his desk and half a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue beside him. The staff had long since left and it was quiet in the room apart from the little sounds of the city – the occasional chime of the clock across the square, and the muted sound of traffic heading home on the freeway to the south.

He opened the top drawer of his desk and extracted Sophie’s report, resting it on the blotter in front of him. Her name had been written on the front cover in neat capitals – Sophia Delaney McGraw and then, in smaller letters underneath ‘aka Donatella Marcella Sassounion’. He wondered whether she had other names that he did not know about – other lives in different shades and hues, like coats of paint layered one upon the other, each of them skillfully concealed by the fine brushstrokes of the one above.

Ben sipped his whiskey, the smoky flavour as smooth as warm butter on his tongue, and he considered what was to be done. Surprisingly, he felt no anger. The slim report under his fingers was not a body blow but a way out, and he felt relief that he had found out now, rather than later when the tendrils of her entrapment would have been even tighter. He would deal with her tomorrow, and that would be the start of his life without her.

He thought of his sister Chelsea, images of their lives together racing through his brain in a kaleidoscope of time and colour – the skinny little blonde with a flat chest and braces who grew to stunning womanhood; their discovery of each other in the little holiday chalet, her eyes soft with love as he entered her hot, tight body. He remembered their time in the remote beach hideaway – long, lazy days together, filled with loving and laughter; and then the little flat they had rented above the dusty bookshop in the main street, where they lived as a couple for almost a year.

They thought it would never end, but it had. He had been sent to Europe for a few months on business, and the separation had put things in perspective. Living together in their home town had been a mistake – they knew too many people, and they had to work too hard at hiding their relationship. Their lives were shrouded in shame and secrecy, the spectre of disgrace their constant companion, hanging like the sword of Damocles above their heads. How could you live like that, being ashamed of the one you loved? The lies and deceit had eventually worn him down.

The chime of the town clock broke into his thoughts, and he stirred. The sound of the traffic on the freeway had diminished, and the night was still. It too late to look back with such regret, he thought – the bed had been made, and he must lie in it. He rose stiffly to his feet, aware that a chapter of his life was about to close and the pages beyond it were empty. He thought again of Chelsea, and wondered whether she might ever forgive him; perhaps he could talk to her at the wedding. He thought reconciliation unlikely, though – how could she ever take him back, when he had left her, just as his Sophie had betrayed him?

He drained the last of his Scotch, placed the report carefully in his briefcase and he left the office, closing the door softly behind him. Tomorrow was another day, and he had no idea what his world would be like beyond it.

*****

It was 11:58 on the bedside clock when the door to Chelsea’s bedroom opened, and Bec slipped into the room. The light from the hallway illuminated her briefly, her nightdress translucent for a moment so that the outline of her body was visible under the thin material; and then she was beside the bed, leaning forward to peer into Chelsea’s face.

“Are you awake?” she whispered.Ccontent © exclusive by Nô/vel(D)ra/ma.Org.

“Yes. What is it?”

“I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about him.”

Chelsea smiled. She’d been expecting her, even though there had been no commitment. She pulled aside the bedclothes, shuffling her body over the bed to make room. “Come in, Bec.”

The girl climbed in beside her. She was shivering, and Chelsea put her arms around her. “Hey, don’t let him get to you.”

Bec’s voice was low, her words uncertain. “It’s the same every night, Chelsea… you know – I’m alright during the day, when I’m busy, and then I get to think -”

Chelsea stroked her head gently. “Then think good things,” she murmured.

“I – I don’t have good things to think of.”

“Sure you do. You’re young, beautiful, have a good job and good friends and you’ll soon meet someone who thinks you’re the most special person in the world. Isn’t all that good stuff to think of?”