June

Thank you, Dawnj, for editing! This was supposed to be a short one. Oh well, you'll have to bear with me for some time.

*****

Rumour had it that June Faversham was a slut. She was a one, it was said - wild, and an easy lay, in for anything. She was a girl who would use and discard boyfriends at will. It was also said she would never say no. Feeling horny? June would always be more than willing to help you out; sex was her middle name.

It wasn't true. June had been curious about boys and love and sex when she was in her middle teens, like everyone else, but contrary to popular belief she hadn't been in for anything or anyone. She had just had three boyfriends only, over a six-year period. Her brief relationships had never worked out that well, and though she understood what love might be about, her attempts at making love had been none too satisfactory.

Her first boyfriend was just too young, too hasty and, eventually, intellectually not up to her level . They parted quite amicably, happy to be free from the demands they couldn't meet. The second one was alright for a few months, but then he lost interest. Her third boyfriend, John De Vere, had been very possessive. After a very short time his sexual appetite had become demanding and unpleasant, expecting her to do things she definitely did not want to do. John couldn't handle the fact that June didn't see him as God's gift to women and the be-all and end-all in her life. That, and the fact that he had started to be physically abusive, was quite enough. When she broke up with him, he started spreading rumours. He made her out to be the way he'd wanted to see her, licentious and whorish, and as he was a glib talker, the rumours stuck.

Even when John was arrested later for domestic violence, the tales he'd spread didn't lose their credibility for some of the men whose ears they'd been poured into. It seemed impossible for June to convince her the people in her surroundings; whatever she did, and no matter how prudently she behaved, her false bad name followed her like a puppy, always there, and yelping at the most impossible moments.

June was completely fed up with it all. It appeared her reputation gave men the right to insult her and expect things from her. She hated it, and refused any contact with them. She even went as far as moving house, eventually, to go and live where she wasn't known. It seemed to work out very well. For a long, long time, it felt as if her alleged past had been safely buried under a new face and in a new circle of acquaintances, in a place where she had a nice job and felt respected and valued. She slowly got over her distrust of people. She started to visit some of them again, and she even became mildly interested in the opposite sex - not that there were any attractive specimens - and eventually let herself be persuaded to visit the birthday party of one of her colleagues.

June usually wore a business suit to work, and she'd not bought any party clothes for ages. But she didn't care too much; a new pair of green jeans, a blouse and a sweater would have to do. She hadn't worn any make-up since she'd moved to this part of London. Her old lipstick turned out to be so dried out it was useless, and so she only used a little mascara and a whiff of a somewhat sedate perfume. Not that it mattered. She had never cared much about her appearance, but as she was a good dresser by instinct, no one ever noticed. She looked at herself critically in the mirror for a moment, and nodded at her reflection. She didn't look her age; she was thirty-four but could easily pass for five years younger or more. "Hello girl," she said, and smiled.

The party was in South London. Because June didn't want to live on orange juice all night, she walked a couple of blocks to the tube station. She had to change at Whitechapel and she got off at Norwood Junction. From there it was just a five-minute walk.

Mary-Jane Dubois had turned forty two days before. She loved having people over for a party, so this Friday night her house was packed with friends, colleagues and a couple of stray acquaintances. She lived with her husband in a rather large house that had been in the country when it saw the light; now it still had a spacious garden, and it boasted a big living-room adjacent to a kitchen that was almost the size of June's living-room and kitchen taken together.

Mary-Anne greeted her happily. She was a big woman with a very friendly disposition, and a lean, tallish husband with a sardonic look on life who lectured in something unintelligible at university. They were a slightly unlikely but very devoted couple, and the parties they gave were always enthusiastically attended by lots of people. The house was crowded. She recognised a few people from work, and Mary-Anne introduced her to a few others. Then the bell rang and her hostess excused herself, leaving June with a glass of red wine and Alice, the young woman to whom she'd just been introduced.

They stood talking together for a while. June rather liked Alice, who was a musician and talked quite engagingly about the concerts she was giving these weeks. June made music herself, so the subject was quite appealing. But after some time Alice drifted off to a young man who played in the same quintet as she did, and Jane stood alone, looking at the crowd enjoying themselves.

She nodded at a colleague who stood talking to a thin woman with a sour expression and a glass of water in her hand. The colleague gave her a wink, and she smiled at her. She decided to go and talk to her as soon as she'd have ended her conversation when she got cornered by a slightly unpleasant-looking man. She thought he must be in his late forties, and he exuded a somewhat seedy air.

"Hello," he said. "I think I know you, Miss Faversham. Heard a lot of lovely things about you. My wife is out of town tonight, and you are just what I need for a nice romp between the sheets! We've got some nice PVC underwear - swing those knockers up and down some." He leered at her, and gave her a wink that made made him look even more repulsive.

The flesh in June's neck seemed to shrink as she heard what he said. "I'm very sorry but you must be mistaken," she said. "I don't think I know you, and I would be very happy if you took your misguided sense of humour elsewhere."

"Oh no," he said. "I'm not mistaken at all. If you like, I could tell the others what I know about you? Good idea, er? Or would you rather no-one knew? In that case I'm ready to leave when you are. Jim's the name, by the way. Jim Jones." He winked again. "It's a long time since I fucked a nice young thing to pieces."

Jane spun round on her heels. She did not want to have anything to do with this man. She didn't want the rumours to start, either, and she supposed he'd be quite capable of starting them if his present behaviour was anything to go by. She looked at a picture on the wall but she didn't see what was in it; instead she saw her future go up in smoke again.

She put the glass she was still holding on an occasional table and walked to the far end of the room where a low fire was burning in the grate. She saw nobody there and there were two easy chairs in front of it. Her legs were trembling and she sat down in the nearest one.

"Hello," someone said. "I'm not that invisible, I hope?"

She started. There was someone sitting in the other chair. He put down a book he'd been holding, got up, extended his hand, and said, "George Jillings. Pleased to meet you."

June got up and shook his hand. "I'm June Faversham," she said. She looked at George, and wondered how she could have overlooked him. He was at least 6'8" and he was handsome and broad-shouldered with a shock of brown hair. His eyes were brown, too, with a tinge of green. They were kind; it felt good to look into them.

"You're not taking part in the festivities, either?" he said.

"No," June said. "I'm not." She tried to give him a noncommittal look, but to her horror she didn't manage to. She bit her lower lip and repeated, "I'm not, no."

He looked at her and said, "Do sit down again. Can I get you something to drink?"

She slumped into her chair and said, "Yes please. Could you get me a stiff whisky?"

He nodded. "I won't be a minute," he said.

But he was a little longer that he'd wanted to. When he crossed the room to reach the table that held the bottles, he was accosted by an unpleasant man who said, "Excuse me, but I'd like to warn you about the woman you've just spoken to."

"I beg your pardon?" George said. "Warn me? I'm quite old enough to take care of myself, thank you."

"Oh, but you don't know. She is quite the village slut. Quite likely to give you the clap, you know. Made a lot of victims..."

George put out his hand, and said, "Thank you very much, Mr... er?"

"Jones, Jim Jones." He took the hand he was offered.

George gave him a mirthless smile and squeezed.

"Ouch! Mind what you're doing!"

"Thank you very much for warning me about yourself. I vaguely seem to remember your face... Let me tell you that any more of this will have me hot on your trail, Mr... Jones?"

Mr Jones squirmed. George's handshake was painful in the extreme.

George relinquished his hand, and looked at him. He was over a head taller, and his withering stare, combined with his size, could be very intimidating. Mr Jones seemed to shrink.

"You could go and complain to Mary-Anne but maybe that might prove just a wee bit embarrassing. If so, I think you'd better make yourself scarce," George said.

Mr Jones didn't reply. He turned on his heels and hurried out of the room, without as much as taking leave of his host and hostess. George remained standing motionlessly until he'd seen the last of him; then he poured a glass of orange juice and a stiff whisky and returned to June.

"Here you are," he said. "I don't like this sort of do very much, you know. I used not to go anywhere on my own at all, until my wife passed away..."

He stared into the dying fire and bent over to pick up a log which he put on the red hot ashes. He watched it produce a little smoke and then burst into flame. "I thought I had to get some social life again. Bad idea. But I think there may have been a reason for it..." He gave her a questioning look. "Did you come across a certain Jim Jones?"

June stiffened.

"I see," George said. "Unpleasant character, that. He's left, but I'm not quite certain he may not be lurking in the neighbourhood. You'd better not leave alone tonight."

June took a big swig of her drink. "How do you know?" she said.

George gave her a grim smile. "I'm a lawyer," he said. "I have seen this person a couple of times, under various aliases. He's not called Jim Jones, that much I know. What did he want from you?"

"How do I know I can trust you?" June said. "You may be in league with him for all I know."

"You're right," George said. "You could ask Mary-Anne, who will speak for me. Here is my card - but I know that, too, may be false."

June took the card from him. It said G. Jillings, QC. "One moment," she said.

Mary-Anne confirmed that George was indeed who he said he was. "His wife died last spring," she said. "He'd been living like a recluse ever since, so I am happy to see him here. But I don't think it is his kind of fun, really. I'd better ask him over for a meal one of these days. Where is he?"

"He's over there, at the fire," June said. "I'll go and talk to him some more."

George grinned at her when she sat down again. "OK?" he said.

June nodded. "I'm happy that creep has gone," she said.

"Yes. What happened? Or is that too horrible to tell?"

June swirled the whisky around in her glass, and looked at it. Then she looked at George for a moment. It took quite some courage to tell him what had happened, and she didn't want to look at him while she did, so she stared into the fire while she told him all about her past, and how she'd gone to the party by tube, happy to start socialising again, and how the past had seemed to have overtaken her that evening.

"I was afraid it would be something unspeakable," George said, "but I wasn't prepared for something as bad as this. I should have squeezed his hand a little longer."

He shook his head. "I don't think he'll trouble you any more. I would like to see you home nevertheless. I dislike the idea of your going home by tube. Right?"

June nodded. "Do you live my way?"

"Oh, near enough. It'll be no trouble at all. Do you like books? I was just going through this one -" he picked up the book he'd put down when he introduced himself to her - "and it seems quite interesting."

"Can I have a look?" June said. She didn't know too much about books, apart from the novels she read, but she felt it was uncivil not to pretend to an interest in it. It was quite a beautiful book, actually.

"It looks quite old," she said. She went to the title page, which said MDCLXXIII, and deciphered the date. "1673," she said. "Yes. That really is old."

George nodded. He grinned at June, and said, "What do you do in your spare time?"

He looked at her while she told him about her hobbies - music, singing in particular, and playing the oboe. No, she didn't play in an orchestra, and she wasn't a great musician either...

He saw a young woman with clear grey eyes. They looked rather tired, which he put down to that evening's experiences. She had a wide mouth and dark blonde hair that she wore in a roll in her neck, and she was dressed in green jeans and a grey sweater. She wore hardly any make-up, which he liked, and no jewellery apart from a thin gold necklace with a small pendant. She would be some ten years younger than he was, he thought. It was always difficult to guess people's ages. He wished that she'd not have had that so-called boyfriend of hers, that De Vere fellow. There really were a lot of rotters around. Damn. This was much too nice a girl for that kind of trouble.

June fell silent. George noticed she had finished her whisky. "Another drink?" he said.

June shook her head. "I think I'd rather go home," she said.

George nodded. "Okay," he said. "Let's go."

They went and took their leave of Mary-Anne. "Mary," George said, "did you invite that fellow with the thin, pinched face?"

"No," she said. "I think he arrived together with Jill, and I took it she'd brought him... Why?"

"Oh," George said, "he's one of life's undesirables. Better not let him in again."

"Do you think he may have taken something?" Mary-Anne said, rather alarmed.

George shook his head. "Not in his line," he said, "but I'm happy to know he was gate-crashing. I like having something on him."

He gave a grim smile. Then he said, "Thank you for having me around, Mary. I'm afraid I may not have been the life and soul of the party..."

"I was glad to see you, George. I'll invite you over for dinner some time soon, ok?"

She kissed him on the cheek, and then said goodbye to June.

Together they walked to George's car. He drove a Saab, and he opened the door for June. She sat down in the car feeling relieved she didn't have to go by underground. George closed her door and looked around; to his satisfaction there was no one lurking in the shadows.

"Alright. Here we go," he said. "Do tell me where exactly I drop you off!"

June did, and they sat talking about London, and George's work, until they arrived at June's apartment.

"Thank you very much!" she said as she left the car. "You brought an awful evening to a nice end!"

"Glad to have been there," George said. "I highly enjoyed your company, June."

She gave him a smile and a wave of her hand as he slowly drove off. She went in and locked the door. She felt hungry, and went into the kitchen for a snack before she went to bed. She really hoped that man wouldn't start slandering her; but George was nice. Really nice. He had beautiful eyes, and a voice that was melodious and sexy at the same time. If only her boyfriends had been like that... She wondered where he lived, and then she remembered he'd given her his card. What could she have done with it? She got up and went to the living-room to see if it was in her bag. It was. Good! But he didn't live near her place at all. So he must have got out of his way to get her home safely. Oh wow! She'd have to think about that. Maybe he was just a real gentleman - or could he perhaps like her a little? She went back to bed to ponder the question but what with all the stress and tension of that day she fell asleep when she hit the pillow.

George grinned a little when he drove off. She really was a nice lass, and, if anything, the opposite of the stories some people seemed to tell about her, he thought. Then he directed his attention to the traffic.

Some forty minutes later he pulled up on the drive, went inside and walked to his study. There was an oil painting of his wife on the wall over a group of filing cabinets, and he nodded at her. "I'm back," he said. "Had to help a young woman." He looked at his watch and decided he'd better go to bed. "It's getting late, sweetheart. See you tomorrow," he added and left the room.

He went to bed, but being tired didn't help this time, and he lay in the semi-darkness of the Greater London night, looking at the ceiling and thinking of Joan. She'd been dead for over a year now. He missed her frightfully much - her warmth, her nearness, having someone to talk to. He was of a retiring disposition, and Joan's ebullience had nicely countered his inclination to become a recluse. The encounter with June - June sounds almost like Joan, he thought - hadn't done much to grant him a peaceful night's sleep. She was nice. Rather more than nice, perhaps. He sighed.

Then he suddenly sat up. That face. That pinched, shifty face... Damn. There was something the matter with it. He tried to remember what it was. There was something... He got up and went down the stairs and into his office. He went to one of the filing cabinets, and started going through the data, starting about a year earlier, and it wasn't long before he found the name he was looking for. He nodded grimly, and decided to contact Jay Morrison, a friend of his in the London Met first thing in the morning. Then he went back to bed and to sleep.

He called Jay before breakfast. Initially his telephone call was greeted with shocked silence on the other end. Then he was asked over to come and talk immediately. He did have the time, did he? He did.

At the station he was first shown a couple of pictures in which he recognised the man he'd met the evening before, usually in the company of another unfavourable-looking gentleman. "This is him," he said, "but I don't think I've ever seen the other beauty."

"That is John De Vere. He served time twice, once for domestic violence and once for attempted manslaughter. We know he even abused his parents, and we fear he may have got on to far more unsavoury practices. But we have lost sight of him. After these pictures were taken he escaped the supervision of his probation officer."

"John De Vere - that's the fellow who spread the slander about June. They do make a nice couple, don't they?"

It appeared that Mr so-called Jones, or Bob Brown, according to the official papers, whom George remembered as a fraudster and wholesale conman, had developed into a rapist and was sought for the murder of at least one young woman. The victim had been found raped with a slit throat, bound and blindfolded, and witnesses who'd seen a person lurking in the neighbourhood had all pointed out his picture without the least hesitation. There had been a couple of other murders during the same period that might have been done by the same perpetrator, though, and they were very interested indeed, and more than a little bit concerned about June's welfare. He was probably in London still, and he might well be incensed against June. You never knew; his contacts with John De Vere didn't spell much good for her. This might be their chance to lay hands on him, though. They'd have to keep tabs on June as they didn't want another victim.