Two Sides to Every Story Pt. 03

CHAPTER TWENTY

Dave dropped me on North Street, making a quick getaway before she could be ticked off by an officious traffic warden. Having left my backpack in the Mini, I marched purposefully into my bank and was surprised to find it so quiet.

Everyone must be banking on-line, I supposed, with any luck not as disastrously as me.

Passing the mostly empty teller windows, I approached the information desk and asked to see the manager. The woman behind the desk looked at me as if I'd crawled out from under a rock.

'Have you an appointment?'

'No. I'm a victim of cybercrime and I want to speak to someone face-to-face.'

The woman took my details and said I'd be best speaking to Rick. 'He knows much more than the manager about that sort of thing. And I know he's free at the moment.'

Meaning he's here in the building, I thought uncharitably, not playing the eighth at St Ives.

Rick turned out to be about my age and very helpful. He had a file in front of him with my name on it.

'There are three dodgy transactions,' he said, showing me a statement with no deposits and a lot of withdrawals. 'You've been travelling, right? And you usually take out about four hundred at a time?'

'It depends where I am,' said I. 'In the US and Australia I usually go for five hundred dollars.'

'Yeah, well someone has a good idea as to your habits. See this entry on the seventh. That was on-line, not from an ATM.'

'Can you trace it?'

'My technical colleagues are still trying. Unfortunately it was made via an obfuscated server, most likely based overseas. Last I heard they'd run into a brick wall.'

'Obfuscated?'

'It means it's been hidden by some technical means. Our guys could trace it, but it would cost a lot more to do that than you've lost.'

'Oh bollocks,' I said, eloquently.

'This next withdrawal,' Rick went on, pointing, 'is for twice as much. I think the first was a test, to make sure they had access. The second is to see if you had a daily limit. And, of course, the one on the twelfth is where they cleaned you out.'

I added the transactions up in my head. Rats; they'd got just short of sixteen grand!

'You can't see it on here,' said Rick, 'but there was actually a further attempt, shortly after the big one. That was small again, looking to see if you had an overdraft. If you had they'd have probably used it up in five hundreds.'

My dad was right; the world was full of bastards. 'They're clever so-and-sos, aren't they?' I said, moderating my language.

'It certainly looks like they've done it before.'

'Does this happen a lot?'

'I can't answer that, but you are by no means alone.'

Rick was smiling at me. He'd been clearly trying to impress with his knowledge and a generous sprinkling of sympathy. He wasn't my type, though, so he'd been wasting his charm.

'How can anyone know so much about me?' I asked, keeping things business-like.

'There's all sorts of personal information floating about out there. Some of it sometimes gets in the wrong hands and next thing we know, someone's been robbed.'

'So you're not blaming me for it?'

'No, we've already eliminated negligence from our enquiries. You'll be getting your money back, but it might take a while.'

'Bloody banks,' I said, grinning to show I didn't mean it (much). 'What would we do without them?'

*****

Back on North Street I tested my new card in the nearest cash machine. Bingo! It worked and so did my new overdraft. The machine gave me two hundred quid without hesitation. Resisting the urge to find a pub and drink Landlord, I made my way to the travel agents and exchanged the last of my foreign currency. And then, still valiantly resisting my baser urges, I took a taxi to Dave's.

It was strange going in the cottage again. It was so very familiar yet somehow different. I stood a moment in the kitchen, casting around for changes and seeing none. Everything was exactly as and where it should be, including the table and all its happy memories.

It must be me, I thought as I went through Dave's tiny study and (slightly larger) sitting room. I'm the thing that's out of place.

I went upstairs and paused outside my hostess's bedroom door. Then, steeling myself, I peeped inside. Surprise, surprise . . . it was just the same as ever. And it smelt of the same flowers as its owner, not of some intruder. Even so, I eyed the neatly-made bed. Darling Mikela might not have moved in so far, but she would have surely slept in there, on the left-hand side . . . in the place where I was supposed to sleep.

'Thieving bitch,' I muttered. 'I turn my back two seconds and she does a Goldilocks on me.'

The spare bedroom had indeed been redecorated, and very tastefully at that. I crossed to the bed (crossing in that small room takes precisely one step) and picked up the envelope that lay waiting on the pillow. It was obviously a card and was addressed to me, so I opened it. On the front it had a cartoon dog with a pair of slippers in its mouth and the message WELCOME HOME!! Inside, in her invariably neat handwriting, Dave had put:

"Time changes everything but you never change, and I'm glad. Please always be my friend."

That was too much for me. I sat on the bed and wept.

*****

I showered and, having little choice with my backpack still in Dave's Mini, climbed back into my travelling clothes before walking the few yards to The Busfeild. At that time of day, three o'clock on a Monday afternoon, it was quiet but not completely deserted. Getting served as soon as I reached the bar, I (at last!!) helped myself to a mighty swig of Landlord.

'Looks like you needed that,' a voice said behind me.

I turned to see one of the regulars, grinning at me. In his mid-fifties, Donald is one of those guys who always has money but never seems to work. He's also excellent company. I enjoy talking to him and don't mind the way he ogles me when he's in his cups. He knows looking is as close as he's ever going to get and doesn't hold that against me. Unlike some.

'I did need it,' I told him. 'Believe it or not, I've just got back from Botany Bay.'

'Botany Bay,' he echoed. 'I thought you'd been gone a while. What happened? Did they catch you nicking a loaf of bread?'

I laughed. 'I didn't get transported. And by the way, it's not a stigma anymore. A lot of Australians are proud to be descended from convicts.'

'You would say that, wouldn't you? Come on, tell me all about it.'

Two hours flew by as we swapped politically incorrect jokes and stories from all around the world. And before anyone objects, please note I only used material I'd heard people using themselves, poking fun at their own countries and countrymen. God knows where Donald got his stuff from; a youth custody centre, as likely as not.

Me being transported! If he'd been around two hundred years ago he'd have been the first to be hauled off in chains.

It was good to be back, though. All too soon I was on my umpteenth pint and Dave had joined us, still in her work clothes.

'I guessed you'd be in here when you weren't at home,' she said in greeting. 'Have you been at it all afternoon?'

'Not yet she hasn't,' said Donald, guffawing.

'I need a word,' Dave continued, as good as ignoring him.

'Go ahead,' I said. 'Be my guest.'

'Not here. Come round to my place for five minutes.'

Leaving my half-finished drink in Donald's care, we soon arrived at Dave's gate. As I pushed it open I heard her phone. Its current ringtone was the theme to Star Trek, perhaps in honour of her techie teammates who she called "Trekkies".

'Shit,' she cried, 'I must have left it on the kitchen table.'

Every helpful, I sprinted diagonally across the lawn, opened the door and grabbed her mobile.

'Hello,' I said, somewhat breathlessly.

'Who the fuck is that?' a strange, female voice snapped.

Then Dave snatched her phone off me. 'Mikki,' she said, 'thank God, I . . .'

I could hear a jumble of angry words coming from the other end. Perhaps fortunately, I couldn't make sense of them. Dave could, however. Her face fell.

'Mikki,' she said forlornly, 'you don't understand . . .'

That prompted another jumble of even angrier words before the caller rang off.

Then Dave was in my arms, her face cushioned by my tits, sobbing her little heart out. I stroked her back and made soothing sounds. Of course I didn't know all the ins and outs right then, but it was crystal clear what had happened. Darling Mikela had spit the dummy, big-style.

Hell, she might just have filed for divorce!

Round One to me, I thought. One-nil up before I've even started. Is this a fair contest or what?

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I'm going to hurry through my first few days back in Blighty because not a lot of great importance happened. I went for my interview with Craig and HR on the Wednesday and signed a contract there and then . . . twelve months at an enhanced salary, commencing from the coming Monday. Afterwards I rang the agency and cancelled my other two interviews.

So yah, boo sucks to Darling Mikela's claims about my lack of thoughtfulness!

What else happened? My dad put ten grand in my new account. He says it's a gift but I'm taking it as a loan; as soon as the bank reimburses me, I am reimbursing him.

If I can find a way to get him to accept it.

On a more personal front, I treated Dave with warmth and respect at all times. And I pretended to start flat-hunting. Being deceitful didn't weigh well on my conscience but it was, I assured myself, for Dave's own good. She wouldn't admit it, but she wanted a reconciliation just as much as I did.

Domestically, I insisted on paying weekly board. I also insisted on buying most of our meals at the pub (meaning nearly every evening and all the time at the weekend). Dave muttered darkly about "irresponsible overdrafts" but played along once I'd shown her my topped-up account balance.

Less promisingly, she went grovelling to Darling Mikela and wangled some sort of truce/amnesty. As I understood it, that was based on me making myself extinct, leaving the coast clear for them to live happily ever after.

As if!

Sex-wise, nothing happened. Sobbing on my tits was as intimate as Dave got. Well, maybe we did get a little cosier as the days ticked by, but fucking was so far out of the question it never got mentioned.

And then the weekend arrived.

*****

Dave had made it clear she wanted to help in my flat-hunting. I did, therefore, make sure we had three possibilities to view on both Saturday and Sunday. Now, without wanting to seem devious, I insisted my new place had to be in Bingley. I'd done Keighley and Skipton, I said, it was time to move upmarket. And that honestly had nothing to do with the shortage of places to rent in sleepy old Bingheleia.

Not!!

Anyway, we survived Saturday morning and lunched in the Busfeild's restaurant. Then we went through into the main bar to bicker a while. It was nothing serious, I hasten to add, just a small difference of opinion. Dave wanted to spend the afternoon going round the estate agents again; I wanted to spend it with a few more pints of Timmy Taylor's finest.

And then Darling Mikela showed up.

Brief aside here. I'd expected someone much younger, hopefully with acne, BO and a set of teeth that belonged on a horse. Darling Mikela is not like that; no, not at all. She's very foxy, the sort of girl who looks great at a first glance and then improves by the second. Auburn-haired, her skin is absolutely flawless, she smells of woodland berries and Hollywood superstars pay squillions for sadly inferior gnashers.

And don't get me going on her tits! They enter a room half an hour before she does, but definitely do not look out of place.

Did I intimate before that I'd like to fuck her? Well it's true. I hate her but hate isn't quite as strong as lust, is it? Or maybe they're flip-sides of the same coin.

Our triangular encounter was short and, for the other two participants, painfully uncomfortable. Dave was in a tizzy, almost gushingly polite, and Darling Mikela wasn't much better.

More to the point, I could tell at a glance that Darling Mikela was fresh from a fucking. The eyes give it away every time. A girl can sort out just-fucked-hair, but just-fucked-eyes are a window in on her soul, aren't they?

Not that Dave seemed to notice. She was nodding like a lap dog, only just managing to keep her tongue in her mouth.

Me? I had Miss Congeniality off to a T. The initial impulse was to claw the robbing bitch's just-fucked-eyes out. But no, I was civil to her.

Fuck knows how. I despise the cunt. I despise her with every last fibre.

*****

Saturday night evolved into a trend-setter. Fed and watered at the pub (and where else would we be fed and watered, I hear you ask), we retreated to Dave's and shared a bottle of nicely chilled Pinot as we watched Basic Instinct on DVD. We also shared a box of Maltesers.

Don't ask me why but, perhaps halfway through the box, perhaps influenced by Sharon Stone's oh-so-sexy girlfriend, I tried to pop a globe of "chocolate with the less fattening centre" into Dave's mouth. She froze for a second then, seemingly reluctantly, let me have my way.

'There,' I said, 'that wasn't so bad, was it? Want another?'

She said yes and I emptied the box, feeding us both, one after the other. Then, the ice-pick finale still puzzling us, Dave said we'd had too much wine and needed a coffee. I wasn't necessarily in sync with that but went along with it, accepting my role as obedient sidekick. At a loose end while Dave was in the kitchen, I amused myself with a video Honey had sent me.

Only too obviously filmed on some lackey's mobile, the footage was of her. In the first scene she was in an office with Manhattan behind and below her. She was in a mannish suit, power-dressed in pin-stripes almost certainly bought from Savile Row. In the other she was in a gym, dressed by Nike and kicking seven bells out of a hanging bag. Watching her go ballistic I actually felt sorry for the hanging bag. Bruce Lee couldn't have done a better job on it.

'What's that?' Dave enquired, returning with a tray.

I let her place the tray on the coffee table then handed her my mobile.

'She's called Honey,' I said, 'isn't she ace?'

Dave watched the footage then frowned at me. 'Honey? You're having a laugh.'

'No, straight up, that's her name.'

'I take it she's a conquest.'

'She invited me on a boat trip. It lasted a month. And her name's appropriate. She does taste of honey.'

'Katrina! I don't believe you just said that.'

'She does,' I said, unrepentant, 'and I should know. It was of my duties to mop up her cum off the deck . . . with my tongue.'

'Katrina!!'

'Okay, so that's an exaggeration. I usually used a bucket of seawater. And it was my cum as well as hers. Seawater's good for washing away cum, by the way. Although the Island Maiden's deck was very polished and shiny. Any sort of water would have probably done the trick.'

Dave sipped coffee and gave me a disparaging look. 'She had you scrubbing her deck like a . . . a . . .'

'Like a scrubber,' said I, grinning at her. 'Don't worry, I've been called worse.'

'And I'm not surprised. You're a hopeless case. I don't know what I ever saw in you.'

'Sleep with me,' I said impulsively. Then, before I could be shunned: 'As a platonic friend. As the most platonic friend anyone has ever had. I just need warmth and comfort. Please, Dave. Do I have to beg you?'

She looked at me for a long, long time. I fully expected her to tell me to go forth and multiply.

But she didn't.

'Okay,' she said, but not naked . . . and no funny business.'

*****

My bed-wear options were negligible. While Dave retired to her room to undress, I peeled off my T-shirt and removed my bra. I then replaced my T-, took off my jeans and called it good.

Wondering where Dave had got to . . . wondering if she'd chickened at the last . . . I climbed into bed. She arrived two seconds later and the sight of her made me whistle.

Dave is undoubtedly beautiful but masculine, in a lot of sexy ways. That night, clad in a blue night dress that was at best, diaphanous, she was utterly stunning. If I'd have had a cock it would have instantly turned to rock. It might even have rivalled my nipples for hardness.

'Jesus, Dave,' I said, my voice reduced to a whisper, 'I thought this was supposed to be platonic.'

'It is,' she countered. 'Tell me now if you're not up to the task.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Sunday morning granted me a reprieve. That is to say, Dave couldn't be arsed to accompany me on my flat-hunting. Consequently, I didn't bother doing any.

Yet another aside: Isn't "arse" a wonderful word? There's something intrinsically crude and earthy about it. In my opinion it has two existences (here in the UK, I mean, and of course in Australia, where the natives take crude and earthy to new levels at the drop of a hat). "I can't be arsed" is a very commonly-used term for "I can't motivate myself", and not particularly frowned upon. But, on its own, "arse" is about as rude as it gets. Trust me: I'm English. The only thing that sounds ruder is "arsehole".

Anyhow, back to the story.

Call me boring but, keeping up the flat-hunting pretence, I borrowed Dave's Mini and spent the morning watching football matches at the part of Keighley known as Marley. And yes, there were a few women's matches, as well as a lot of men's.

And weren't some of those soccer gals athletic!

I'd arranged to meet Dave in The Busfeild's restaurant at one. Bored with amateur soccer, I got to the bar bang on twelve . . . and stopped in my tracks. Darling Mikela was there again (with lezzie nympho Joyce, naturally), her eyes more fucked over than ever.

Confession time: I lurked and prowled a while, finally following her into the ladies'. But in spite of her version of events, I did not confront her like Trump and Hilary. No, I was waiting for her by the sink, but I never swore or confronted her.

Not much, anyway, even if I did let her know I wasn't about to simply fade away. She didn't seem to like hearing that and got quite snotty. Or maybe I upset her when I lied and said that I'd been fucking Dave ten hours a day ever since I'd got back.

That was when she threatened me with violence and, mission completed, I vacated the scene.

*****

The afternoon passed with me terrified Darling Mikela would split on me. Fortunately, that never happened. Instead, after a very nervy Sunday lunch (on my behalf, at least), we watched a few more DVDs and gobbled up another box of Maltesers. Then, doing my utmost to conceal a lot of apprehension, we went back to the pub for our evening meal.

And halleluiah, the girlfriend-stealing bitch wasn't there.

Home once more at Dave's we shared a couple of bottles of wine and watched yet more DVDs. And I couldn't help noticing my hostess was distracted. Although she never admitted it, she was on bricks ahead of the end of her amnesty. In her opinion the coming day was make or break with Darling Mikela.

Now I could have stirred things up by sowing seeds about Joyce. I could have, but I didn't. Some tiny voice in my head told me to leave well alone.

'You've got to be whiter than white on this,' it assured me. 'If there's any input from you . . . any input at all . . . Dave will blame you forevermore.'

So I resisted temptation and focussed on Maleficent, leaving Dave to stew in her own juices.

'Bedtime,' she said eventually.

'Yours or mine?' I replied saucily.

'Yours,' she said, 'we can't sleep in mine; it's out of bounds. And still no funny business.'

'Spoilsport,' I said, 'But go on then; sleeping's better than nothing.'

*****

I've never really suffered that infamous Monday morning feeling. Maybe that's because I've never had a job that was expected to last for years. In other words there has always been light for me at the end of the tunnel. I'm not fazed by new starts either. Why should I be? I've always worked in similar environments, I generally know a few of my new colleagues from previous contracts and it wasn't exactly a "new start" for me at the Widget Company, was it?