see me again. I don’t even know whether he wants to see me again.
“Thank you, Giles.” More I cannot manage. I feel myself welling up, and I don’t want to cry in front of him.
“It was my pleasure, Miss Lieberman.” He bends down to give me a quick kiss on the lips, and then he’s off.
I’m glad there’s no Walsh about as I slowly push my bike up to the garage. I lock it in and trudge across to my porch.
I miss him already.
I’m also pretty certain that I didn’t close my shutters before I set out in the small hours of Saturday morning. Maybe Pop Walsh went round the house to do that, thinking his Yankee greenhorn tenant had left for four weeks without battening down the hatches.
The moment I open the front door, I know that something is wrong. It’s too warm, for one thing. I left the heat on low, assuming that I would be back in the morning; now even the little hall is warmer than I usually keep it. What I didn’t leave on is the radio, and I certainly didn’t leave it on in the bedroom, quietly playing country music.
Perhaps it is this detail that reassures me I won’t be clobbered to death by housebreakers. It may still not be wise to venture any further, but fear is only one of my instinctive reactions. The bedroom door is open a crack, and when I cautiously push it open, I wonder what I expected to see. What I did not expect to see is three naked young people having sex on my bed. I recognize the blond girl, Logan’s fuck buddy, and I can only assume that the two boys, one tall and lean, one darker and stockier, are Pop Walsh’s farm helpers. They have the girl between them on all fours, one leisurely humping her from behind, one holding her bobbing head around his cock. It is a very peaceful, relaxed scene, and shocked as I am, I don’t think I will start shouting quite yet.
I take a few steps further and peep into the living-room. They have candles burning in here, and there is a fragrance of orange in the air. On several blankets, draped over the sofa cushions that have been pushed together on the floor, Jules Walsh lies naked on her stomach, being massaged by Logan Williams. He is wearing boxers and a t-shirt, and as I watch, struggling to take in this invasion of my private space, I try to decide whether he is also masturbating her. Not yet, or not now, seems to be the answer to this one.
“Okay, people, end of party.” I switch on the ceiling light, and Jules screams before bursting into tears.
“Get dressed, Jules, and stop blubbering!”
I walk back to the bedroom and throw out the Polish trio; the girl giggles, but the two boys seem to be stoned out of their heads. Without resistance or great hurry they pull on their clothes and disappear into the darkness.
“The first thing you’ll do is strip my bed and put the sheets into the washing machine.”
“Hey, man, don’t—”
“Don’t what, Logan?” I snap at him, showing him how very little amused I am. “Don’t ‘Hey, man’ me, for a start! You call me ‘Dr. Lieberman, ma’am,’ or I’ll call the police. Get on it!”
He shrugs and does as he is told. Meanwhile I lean in the doorframe and watch Jules, still sobbing, blow out the candles and rearrange the sofa cushions.
“Do you want me to put the red dress in with the sheets?” Logan calls from the bathroom. He sticks his head out through the door. “Only because there’s also a lot of cunt juice on that. Dr. Lieberman, ma’am.”
And this is where the absurdity of the situation reaches the critical degree and I can’t keep my face straight any more.
“You really are a little shit, Logan Williams!”
At first he is not sure how he is to take this apparent change of atmosphere, then he steps out of the bathroom into the hall.
“Actually, no, ma’am, I’m not. If I was, I’d have allowed Pavel, Karol, and Elka to clean out the place long before now. I’d also have deflowered that young lady there—” He nods his head to indicate Jules in the living-room.
“You mean to tell me you haven’t?” I ask with awful irony.
“Jules?” he calls. “Have I fucked you?”
“No!” She appears from the kitchen, too upset now for tears. “He hasn’t!”