Sleep of the Guilty

"Sleep of the Guilty" (circa-1967)

Jimmy Boyd was a hard man. Towering over most people at six feet tall his casual persona hid the physical, threatening and violent tendencies that earned him his reputation.

The long white scar running across the left side of his neck was given to him by a nightclub doorman, just before Jimmy got the better of him. After Jimmy had finished with him his injuries were so bad an ambulance had to rush him to the nearest hospital.

Jimmy had an opinion that was without compromise. You either agreed with him or you were wrong. He drank his whiskey by the bottle rather than by the glass and if you were to ask him how he ever managed to get through life, he would be the first to tell you that he had a lot of help from his best friend, Jack Daniels.

Some people called him 'the butcher.' Others called him 'scar face.'

But nobody would ever dare say it to his face.

Frank Brand said Jimmy was a fearless maniac and probably the reason why he had his blood-type tattooed on his right arm, the day he joined the British Armed Forces.

Jimmy's wife, Sandra never used any of these names. She just called him, 'that fucking arsehole.'

Before joining the army, Jimmy lived with his parents in a modest council house in a working class area of Gateshead. He was only fourteen when his father fell to his death whilst erecting scaffolding on a multi-storey building. After the funeral he refused to go back to school. He told everyone that he would get a job and look after his mother.

Jimmy never lived up to his mother's expectations.

From the age of fourteen he spent most of his teenage years in and out of young offender's institutions. Although most of his offences were for minor thefts and ant-social behaviour, when he was eighteen he spent nine months in prison for GBH.

Like most young offenders he avoided rehabilitation and acquired a hatred for authority. When he was inside he spent most of his time either boxing or pumping iron in the gym.

The only three things that prison gave Jimmy Boyd was independence, a reputation and an amazing physique.

The night Frank Brand called into his local pub and offered a lending hand to Jimmy Boyd, it forged a bond of friendship between the two men.

Jimmy was already punching and kicking at two men on the floor while a third man swung punches at the back of his head. And even though he was outnumbered, he fought like a man possessed.

That's when Frank decided to make the fight a little more even.

After placing a firm arm around his throat he pulled the third man away, dragging him like a rag doll until he was clear of the action.

After feeling the brutal force of Jimmy's violent temper it wasn't long before the three defeated men escaped through an exit door at the side of the building.

After an exchange of hands and a beer at the bar, Jimmy told Frank that the three men had bullied and beaten him through his early school days. Lifting his glass to his mouth he confessed that being a skinny kid with a stammer and his hands and face covered in warts, he was a prime target for bullies.

Fortunately, by the time he reached his teens his stammer had gone and so were the warts.

Jimmy Boyd had suspected for some time that his wife was having an affair with someone she worked with at the local council office.

Desperate to find out the truth about his wife's infidelity he constantly racked his brain, hoping he could resolve the situation before the army sent him on his next tour.

There were lots of rumours and speculation about Sandra's infidelity. Jimmy was a little naïve at first, but after a little snooping, he soon discovered that his suspicions were correct.

Sandra was having an affair with her boss, a married man in his mid-forties. In his remit as Housing Manager he was responsible for the maintenance, allocation and subsequent letting of all council houses, so there was no surprise when Sandra and Jimmy were unexpectedly offered a fully modernised council house, only a few hundred yards from his mother.

Not long after they were married, Sandra fell pregnant and gave birth to a baby boy.

In the early years of married life they struggled emotionally and financially but there were times when the strain became unbearable and after too many arguments and physical abuse their future together looked increasingly doubtful.

Jimmy had blackened Sandra's eyes so many times you rarely saw her without dark glasses. But for the sake of their son they made the best of a volatile relationship. They gave up sharing a bed together and although they slept under the same roof, they both led separate lives.

Jimmy first became suspicious when Sandra started to wear sexy underwear and about twice a week she would go out in the car and wouldn't return until the early hours of the next morning. Whenever Jimmy questioned her, she always had a reasonable explanation and a girlfriend that was always willing to provide her with a watertight alibi.

Although their marriage had reached the end of its life and a divorce offered the best solution, Jimmy's male chauvinistic attitude wouldn't be compromised until he knew the truth about Sandra's affair.

He also knew that the only way he was going to know for sure was to catch her red-handed with her lover.

And that's when Frank Brand came up with a brilliant plan.

Mark Brand had just turned eighteen and like all open-minded teenagers the availability of money was at a premium, so when Jimmy and his brother Frank offered him a substantial amount of cash for a few hours of his time, he immediately accepted.

On a blistering hot August evening, Jimmy Boyd opened the boot of his wife's car and helped Mark to crawl inside. The plan was that he would remain inside the boot and hopefully catch Sandra having sex with her lover.

Lying on his side in the foetal position he tried to adjust himself to his new environment. Jimmy smiled and threw a packet of chewing gum, hitting him on the side of his head.

"It's going to be a long night, so put it in your pocket in case you get hungry later," he sniggered sarcastically, closing the car boot. "And good hunting."

The sound of the engine followed by a squeal of rubber confirmed that Sandra had pulled out of the drive on her way to her liaison.

Aware that he probably had a long night ahead of him he tried to manoeuvre his body in an attempt to get as comfortable as possible, although he quickly realised that the boot of a Ford Cortina Mk1 was never designed for human cargo.

It was dark, hot and uncomfortable and there was that distinctive smell of engine oil and exhaust fumes that you always associate with garages.

As he shifted his weight in the tight enclosure a sense of claustrophobia suddenly fed his panic. He knew he had made a wrong decision.

But it was too late. It had gone too far. There was no going back.

He nervously chewed the inside of his mouth.

After travelling for about twenty minutes the car pulled to a halt. The sound of the passenger door slamming shut and the muffled sound of a male voice signalled that their night of misbehaviour was about to begin.

As he willed his eardrums to capture a slight hint of their conversation the doors suddenly opened and they both stepped out of the car.

In the uncanny silence he held his breath, listening for sounds, trying to figure out why they had left the vehicle. His only thought was that they had decided to go for a drink until it was dark enough to prevent any unwanted spectators.

As the minutes crawled by with tedious trepidation he cursed himself for his stupidity.

After almost an hour of muttering profanities, the ensuing silence was suddenly interrupted by the sound of the driver's door opening. Only this time Sandra was alone.

Clouds of cigarette smoke began to drift inside the boot and although the unhealthy environment urged him to cough, he made sure he resisted the temptation.

With her heart beating at the speed of sound and her foot pressed hard against the accelerator pedal, Sandra followed her lover to their final destination.

When the car pulled to a halt the door opened and a man climbed into the passenger seat. They talked for a few minutes but again their conversation was vague.

Their night of passion quickly got underway, two impatient voices groaning out their pleasure through a fanfare of squeaking springs, breathless gasps and muffled promises.

A detached observer alone in the darkness, a packet of chewing gum his only companion, breathing in air through his nose, a furtive voyeur waiting and listening, easing into his dutiful role as private investigator,

After a brief moment of unnerving silence the rear doors opened and they both climbed into the back seat of the car. This time the action really got heated.

In no time the car was rocking back and forth to the motion of two people fucking through a chorus of pledges, promises and crude obscenities, Sandra's pleading voice echoing in curses inside the car.

"YES! YES! Fuck Me Harder. Fuck Me Faster."

"Yes. Yes," he echoed silently, shifting his weight and reaching inside his pocket for the packet of chewing gum, the pretence of conspiratorial smugness lifting the corners of his mouth, knowing that when he gives Jimmy his PI report it would surely get him a well-deserved bonus.

Their lustful passion and vocal persuasion quickly gathered speed, the increasing momentum of give and take tossing the vehicle from side to side, a sudden movement throwing him against the metal container, breaking him from his mental spending orgy.

The unexpected collision forced a gasp and a deep intake of breath. He swallowed the gum. It was caught in his throat and blocking his windpipe. He couldn't breathe. He was hyperventilating. He was going to choke to death. He panicked.

"LET ME OUT OF HERE...! GET ME OUT!" he shouted, launching into a fit of choking coughs and breathless gasps, banging his clenched fist hard against the inside of the car boot.

"What the hell's going on?" Sandra barked, holding the boot open as he scrambled out and fell to the ground in a gasping heap.

Kneeling on all fours with his arms outstretched in front of him, his face turning a deep shade of crimson, frantically sucking in air through his nose, a choking sensation in his throat threatening to stop him breathing, knowing that if he couldn't get oxygen into his lungs he would pass out.

A faceless man suddenly appeared from the shadows, the urgency to straddle over his limp body with his arms wrapped firmly around his stomach signalling his intention to undertake the Heimlich manoeuvre.

Puffing and panting and pulling hard on his chest, the sustained pressure on his lungs forcing a reaching gasp, the blockage miraculously spilling from his mouth, the sticky substance dropping to the ground in a stream of choking saliva.

The car door slammed shut, tyres spinning over tarmac, clouds of exhaust fumes spilling in his wake, a clear sign that the faceless man was in a desperate hurry to leave.

He coughed and wheezed through a lingering trail of choking exhaust, removing strings of saliva from his chin, blinking his eyes in the smoke, mindful that a good private investigator would have taken his registration number, shaking his head in defeat, his future as a PI evaporating in the fumes.

Sandra shot him a 'now you're in for it look,' and pointed a finger. "Get in the fucking car," she barked, her eyes narrowing with uncertainty, her face suddenly growing serious. "You've got some explaining to do."

He nervously chewed the inside of his mouth and followed her instructions.

Over the next twenty minutes the story unfolded and he had no option but to give her a detailed account of the cunning plan devised between Jimmy and Frank.

But when he told her that Jimmy would probably beat the shit out of them when he finds out, her mood unexpectedly changed.

After muttering something under her breath that sounded like, 'that fucking arsehole,' she rolled the car window down and took a packet of cigarettes from her handbag.

After removing two from the pack she lit them both and offered him one of the cigarettes.

He raised his hand at the offending weed. "No thanks, Sandra. I don't......"

Before he could finish a thin smile tugged at her lips. "I know you don't, but this is probably a good time to start."

They talked for a while, mainly about her volatile relationship living with Jimmy.

Sandra said that his arrogance and uncaring attitude was the main reason which ultimately led to her affair with the faceless coward in the fast car.

She confessed that when she found out Jimmy was playing around with other women she felt used and humiliated. She said there was one occasion when she overheard Jimmy telling Frank that he wouldn't let a wedding ring get in the way of a good fuck.

In a nervous voice she told him that Jimmy had knocked her down so often there were times when she thought she would never get up again.

After searching his face, hoping to see a trace of understanding she sighed and pulled on her cigarette, her voice choking back anger and pain.

"The act of infidelity and the danger it brings seems to be so exhilarating at the time," she declared, through a fog of smoke. "We try to convince ourselves that it's nothing more than two people having a bit of fun, trying to bring a little excitement into their dull lives." Wiping a tear from her eye, she forced a smile. "Love sometimes demands that we take risks, but we all know life is never that simple."

Rolling the car window down just enough to drop his cigarette through the gap, he couldn't stop thinking about his eventual encounter with Jimmy and the inevitable outcome for Sandra when he offers his explanation about his wife's unfaithful conduct.

A long silence of suffocating uneasiness consumed the air before Sandra's questioning voice broke the apprehension.

"That's the first time I've fucked with an audience," she whispered, raising both eyebrows, her serious face growing into a surreptitious smile. "Were you having a wank in the boot?" she mockingly asked, the boldness of her statement sweeping away the tension, changing the mood to cheerful laughter.

The cheerful mood quickly faded into an apprehensive silence. In the claustrophobia of disquiet he casually cleared a layer of condensation from the inside of the glass and glanced at his watch. He was surprised to see it was only eleven thirty.

A voice of caution broke the silence.

"I won't say anything, if you don't Mark.... We don't have to tell him anything. Fuck Jimmy," she said, fumbling nervously with a packet of cigarettes. "We both know he's nothing but a fucking arsehole," she added, nibbling on a finger nail and handing him another cigarette, all the time staring into his eyes to gauge his reaction.

"What....I....I don't understand....What will I say?" he stuttered, choking back a lump in his throat, his eyes seeking reassurance. "What will I say when he eventually opens the car boot to let me out?"

Sandra chose her words carefully. "It's simple," she said, reassuringly. "You just tell Jimmy that the voice you heard inside the car was female. I'll tell him that I met a friend and we went clubbing together. Don't worry....I'm a very good liar," she smiled, an outstretched hand with a cigarette breaking his concentration.

He pulled on his cigarette, the anguish and uncertainty joining the miasma of nicotine inside his lungs, a smile and a nodding head blowing away the clouds of uncertainty.

"I think that's a reasonable explanation," he answered. "But will it convince Jimmy?" he muttered, coughing into his hand.

She smiled at his nervousness and casually flicked her cigarette ash out the window, her voice and demeanour growing in confidence. "And don't forget you're supposed to have been in the boot of the car for about seven hours, so when Jimmy eventually lets you out you'll have to give an Oscar winning performance."

She held his hand and looked into his confused eyes. "If we both stick to the story, Jimmy will never find out," she said, with the conviction of a barrister.

Removing a compact mirror from a bag and tracing a finger over an eyebrow, the reflection throwing back an image of a defiant and scornful woman, a petulant sigh forcing its way between tight lips, "Fucking arsehole," she uttered.

He closed his eyes and stretched his legs as far as they would go.

There was a long silence before he heard Sandra's voice.

"It's only just turned midnight, Mark....The nightclubs don't close until two in the morning.... So we can't go home too soon?"

As he waited patiently through another agonising pause the aroma of perfume and the warmth of her breath blowing soft kisses over his neck and an eager hand squeezing his sleeping monster made him jump nervously in the seat.

"CHRIST! Sandra," he barked. "What the fucks happening.... And where's your blouse and bra?" he asked, shuffling nervously on the seat and lowering his voice slightly.

"I thought any issues I had with Jimmy were resolved and now you're half naked and you've got your hand on my...."

"Cock," she answered for him, lowering her hands and flicking up the hem of her skirt in a flirtatious gesture, the dark bush easily visible against the smooth white flesh of her thighs.

"I'm not wearing any panties either," she offered, with mocking tease. "There in my bag," she said, rather matter-of-fact. "And they can stay there until I've finished with you."

Shifting her weight on the seat and leaning over, peppering warm kisses over the soft skin of his neck, a confident whisper sweeping away caution.

"Remember what I said. Life sometimes demands that we take risks."

The kiss was warm and passionate, the pulse of her lips marking a warm wet trail from his ears and across his forehead, kissing his eyes and his nose, spilling hot air into his mouth, pressing her breasts against his chest letting him feel the softness and the weight, letting him feel the emerging heat of passion, the growing arousal of a wanting woman.

Pulses throbbed and heart beats raced, heads swimming in a sea of emotional confusion, chemicals charging hormones, a visceral surge of adrenaline flooding to genitalia, the closeness and familiarity of intimate suggestion, lust flirting with curiosity, an inquisitive hand finding the growing lump inside his pants, the acquaintance of touch, the gestures of impulsive movement, the spontaneous reaction of two people desperate for physical contact no matter what the retribution.

Expectation sweeping away caution, mouths connecting, lips flirting, hands groping and fondling, hips moving in a simulation of coital foreplay, tongues dueling in a flirtatious dance, sweeping over teeth, wiggling and dancing, swirling and sucking, feasting on the intoxicating heat of each other's breath.

"Lift up a little?" she whispered, her fingers fumbling impatiently with his zip.

A pause and a sigh, hesitancy turning into submission, leaning back in the seat, raising his bottom just enough to slide his jeans and underpants over his thighs, the white veined column springing free from the fabric, her eyes wide open, staring in disbelieve, a breathless gasp and a choking lump in her throat reminding her to breathe.

The impossible urges of expectation, her fingers closing in a firm grip around the threatening limb, the warmth of her hand working the meaty length with eager enthusiasm, his hips moving to the persuasion of touch, quick strokes, slow strokes, back and forth, fisting and pulling, gripping the fleshy object on the way down and easing her grip on the way back.

A guilty mind stumbling over moans and groans, images of Jimmy's violent temper when he finds out he's been shagging his wife, finding their way into his head.