A Night in Brighton

And she sucked me down again, lathing me as intensely as I had her until I had to warn her.

"I'm coming Frieda, I'm coming!"

She sucked even harder and I came just about as hard as I ever had. I may not have feinted, but she sucked and licked me clean until I shrivelled to nothing, like a pinned winkle reprieved into its shell. She kissed me and I kissed her back and didn't care if I tasted myself or not. She rested her head on my shoulder and we both drifted off in bliss and exhaustion.

I always wake early, five o'clock almost on the dot. Frieda had turned away during what was left of the night and I was able to get out of bed without disturbing her. I dressed quickly in the sitting room, using the shirt, underpants and socks without suspenders from yesterday, plus my suit trousers and double-breasted jacket. I took the door key and slipped out of the suite to get some bracing fresh air. It was still dark as pitch outside.

When I slipped back into the bedroom it was 05.27 by the luminous dial on my clock, but Frieda was awake already and she switched her bedside light on. I blinked in the light and lifted my right hand to shield my eyes.

"Oh," she cried, "what have you done to your hand?"

Naked, she leaped from the bed and came to me, just inside the bedroom door.

"You've grazed your knuckles. There's a small first aid cabinet in the bathroom, I'll see what's there." As she glided to the bathroom she asked, "What happened?"

"Oh, it's still dark out and as I went down the steps I grabbed the iron hand rail but it was covered in dew and I slipped and ran the back of my hand down the wall."

"I thought you had abandoned me, when I woke," she said softly as she returned, unwrapping a crêpe bandage as she came, "Why did you go out so early?"

"I wanted to get some fresh air, and you might have got cold if I opened a window."

She nodded that she accepted my story and checked my knuckles for cleanliness, "No sign of loose brick dust."

"It was a pretty solid wall," I replied, as she wrapped the bandage around my hand, anchored around the thumb, maintaining tension, then with her teeth tore the end lengthwise at the end and tied it off neatly. It was well done, I could flex my hand without restriction, it was comfortably tight and showed no signs of slipping off.

"Good bandage," I smiled, "were you once a nurse?"

"Every woman in Berlin during the war was a nurse," she replied offhand.

I reached across and turned off the alarm just before it went off and folded the clock away.

"Have we time?" the naked Frieda asked, her eyebrows raised.

"No," I replied, perhaps more forcibly than I intended, "coffee in five minutes, ten minute walk to the end of the Pier and our boat sails sharp at six. You need to get washed and dressed."

"All right," she smiled, "can't blame a girl for trying."

And she proceeded to dress in front of me, taking a brassiere from her suitcase. Just then, I heard a gentle knock at the outer door.

"We'll have our coffee in the sitting room," I said. At least I could breathe normally in there.

By the time I had drunk my cup, Frieda appeared, redressed in her dark blue suit and stockings from yesterday and comfortable tennis shoes, like I was wearing, and I poured her cup from the pot.

"Drink your coffee, I'll shave quickly and pack our bags."

"I can—"

"Relax, I used to work in haberdashery," I said, "I can fold your clothes carefully."

The Night Porter let me out for the second time, this time with Frieda. I carried both our cases and put one down to slip him a half-crown before we walked down the steps to the pavement. If Frieda noticed that the iron hand-rail was down the centre of the steps and not near the wall, she failed to remark on it, nor was her attention drawn to the solitary motor car in King Street, parked towards the Palace Pier, while we turned right towards the older West Pier.

It was misty and droplets of dew settled on my trench coat and Frieda's fur coat. At the end of the pier was a smart motor boat, built for both speed and comfort on the water. We climbed down to it, welcomed aboard by a Captain with a cut glass accent, and a teenage boy.

"Welcome aboard Miss, I'm your Captain, Jocky Dennison, and this is my boy Archie. He'll take your bags down to your cabin. One knows it's early and it won't be light for another hour and forty minutes, so if you'd like to get your head down for a while, we'll give you a call when it's light and sunny and we've got brekkie on the go, what?"

"Thank you, Major," I said, "the lady might take you up on that."

Archie led us through the galley. I noticed a picnic basket with a familiar bottle of champagne poking up past the gingham cloth covering the food. He led us to the front cabin and dropped the bags next to the bed. He went bright red as he tightly squeezed past Frieda as she smiled sweetly at him, reminding me of the first time I saw her at Richard's. No wonder he was struck dumb, I had been, too.

"Major?" Frieda asked.

"Ex-Rifle Brigade, once the wet-behind-his-ears Second Lieutenant of my first squad as Sergeant, he owed me a favour for a long time and it was about time to call it in."

She sat on the narrow bed. "Are you joining me?"

"Actually, I need to sort out a few things with the Major, I hadn't expected he'd bring Archie."

"Any problem with Archie being aboard?"

"None at all. The forecast is for a cold but fine day, Frieda, once the sun comes up and burns off the mist we'll have good visibility. For the next couple of hours though, we will be keeping our eyes open for fishing boats, coasters and steamers getting too near."

"Do you need my eyes?"

"No, we're all experienced hands, we can handle it."

"Smuggling?"

"Everyone with a boat around here is a smuggler, Frieda, whether it's a few cigarettes, bottles of brandy or champagne, or carrying someone who is looking for a better life."

"And are you looking for a better life, Jack?"

"I suppose we all are, Frieda, but much relies on ... timing."

"And is this ... my time?" Frieda asked, still sitting, but her back straight and looking at me defiantly.

"It might be ... I don't think you know, but Richard's mother died on Monday in Bournemouth in a convalescent home, the funeral was Friday, in Liverpool, to be buried next to her Mum and Dad, the wake was last night."

"So I was the item that needed 'shifting', that Richard spoke to you about over coffee and brandy?"

"She'd been terminally ill for a couple of months, so he started me coming around for dinner so you would be comfortable with me and left me alone with you, hoping you'd be willing to come away with me when the opportunity presented itself."

"Well, you were charming and behaved like a perfect gentleman, Jack, knowing I would trust you. Are you just going to slip me overboard, to die from exhaustion and exposure, or tie me to a coal sack half full of bricks before slipping me over the side on a rope?"

"Do you have a preference?"

"Whether I do or not, would it make any difference to you?"

"I suppose not, with no Richard here. But we have no sacks, no bricks, and there is a third option."

"There is?"

"You have your passport, and you have your little overnight case and you have a three hour head start on a much faster motor boat."

"Head start?"

"Richard once asked how many Germans I killed in the war," I said, "he knew I was used as a sniper, but sniping opportunities mostly come with rearguard actions, retreating armies or resistance against occupation, and I was mostly with advancing armies. I did a little street fighting over the five years and I had to take out my fair share of careless soldiers, but it was war, I was a killer only when necessary and took absolutely no pleasure in any of it. So I just told him that I never kept a count. Richard gave me his number all right, and told me how he did each one of them and proved to me that he remembered every single one in spine tingling detail, over as you said, strong coffee and brandy."

"So, you were employed to provide Richard with the opportunity and you told him this boat was leaving the pier at, what, nine o'clock?"

"We left the West Pier at six, Richard was due to pick up the boat at nine at the Palace Pier. Brighton has two piers. It wasn't a small boat like this, but a proper cruise ship with a cabin booked for us, one with a discrete sea balcony. He will get on board, because I told him to board at the very last minute, and it would sail with him, so he would be helpless and unable to get to us for hours, if not days."

"So what is happening to us?"

"You are going to France, Frieda. You have your Dutch passport and in your case I have packed £500 in genuine fivers, and 3000 in US Dollars that are definitely not genuine, except for about five hundred real ones mixed in. They are the best dollars that Hackney can print. Lose yourself in France, perhaps travel. Keep your head down and enjoy yourself, but make the money last. You are a free agent."

"I have a little knowledge of French from school, I was always good at languages. And what are you going to be doing, Jack?"

"I am disappearing too. I was always going to, one day. It's time. Richard will be looking for the two of us, and likely to assume that we are a couple travelling together somewhere. I have no doubt he had his spies at the Hotel last night and we looked like a loving couple, especially when I kissed you so sweetly at our last dance. I knocked the lights out of the lookout in the car parked out front of the hotel first thing this morning and shut him up in the boot. Apart we each have a better chance to get through this in one piece."

"Thank you, Jack. This was the last thing I expected. Watch yourself, though, Richard is ruthless."

"Perhaps Richard is the one that needs to watch himself."

"Perhaps," she smiled. A smile I would remember for as long as I lived, however long that was.

I watched her get off at the small French port where we dropped her. As well as her little case, she had an envelope of francs for the port's local dounier, all smugglers need friends in every port we use. I was going home to a different port in Blighty than the one we left, where I could leave a more distinctive trail of me with a tall dark haired girl I'd hired for Richard to track and follow. We waved to each other for as long as we could see each other and then she was gone and I was alone.

xxxXXxx

EPILOGUE

The tall, slim and elegant woman dressed in summer shorts and blouse finished her coffee at the beachside café in Nice and folded her copy of Le Monde. She preferred to sit at the back of the outdoor café in the shade, her pale skin burned if she got too much sun. She had lived here for almost a year, after moving from Cannes, where she found there were far too many Americans for comfort.

She had a green-covered American passport, forged of course, but she smiled as she recalled paying for it entirely in forged dollars. The passport showed she was born in Brussels but was a widow of an American citizen. She told those who asked that they married immediately after the war in '45, but she was widowed in '51. Her passport stamps showed that she had travelled to and from Philadelphia for extensive stays a couple of times in the last eight years but had returned to France the previous year, 1953. She was of independent means, her late husband being in the recycling of military surplus, she told those that asked, which again brought a wistful smile to her lips, impressing potential suitors that perhaps she was still in grieving over her recent loss. It brought her a lot of sympathy, particularly from war widows, of which Nice seemed to have more than its fair share.

She thought about the single brief paragraph, she had just read in Le Monde, about a police shoot-out and arrests in London's East End yesterday, but no names were mentioned, as she walked slowly back to her apartment. It was in an unprepossessing building, well away from the tourist areas, cheap but respectable. She dressed casually but well, looking quite chic, still wearing her simple wedding ring, her engagement ring and diamond necklace sold off some time ago. Nice, the largest city on the French Riviera, was becoming more developed as a resort for holidaymakers and it would soon become too expensive for her small income from her investments to sustain living here. She still had all the white fivers she started with intact, but had gradually changed all the dodgy dollars into francs. She had a savings account in London, that Richard knew nothing about, and this had been invested in bonds which brought in almost sufficient income for her modest needs.

As the heat of the day rose she was eager to return to her modest apartment and lie down for a snooze in the afternoon, ready for her regular dance club every Wednesday evening at nine, once the heat of the day made such exercise comfortable. She smiled at the pleasures of dancing with a large number of partners during the evening to come. Although they were mostly couples that belonged to the club, many now her friends, there were always some single men and a few tourists that arrived looking to pick up a woman for a night's pleasure, but she was well-known to be there only to dance, perhaps enjoy a little flirting and conversations with friends, and would always go home alone, often escorted by friendly couples to ensure she got home safe.

The thoughts of tonight's entertainment quickened her steps, keen to get home, relax and prepare herself for tonight and banish lingering thoughts of a past life, now left far behind her.

The owner of the apartments, Madame Boucher, lived on the ground floor, her front door ever open, listening out for comers and goers, heard Frieda's high-heeled sandals on the checkered floor tiles and popped her head around her door and smiled when she saw Frieda, one of the friendliest of her paying guests, always with a ready smile and polite in any requests for necessary remedial work that this crumbling building often needed, yet a private person who didn't pry or gossip.

"Madame Addison, I have something for you," she said brightly, "a parcel on my table, I'll get it for you."

Madame Boucher handed over the parcel, about the size and weight of a hardback book, Frieda thought. It was posted locally yesterday, addressed to her current identity, "Mrs Elfrieda Addison," at her current address. She turned it over, there was no return address. She hadn't remembered ordering any books from the library and no-one outside Nice knew her new identity. She carried it up the three flights to the privacy of her apartment before opening it with some trepidation.

Lifting the lid after cutting through all the sellotape, there was a card from a well-known, and rather too expensive for her purse, restaurant in Nice, resting on top of white tissue paper. She turned the card over, and written on the back was a date, today's date, and a time, 7.30.

She unfolded the tissue paper to reveal a bottle of Chanel No 5 perfume, in a bottle reminiscent of the 1930s, and nothing else.

She retired to her bedroom, to draw the curtains to shut out the light of the morning, to sleep and daydream through the afternoon of a night past and a night to come. Perhaps by nine she could turn up at the dancing club, for the very first time with her lover on her arm.

The end