Aurora - Wings of the Goddess Pt. 04

The small male looked up and elevated his eyebrows. "Coooool!" he exclaimed in broad Australian. "Buying or selling, Defective Inspector?" Everybody laughed, including Watson.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you, Mick?" Jo teased, "That stuff'll stunt your growth?"

Mick sat back and looked himself over. He was five foot four if he was an inch.

"See," Jo said, "I rest my case."

"So," Watson cut in, "You were saying? Spiders?"

"Stan's a spider man." Jo explained.

"Is that so?" Watson asked in surprise. "What happened? Nuclear accident? Bitten by a mutant spider?"

"A wasted life of geekdom." Holloway smiled.

"Hardly wasted, old mate." Sutcliffe rumbled.

"What are you studying, exactly?" Watson asked, "Apart from spiders?"

"Arachnid evolutionary biology." Holloway said, "More specifically, species divergence in isolated populations. On coral atolls, for example."

Watson turned his nose up. "Couldn't find something a little more cuddly? I could do you a deal in flesh-eating Koalas."

Everyone looked at him. "Flesh eating?"

Watson smiled sheepishly. He should have known, in a group so erudite it was never going to fly. "Well, no, not really. But they are cute and cuddly, not like spiders. Not that I have anything against them of course, but they're not the most charismatic of creatures."

"You're wrong." Holloway said with a shake of the head, "Spiders are beautiful. Nature's jewels. They're behaviourally complex, highly intelligent, and almost all of them are hunters. And of course they build some of the most complex structures in the animal kingdom-"

"You mean their webs?"

"Right. Listen. Have you ever gone out at night with a headlight on and shone it at the ground? The grass beside a sidewalk's a good place to look. Every now and then you can see this tiny, brilliant gleam, like a little blue diamond. That's a spider. That's the light reflecting off its tapetum."

"I'll make sure to look next time." Watson said somewhat unconvincingly. He turned his attention to the pretty woman beside Jo. She was dressed all in black. And possibly a widow. She had to be his accomplice, surely. "Let me guess, Genevieve. You're Spider Girl?"

The French woman's smile revealed a mouthful of big white teeth that would have given Vicky a run for her money. "Oh, no no no..." she said emphatically, "my creatures is much more interesting. But I do like spiders. They- 'ow do you say- are giving food for my babies."

"Genny's the Queen of the Vespids." Jo said indulgently.

"You don't say?" Watson replied, looking impressed. "That's just to the west of Albania, isn't it?"

The woman giggled heartily. She was a professor in her own right. Most people took her far too seriously, which was a bore, but here was another one of those irreverent Australians she found so charming. "I've come to study your pompillids." she explained.

"Well, okay." Watson said pulling his waistband out. "But make sure your hands are warm."

There was an uproar of laughter and Holloway shook his head. "Only an Aussie."

"Seriously though, what's a pom... pom..."

"Pompillid." Mick offered. "Spider wasps. Makes the Alien look like a teddybear. Incredible critters actually, as long as you're not some poor old spider."

"Right." Watson hedged. "And what about you, Mick? Please... tell me you study something normal. Vampire mice. Flesh eating gerbils?"

"Me?" the diminutive joint-rolling character smiled. "Oh, no. I'm just a lowly technician."

"Nothing lowly about it, buddy." Holloway countered. "Without this guy all we'd have is ideas."

"Some of the best EM I've ever seen." Genevieve concurred.

"And his microdissection!" Holloway waxed, "On a moving boat!"

"Hands of a brain surgeon." Sutcliffe said and gave the small man's shoulder an indulgent pat.

"Right," Mick parried, clearly uncomfortable with so much adulation, "and the brains of a hand surgeon. Don't worry, Prof, I've heard it all before."

"Well if you could just give up the weed, old boy." Sutcliffe said gently. "Good hand surgeons are devilishly hard to come by."

"I don't have the brains, Prof. Not even for hands."

"If you didn't spend so much time talking yourself down."

Mick looked at the professor. "Then I wouldn't get to go sailing around in a hundred foot lab with some of the brainiest bastards on the planet."

"Your boat's a lab?" Watson asked in surprise.

"Our contribution to science." the old professor replied. "Science has been rendered destitute in this country, by generations of greedy businessmen and woefully ignorant politicians. So we installed a modest lab on our ketch so we could play host to such wonderful people as these."

"Not that beautiful old wooden one by any chance?"

"That's her." Jo nodded. "Serenity. Though sometimes I think we should have renamed her."

"SV Chaos." Sutcliffe grunted.

"She is so beautiful." Genevieve said with quiet reverence. "All of this, it is the most wonderful experience of my 'ole life."

"I'll drink to that." Holloway raised his beer and there was a quiet commotion as everybody rushed to rearm themselves.

"To the Prof and Jo!" Mick declared, raising his beer.

"And the serenity of everlasting chaos!"

One of the cat's two female owners, Sally, dashed inside. "Guys! It's started!"

There was a dignified stampede out of the saloon, headed up by the old surgeon, bow legged and stiff in the joints, followed by his wife and then the delectable Genevieve. Holloway and the lowly lab technician, Mick, engaged in a brief bout of 'after you', which Mick won. Bringing up the rear with Watson, he tapped him on the arm and nodded at the joint. Watson engaged in a brief moral tussle. He didn't want anyone thinking he was in any way incorrigible, but then again... they were all complete strangers, if mostly polite, and what should he care what they thought of him anyway? "Look," Watson said, "I'd really enjoy that."

"Let's nip off in the tender." Mick suggested. "Don't want o offend anyone."

Next door, bodies spilled from the saloon, mounting the hulls and the superstructure to get a good look at the moon. It was almost directly overhead now, showing signs of a small crescent bite. Someone cranked up 'Also Sprach Zarathustra' on the sound system, and the fanfare was just swelling to the booming of the drum when it was suddenly, precipitously, ignominiously replaced by thumping techno. For the next ten minutes, all eyes turned skywards, until the party restarted and the miracle of the eclipse- two celestial bodies of different size, spaced at perfect intervals so that each subtended the very same angle- was relegated to the odd, sozzled glimpse.

Spiritual beings like Beck and Vicky, who devoted equal time to looking and dancing, took a mid-eclipse break to wolf down some food- the last of Watson's prized fish curry, by far the best contribution. Quickly downing her wine, Beck handed Vicky her flute and kissed her cheek. "Gotta go pee." she announced breathlessly. "Look after my glass, and don't go anywhere!"

"I won't." Vicky said and shook her head, a little stunned. The list of new experiences was already as long as her arm and she was now filling up the space in the margins. The yacht, the swim, the snorkel, the sea snake, the smoke, the shower with Beck. The party on a cat on a reef, under the stars in the middle of an eclipse. Dancing with a wild little blonde and bumping pelvises. Being groped by unseen strangers, scoffing bubbly. Luke warm green curry, better than any gourmet meal she'd ever enjoyed. The wicked feeling of being in love with a girl and waiting with quivering anticipation for her return. The free-fall feeling of being in love with an old man, the girl's old man, of becoming gravid and wet and throbbing when she thought of what was to come. Namely the old man. In the girl. And the girl. All over her.

"Having a good time?"

Vicky jumped, startled out of her heart-pounding reverie. The lady of the cat had materialised beside her, perspiration beading her face, singlet plastered wetly to her chest. A dark triangular stain in the crotch of her shorts offered testimony to the woman's festive exertions. "Oh my god!" Vicky gushed, reaching out to touch the woman's arm, "this is just the most incredible party."

The woman twisted, pulling away. "Where's Damian?"

Vicky looked around, nonplussed. "Damon? I think he's next door."

Libby pushed past, then bent unsteadily to fill a plastic flute with sparkling wine. "Are you his wife?" she asked her drink.

Vicky stared at her, blinking. "Pardon?"

Libby took a sip of her wine and said, "Are you Damian's wife?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, you see. I'm just trying to work out the dynamic."

"Dynamic?"

"Between you three. It is only the three of you, is it?"

"Umm... yes." Vicky replied, taken aback. "And there is no dynamic. I'm just visiting. We're just friends."

"Just friends..." Libby mused, then took another sip. "What sort of friends?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know... old friends? Close friends? ...Good... friends?"

"Umm..." Vicky blinked, "good enough."

"Is that right? What about the girl?"

"What about her?"

"Where does she fit in? Is she yours?"

"N... no..." Vicky replied warily, "She's with Damon."

Moderately drunk and unsteady on her feet, Libby arched her eyebrows. "Well that's interesting. Is she his daughter then?"

Vicky shook her head, briefly rattled. "What? Yes. No. Hang on, what do you mean?"

"Just what I said. Is... she... his daughter?"

"I... she..." Vicky floundered, rapidly sobering. "What's it to you?"

"Just interested." Libby hefted a shoulder. "I mean the old man lives full time on that that tub, doesn't he?"

"Tub?"

"That monohull." Libby sniffed. "Honestly. Why buy a half a boat when you can have a catamaran instead? But that's right, isn't it? He lives on that thing?"

Vicky shrugged.

"Well that's what he told my husband. Sea-creature, he called himself. And she lives with him? Very interesting."

"You must be very easily intrigued." Vicky snorted, under no illusion as to the conversation's arc.

"Oh I don't know... an underage girl and a geriatric man, living together on a yacht. That's pretty thought-provoking, wouldn't you say?"

Vicky glared at Libby in frank indignation. "Underage?"

"Oh come on, Jackie. What is she? Twelve? Thirteen?"

Vicky could feel her cheeks burning. "She's as old as she is, thanks very much."

"Exactly. Are they related? Damian and that girl? At first you said yes, and then you said no, so which is it?"

"Why don't you ask them?"

"Maybe I will. Or maybe you can just stop being evasive."

A shiver ran down Vicky's spine. This had all the hallmarks of a hostile cross-examination where one slip, one stumble, one ambiguous word, the merest whiff of duplicity could bring her undone. Stooping, Vicky filled her glass to buy time.

"Well. Are they?"

"Well yes, they are. Not that it's any of your goddam business, but he's her dad."

Libby's eyes lit up and Vicky knew she'd just stepped on a mine. "Well well well..." Libby gloated, "how intriguing. He must be very broad-minded, letting her swan around on that tub almost stark naked... I've licked bigger postage stamps than that bikini she was wearing... you could just about see what she had for breakfast. And what about you?"

Vicky's cheeks were burning, merely adding to Libby's glee. "What about me?"

"Oh come on. I saw you two dancing in there. Vertical fucking, more like. Does her old man approve of that too? Makes me wonder what else might go on in that yacht."

"What we do," Vicky growled with forensic exactitude, "is a matter for us."

"Reallyyy?" Libby chuckled, clearly enjoying herself. "You know, Jackie, what you're not telling me is way more interesting than what you are."

Vicky drew a calming breath. "You know, Libby, I think you're barking up the wrong tree. I'm on holidays from my job in the city. They invited me out for a sail. They're friends of mine. End of story."

Libby narrowed her eyes. "But that's not the story that interests me. I'm far more interested in the one I can read between the lines."

The night took on a chill as Vicky thought desperately on her feet. "Look, Libby, I really appreciate you inviting us here, but really, who we are, our relationship, that has nothing to do with you."

"Is that so?" Libby smirked. "Well you know what? Sounds like you've got something to hide."

There was more to it than a leisurely sail, she just knew. She could feel it. She could smell it. She could taste it. What else could explain the old man's reticence? Any self-respecting male would have thrown himself at her feet, especially a senior citizen like he, for whom a prize like she would be the stuff of fantasy. Yet he had bailed at the first opportunity, and his inexplicable reluctance could point to only one thing. And the way those two sluts were grinding pelvises on the dance floor... well, if they were just friends she was the Empress of China.

"Honestly. Libby. It's not what you think."

"Really? Do you even know what I think?"

Vicky looked her up and down. "I'm starting to get an idea."

"Well can you blame me? Be honest. If you were in my shoes? What would you make of it?"

Looking at the woman, Vicky was reminded of a spider, fascinating in its own way yet at the same time creepy and venomous. "You know," Vicky said shrewdly, "the bit I'm struggling with? Why you would think this is any of your fff... flipping business."

Eyes locked on Vicky's, Libby took a sip. "Well, that depends, doesn't it?"

"Oh really? On what?"

"On whether anything... untoward... is going on. Because if there is then it's everyone's business."

"Untoward?" Vicky demanded aghast. "You must be out of your cotton pickin' mind. Have you ever thought of seeing a psychologist, Libby? I think you need help."

"Well it's funny you should say that." Libby replied. "Because it just so happens I am a psychologist. And the signals I'm picking up really concern me. Because you're lying, Jackie, it's as plain as the nose on your face, which can only mean one thing. The truth's inadmissible."

Vicky froze, looking like she'd just been slapped.

"And as for Damian... well... an old man hanging out with two overtly sexual young females, one of them his underage daughter. There's a name for that you know."

"WHAT?" Vicky's jaw dropped. "How fucking dare you!"

"Not a good look, wouldn't you agree? I wonder if the authorities would be interested?"

Vicky exhaled long and hard through her nose. "You're mad." she breathed. "Or drunk. Or drunk and mad."

Libby hefted a shoulder. "Sticks and stones."

Vicky clenched her teeth till her jaw muscles were twitching. "Whatever you've cooked up in your warped little mind, it's not how it looks."

Libby held Vicky's eyes in an iron grip, buoyed by the young woman's distress. She'd merely meant to insult and intimidate, but the big-mouthed whore was defending herself, a sure sign of guilt. "It's exactly how it looks if you ask me. A young woman, and old man and an underage girl. Tut tut. What would the neighbours say?"

"For the fiftieth time," Vicky growled, "she is NOT underage."

Libby leant into her until Vicky could smell the booze on her breath. "Then why," she smiled, "does she look like a ten year old?"

Vicky took a measured mouthful and set her glass carefully down. She was thinking on the ragged edge, as she had seen her boss, Roger Bragg, so often do, confecting a coup de gras out of nothing more substantial than air. "She has a medical condition if you really must know. She's on strong medication and it's stunted her growth."

The woman narrowed her eyes, searching Vicky's cool green gaze for hint of a lie. "What sort of... 'medical' condition'?"

Vicky squared up her shoulders then took a breath and swept back her hair. "You want to know the truth, you nosy bloody bitch? Alright, I'll tell you."