Behind the Black Door

About halfway along the Uxbridge Road was a tatty Chinese takeaway called the Bamboo Garden. It was owned by an émigré from Hong Kong, called Teddy Lim, and it was mostly staffed by members of his family. Above the takeaway was a deceptively spacious flat that Mr Lim rented out for a surprisingly low monthly rent.

His tenant was a gentleman called Alistair Scanlon, who had lived there for years. Alistair - or Al, as everyone knew him - was a newspaper journalist. Back in the 90s, he'd worked in China as a correspondent for one of the major national dailies. While he was there, he reported on the plight of a number of political dissidents, persecuted by the Chinese state. He kept a light shining on their story, forcing the communist government to justify and defend its actions. Eventually, after a campaign of immense pressure, a handful of them were released. One of them was Teddy Lim's cousin, who was eventually allowed to enter Hong Kong; then still under British colonial rule. Teddy Lim never forgot the role Al played in the affair, and when the newly-divorced reporter was looking for somewhere to live, Teddy was happy to help.

The flat however was mostly a dump. This wasn't entirely Teddy's fault; Al wasn't what you would call house proud, and he barely bothered cleaning the place. Everywhere you looked there were dirty mugs and crockery, unopened letters, magazines and books. And boxes. Dozens and dozens of boxes. The place was full of them, piled one on top of the other. You could barely move for them. They were a potential health and safety hazard, blocking corridors and doorways.

Apart from the living room, there was a small kitchen, a bathroom and three bedrooms. The main bedroom was at the front of the building, and the illumination of the street lights and neon signs of the Uxbridge Road could be seen flooding through the curtains. On the bed were two people. Two naked people. One of them was Al Scanlon, the other was a younger woman called Kasia Nowak. The pair of them were kneeling, sat on their heels, facing each other. She was reaching out with one arm, her hand wrapped round his dick, steadily jerking him off. The other arm was placed beneath her large breasts, holding them up as if they were on a shelf. On display. Al was bent over slightly, snorting cocaine off her tits.

He bellowed, as the euphoric high hit him, coursing through his system, his heartbeat racing like a jackhammer. She could feel his dick twitch and vibrate. He handed over the rolled up fiver and Kasia, temporarily letting go of his cock, snorted up the remaining line. Then they kissed. Al grabbed hold of her face, and pulled her towards him. Their mouths were wide open, their tongues were rolling round, licking and stabbing at each other. He leant down, slurping up the traces of white powder off her sweaty skin, before kissing her some more.

"Turn round, get on your hands and knees for me." He said, sternly.

"Sure thing, boss."

She did as she was told. Kasia was a whore; she always did as she was told. At least when someone was paying for her time. She'd met Al when he'd been doing a story about sex trafficking in eastern Europe. Kasia hadn't been trafficked herself. She'd got into the game as a student, and had enjoyed a somewhat less traumatic career as a sex worker. But he'd needed a translator, to talk to some of the girls who hadn't been quite so lucky. Kasia was born in Poland and had moved to the UK as a child. She was fluent in half a dozen east European languages; and she escorted, so she knew the business. She was the perfect person for the job.

Kasia had been struck by Al's sensitivity and compassion. He was good with the girls, many of whom had lived a life of untold horrors, before reaching the UK. He was a journalist and Kasia had always been sceptical of journalists. But he seemed different. He played fair and he was honest. They had worked together closely and eventually one thing led to another. Their relationship was kind of complicated. Every so often he'd text her and she'd come pay him a visit. They'd have sex. Fun, lusty, no-strings-attached sex. Sometimes he would pay her. Sometimes he didn't have to.

She certainly enjoyed sleeping with him. He was still in pretty good shape, despite his age, and he had a big cock. He knew how to fuck too. He could make her cum, and that wasn't always guaranteed when she slept with a guy. He could be pretty filthy when he wanted to be. She found that was often the case with intelligent men; they had more imagination. He was fun to talk to as well. It was a casual arrangement that was sometimes a little bit more than casual. There were undoubtedly conversations they should be having about exactly what they were, and what they meant to each other, but for some reason those conversations never took place.

After squirting his cum inside her, Al collapsed on to the bed, rolling on to his side. He was panting and gasping as he lay there, slowly trying to get his breath back. Both of them were still buzzing from the coke. He was purely a casual user, only dabbling in the stuff very occasionally, but he did like fucking when high. Snorting cocaine off a prostitute's tits was an appalling cliché, but don't knock it until you try it, would be Al's considered retort.

Kasia rolled over and faced him on the bed, her large breasts resting one on top of the other, like two slabs of succulent meat. He reached forward and inserted a couple of fingers into her mouth. She sucked on them for a few moments, then he took them out and slid them inside her twat. She moaned a little as he fingered her, his thumb strumming her clit. He pulled the fingers out and licked them. Tasting her arousal. Tasting her honey. She tugged on his dick for a bit, but it was a lazy, casual gesture.

"I don't think I've ever asked you before, but why do you live here?" She said.

"Why not?" He responded. "We've all got to live somewhere."

"Yes, but you're a veteran reporter for a national daily newspaper. They must pay you fairly well. Presumably you could afford somewhere a little more grand than this?"

"Well yes, but I'm a veteran reporter for a national daily newspaper, who happens to be divorced."

"Ah..."

"'Ah' is right. And, apart from my former wife being a general drain on my resources; I also have two boys who, despite my avowed socialist principles, my ex insists on sending to a fee-paying school."

"I see." She said.

"Yes, you do. And then of course I have to buy the finest grade A narcotics for my favourite whore of choice. It all adds up."

"I suppose it does. And what are in all those boxes?" She asked him. "I almost fell over one of them when I arrived."

"Just magazines." He replied, in a noncommittal tone.

"What kind of magazines? Porn?"

"Please! Porn? I'm a grown man with an iPad and wifi. I get all my pornographic needs catered for by the internet."

"So, what is it then?"

Al paused for a moment, a slightly embarrassed look on his face.

"Comics."

"Sorry?"

"Comics. The boxes contain comic books."

"What, like the Beano and the Dandy?"

"No, not those sort of comics. They are for kids."

"So what are these? Superhero comics? Batman and Superman? That sort of thing?"

"Yes." He said sheepishly.

"How old are you?"

"Comics are a serious medium these days. On the Continent they are called the Ninth Art, people don't dismiss them like that. Just because you're a stupid fucking whore, with no cultural aspirations, don't slag off my hobby."

She giggled. She was used to Al's theatrical sense of wounded indignation by now. She didn't mind him calling her stupid or a whore. She knew he didn't mean it.

"Is it the capes? Do you like the capes? Or is it the fact they wear their undies above their tights?"

"Fuck you." He said, twisting her nipple lightly.

"I think it was Corinthians, where it says when I became a man, I put away childish things."

"I'll show you childish things, you dirty little bitch." He said with a grin, as he pulled her towards him, kissing her once more.

A few hours later, after a couple of hours sleep and a quick blowjob in the shower, Kasia was pulling on her skinny jeans and t-shirt, preparing to leave. Al had got back in to bed, drinking a coffee she had made for him.

"How many of these things have you got?" She asked him.

"What things?"

"Your comic books."

"Good question. I don't know. Thousands I'd reckon."

"Are they worth anything?"

"I'm not sure, to be honest. The whole collection is probably worth a few grand. There may be some individual items that are worth more. I don't know, I'd have to get them checked out by an expert."

"Another man-child who should've outgrown these things years ago?"

"Fuck you, you bleach blonde, Polish cunt." He said, deadpan.

"I love you too, sweetheart. See you next time."

With that, she stood up and kissed him tenderly on the top of his head. He stretched out for his wallet and pulled out some notes. He handed them to her. She didn't say anything, but silently pocketed the money. She always felt weird about taking cash from him, but she took it nonetheless. Neither of them could really explain the strange dynamic that existed between them. They weren't just punter and tom, but they weren't exactly boyfriend and girlfriend either. They were what they were, and that was all there was to it.

Kasia walked out of the bedroom and let herself out of the flat. As she walked down the stairs, a young woman was walking up. She was a short, curvy little thing, bordering on chubby. Dressed a little like a goth, she had black and blue hair, and a nose-ring. She was also wearing Doc Martens, knee-high socks, a short black skirt and a tight, white top, revealing a bare midriff and encasing what looked like a fairly gargantuan pair of boobs. Kasia could see the hint of tattoos under the sleeves of her jacket.

"Siobhan." She said, pausing halfway down the stairs. There was barely enough room for the two rather buxom women to pass each other.

"Hello." Siobhan replied. This was Siobhan Scanlon, Al's daughter. "Is he in?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Good."

"How's college going? Photography isn't it?"

"It's fine. Bye then."

Siobhan continued up the stairs, leaving Kasia behind. Siobhan didn't like Kasia. She didn't know that the older woman was a prostitute, but she knew her father was fucking her. And Siobhan didn't like that at all. For all sorts of reasons. Well, one in particular.

Her father was still in bed when she let herself in. Siobhan was Al's oldest child, and the reason he had rushed into a not entirely successful marriage with a sexy little redhead called Monica Keenan. She had been an ambitious postgrad student who had been doing work experience at his paper. Al was the sexy, grizzled correspondent; admired and respected by all in the newsroom. She was like a moth to a flame. He should've known better, he was a lot older than her, but she had a winning smile, a sexy laugh and a huge pair of tits. By the end of that first week he was fucking her in a stationery cupboard. Within three months, she was pregnant and they were engaged.

"Dad? You up?" Siobhan hollered as she walked through the flat.

"In here." He responded.

She walked in to the main bedroom, quickly surveying the situation. She could see the messy sheets, smell the sexual aroma in the air. A scowl briefly appeared on her face.

"Hey, Dad."

"Hey, Pudding." Pudding or sometimes just Pud, was Al's nickname for his daughter. He'd been calling her that since she was a baby. Siobhan had been adorably chubby when she was little. She was carrying a few extra pounds now, although most of that weight had settled in all the right places.

"I see you've been entertaining again?" She said, a somewhat disdainful tone in her voice.

"You saw Kasia, then?"

"Yes. A delightful girl."

"She's very fond of you, too."

Siobhan shrugged and took off her jacket. Al glanced in her direction, noticing her bare arms, her bare midriff and her bare thighs.

Christ, that outfit doesn't cover much up, he remarked internally. Not for the first time, he found himself looking at his eldest child in a not entirely savoury way. She was the spitting image of her mother at that age, minus the hair dye and the tattoos of course, although if anything Siobhan was a little bit curvier. And bearing in mind just how voluptuous Monica had been, that was really saying something.

He remembered when they first started dating, he would ask her to take all her clothes off and stand naked in front of him. He would prowl round her body like it was a statue, a work of art, just marvelling at her shape and her sexual allure. She would giggle and blush, as he occasionally touched or stroked her, kissed or licked her, tickled or bit her. Then, after a certain amount of close study, he'd throw her on to the bed and fuck her brains out.

No chance of that happening now, with Monica or Siobhan, but he quietly pondered at his daughter's physique nonetheless . At barely five feet tall, she was a real pocket venus. Her body was all soft curves, with a sexy dollop of baby fat. She moaned about her weight, but Al didn't see any problem with it at all. She was just the kind of woman he was attracted to most. Petite, big tits, a big bum, a sexy smile. All her bumps and lumps were in the right place.

Shame she's your daughter, he thought to himself. Yes, such a shame.

Maybe it was the cocaine still in his system, maybe it was his recent nocturnal activities with Kasia, but Al was suddenly feeling very horny indeed. His dick was stiffening beneath the bedsheets. He was beginning to wonder how he might get out of bed and get to the bathroom without flashing his teenage daughter, when his mobile rang. He reached over to the bedside table and picked it up. The name on the screen was Work.

"Hello." He said, as he answered the call.

"Al? It's Mike Treneman, the desk editor. You okay? I've not rung you too early, have I?"

"No, it's fine. Although, if you had, you'd be the first newsdesk editor who's ever apologised about waking anyone up."

"What can I say, I'm a prince among men."

"What can I do for you, Mike?"

"We've had this woman who keeps ringing the desk. She won't leave a name, but says she wants to talk to you about a big story. She's probably a nutter, but she's a persistent nutter. She's rung at least a dozen times in the last two days."

"Okay. Has she said what her big story is about?"

"No. She only wants to talk to you apparently. She left her number. Can you give her a ring, just to dampen her ardour a little? Stop her pestering us?"

"Okay, sure. Give me the number."

Mike did exactly that and, after some brief exchange of office gossip, hung up. Siobhan was still in the room, sat on a chair opposite the bed, her thick curvy legs were crossed, revealing a huge expanse of creamy flesh. Al smiled at her, his dick still semi-erect, as he dialled the number he'd been given. He heard it ring a few times, then someone answered.

"Hello?" It was a woman, an older woman by the sounds of it.

"Hello. This is Al Scanlon, from the Daily Herald. You've been trying to get in touch with me?"

"Alistair Scanlon? The reporter?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

A pause.

"I was told you have a tipoff for me?"

"Yes, I suppose I do."

Another pause.

"And do you want to tell me what the tipoff is?"

"No. Not here. Not like this, over the phone. We'll have to meet."

"Well, the thing is Ms...I don't know your name."

"No, you don't. You can call me Mrs E."

"Okay, Mrs E, if you could just give me some details about this story you want me to look into."

"No. We'll have to meet. Like I told you, I can't discuss this over the phone. People may be listening."

Oh Christ, she really is a loon, Al thought to himself.

"I think that's very unlikely Mrs E."

"You don't know that!" She exclaimed. "You don't know what they are capable of!"

She sounded scared. Really scared. For the first time in their entire conversation, Al was suddenly listening with some serious intent. He was still a little wary though.

"You need to give me something, I'm afraid. I can't meet up with a potential source unless I have some idea of what the story was about."

There was a long silence. For a moment he wondered if she'd hung up. Or maybe she'd been abducted by operatives from the deep state, who had swept in to her home and dragged her away, drugged and unconscious. He thought that somewhat unlikely, but you never know. Then...

"Okay. I have evidence that a senior politician is involved in an inappropriate relationship..."

"I'm not sure this is my area, Mrs E. I mean MPs shagging their secretaries is not big news these days. Maybe the tabloids..."

"No. It's not just some office affair. There's a lot more to it than that. I'm talking about something else."

"What?"

"Incest, Mr Scanlon. I'm talking about incest."

Al looked across the room at his voluptuous daughter, sat there in her sexy goth outfit and he was momentarily lost for words. The word incest just floating there, in the ether, as Siobhan smiled at him.

"Yes, maybe we should meet up." Al said, quietly.

3

Leonardo's was a small café, not all that far from Downing Street. It was off a side road, near Westminster Abbey, and it was a real old greasy spoon. If you wanted coffee, it was invariably served in a chipped mug. In theory, you could order a cappuccino, but the machine that made them wasn't very reliable. The early morning breakfast rush had passed, and the place was mostly empty. There was a guy sat in one corner, demolishing a full English.

And then there was Al.

He was sat, nursing a Coke. The brown, sugary drink, not the white, narcotic powder. Al didn't like tea or coffee, he never had, so he always opted for soft drinks. Unless he was opting for hard drinks, of course. It was mid-morning and the sun was shining. He'd been there for ten minutes or so, when an elderly woman walked up to his table.

"Mr Scanlon?" The woman asked.

"Yes. Mrs E?"

"Yes."

"Would you like a drink? A tea or coffee?"

"No," She said, "It's safer if we're on the move."

Al shrugged, downed what was left of his Coke and got up; the two of them then walked out the door. Mrs E led the way, although she didn't appear to be heading in any particular direction. They seemed to be meandering, going this way and that. All the time, she would look around, first in one direction, then another.

She thinks we're being followed, Al thought to himself. Jesus, she is a nutter.

"So, what's this story you want to talk to me about, Mrs E?" He asked.

"Gwyn."

"Sorry?"

"My name is Gwyn. Gwyneth Jones. Yes, my family are Welsh. My husband's family too."

"So, why Mrs E?"

"Emma is my middle name."

"Oh, I see."

"He died last year. My husband, that is. He died last year. He was only 58. Heart attack."

"Oh...I'm sorry."

"Malcolm read your paper every day. He'd been reading it since he was a kid. His father had read it, and he read it. He believed in your paper. Believed in what it stood for. He was a good union man. He fought for workers' rights."

"Uh...okay..." Al was mystified, uncertain as to where this woman would take him next; both geographically and biographically.