David and Jen

After she had taken off her coat, Phyllis said, "What was that drab doing here?"

David looked at her, astonished. "What did you call her?"

"A drab," she said dismissively. "A nobody."

"Like me," said David, flatly.

Ignoring him, she picked at some of the fruit in the bowl on the side.

"You have to have some standards, David, or you'll just be rolled by the plebs whenever they want a cheap thrill."

David blinked; her words had to count as some of the most callous things ever uttered in his presence. His mouth firmed.

"See yourself out."

She stared at him. "What did you say?"

"I'll get your coat."

Phyllis was open mouthed as he stood by the door, coat in hand. Then she pressed her lips into a thin line as a flush rose up her chest to her throat.

"Nobody turns me down!" she hissed as she stormed past him, snatching the coat from his hand.

As expected, she flung the garden gate open and did not close it behind her. He eyed her retreating form uneasily; he had a worrying feeling that he might come to regret this episode.

He trudged out to the gate to close it. He leaned on the cross bar and stared across the road to the fields beyond. The gusty wind whipped the new growth on the hedges about, and the sun came and went behind the ragged clouds. This had been a dismal experience.

***

By contrast, Tuesday was a glorious day; the early chill was invigorating as he rode to work. The air was like a cool drink to his lungs, refreshing his body and his blood. A couple of miles in, he pulled over and quickly stripped off his sweatshirt. Now just in loose tee shirt and shorts, he stepped on the pedals and powered into town.

Under the office, he locked his bike and made his way to the changing rooms. They were an unexpected luxury in the building and were little used. Stripping his sweat soaked things off he stood under the shower, first turning it up hot to wash and then abruptly twisting it radically the other way. One of these days, he mused, as the shock of the cold water hit him, this trick was going to give him a heart attack.

Finished in the shower, he quickly dried off and combed his hair. Putting his soiled cycling gear into a plastic bag, he hung up his homeward kit in the locker and made for this lift again.

Nick was already at his desk. No matter how early David arrived, Nick was always there ahead of him. David shook his head, how interesting could currency trading be?

The rest of the day was uneventful. Working for Alan was a lot nicer than working for Claire. David could hardly bring himself to name her.

Alan Richardson was David's new line manager, transferring across from another department within a week of Claire's departure. He was a big fortyish Scotsman with greying hair, a jovial manner and generally more relaxed all round. David had liked him almost the moment he'd met him. Alan had also had some ideas about the nature of David's work and how he might gain useful experience.

Back at home, flushed from another exhilarating ride, he threw the two sets of mucky clothes into the washing machine, and strode naked through the house to the bathroom. He felt great! He was fit, he was clever, he was getting quite rich, and he was getting laid two or three times a week!

But there was the unpleasantness with Phyllis. Truth be told he was glad not to have anything more to do with her, she regarded him as part of the livestock. Their encounters weren't the nice long languorous entanglements that he had with Em or the extraordinary experiences that Rosanna Squires cooked up, whether parked in some layby out in the sticks or on the balcony of a hotel. She liked the idea of being caught and for that she paid extra.

He was going to have to be much more choosey when it came to clients. And not allow Em to simply give his name and number to people without asking him first, dammit!

He opened a bottle of Cotes du Rhone and flopped into a chair to watch the news. He sipped at his wine; the news was depressing. Flicking around the other channels, he lost patience with the television and put a record on.

An hour later, reconnecting with the television just long enough to be assured by the weather forecast of another fine day tomorrow, he flicked through his VHS tapes for something to watch. 8 to 9pm was generally pretty dire on tv. Settling on the first of the Star Wars trilogy, he sat back to watch Luke Skywalker feel the Force.

The letterbox rattled and David got to his feet, quoting from one of his favourite LPs.

"Who could that be at this time of night?"

There was a young Asian woman on the doorstep, certainly no older than David, mid to late twenties, maybe?

She looked expensive, gold around her neck and her wrists, more gold at her earlobes and a nose ring. The clothes were western but looked tailored to fit. He had never seen her before.

She would be very exotic in this uniformly white community that complained a lot about immigrants despite never seeing any. You not only had to be anglophone and white, but you also had to be the 'right sort' of people too.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"You're David, right?"

The voice belied the appearance. An application for local fishwife would have been favourably received.

"Yes, but-," he was cut off as she pushed past him into the house.

"Wait! Where are you going?"

He hurried after her into the kitchen where she was standing with her hands on her hips surveying the room. In the background he could hear Obi-Wan telling the stormtroopers that these were not the droids they were looking for.

David shook his head and collected himself. "What do you want?"

"You do it for money, right? 'ere's some dosh."

And with that, she put her hand into her clutch and pulled out a handful of banknotes.

David stared at them and then looked up at her.

"Who are you?" he said.

"You can call me Nina, now, are we gonna do it or not?"

She started taking her coat off.

"No!" said David reflexively, which, in retrospect, probably saved his life.

She paused with one arm half out of its sleeve. "You what?"

"No," said David, trying to regain control. "We're not going to do anything. What do you mean by just barging into my house like this?"

"I said, you do it for money and I've got money so let's get it on."

"Absolutely not."

Her face twisted. "It's cos I'm a P---, innit!" she shouted and flung the notes at him.

[As an aside, in the period in which this is set, this was a common racial slur. Nice people didn't use it but then there were lots of people less well mannered. This is a piece written for an erotic fiction website so I can use words like 'cunt' with impunity but to openly use the word blanked above would be a no-no. The past truly is another country.]

"No!"

The notes fluttering to the ground, feeling the situation again spiralling out of control, David searched for the words to calm things down.

"I, I ... don't have ... I don't do that with strangers. I've never seen you before, I don't know who you are. You ... you could be the police!"

"The police! It'll be a cold fuckin' day in hell before I'm anything to do with them," she snorted and turning on her heel, walked briskly out of the house.

David scrabbled on his hands and knees to pick up the money. At the front door he called after her.

"Wait! Your money!"

She didn't pause or turn round, and he never saw her again.

Looking at the notes in his hand her realised they were all fifties, some of the notes so new they were stuck together. When he had separated them all and counted them up, there was five hundred pounds on the table. He sat and looked at the money. What now?

***

"David?" asked one of the two men on the doorstep, and after David confirmed his identity, he immediately planted his fist in David's gut.

David doubled over and the subsequent blow landed on the back of his head. David fell to his knees on the carpet and then a kick to his ribs put him on his side. He curled himself as tightly as he could while the blows kept coming.

After the longest time he was aware that they had stopped. Then he felt warm breath on his ear and flinched from whatever was coming next.

"A little message from Jimmy Desai, mate. Keep your paws off Nina. He hopes you understand."

After a long time on the floor, he got to his knees and crawled to shut the front door. Then he used the handle to pull himself upright and reached up to secure the top bolt, gasping at the pain in his side.

His head was ringing, and his jaw felt like it had been dislocated. That couldn't be the case because he could still move it, but he had no vocabulary to describe the myriad screaming abuses.

He stumbled to the living room and collapsed on to the sofa, trying to find the position that was least uncomfortable and failing.

After a while, he made himself navigate to the first aid box and swallow a couple of ibuprofen, followed by a couple of paracetamol. He was fairly sure that they worked in different ways.

About an hour later he felt capable of crawling up to bed where, against expectations, he fell asleep.

The next morning at least was a Saturday and there was no reason to get out of bed. Which was good because he ached from head to foot. Eventually, he made himself get up and totter downstairs to raid the pharmaceutical supplies.

As the aches and pains receded a bit, he started to think about his predicament. Should he go to the police? They would undoubtedly want to know if he knew why he had been assaulted and then what would he say? If he mentioned Nina, then that might invite further trouble.

He rang Marjorie Barrett.

***

"Oh my God, David! What on earth happened?" exclaimed Em, after he opened the door to her.

They went into the kitchen and sat at the table while David related the events of the previous evening.

"Jimmy Desai!" she exclaimed, "How on earth have you come to be involved with him? He's not someone to make an enemy of."

"So I gather," he murmured and continued with the story of how the woman whom he now knew to be Jimmy Desai's granddaughter, had barged her way into his house the previous Tuesday evening. Em listened with widening eyes as he told of the encounter with Nina.

"So, you didn't ... actually ..."

He smiled and then promptly winced.

"Jealous, Em?"

"No, of course not. We understand each other well enough; I think. Although ..."

She looked down at her hands.

"I've become very fond of you, David. You're most excellent company and part of me wishes that ... things were different."

It was David's turn to blush. Her affection and concern for him was heartening. He reached out to take her hand, her fingers cool and smooth in his own.

"No, I saved myself for you."

She smiled.

They stayed a moment then she stood up.

"Come on, you'd better get those things off and let me check you over. Nothing's broken, I take it?"

"I don't think so, a rib maybe. Everything aches but it all still seems to function."

He tottered upstairs with Em on his elbow making sure he didn't fall. They made their way into the spare bedroom, and she helped him out of his things.

She put her hand to her mouth. The phrase 'black and blue' came to mind but she'd never seen what it actually looked like. Mostly down one side of his body were bruises and welts from head to foot. There was something that looked very much like a footprint in the upper part of his back. His left eye was nearly shut and the whole side of his face was varying shades of purple.

***

Aftershocks

June

In the light of recent events, it was understandable that David was wary of visitors. He stood next to the front door and shouted, "Who is it?"

"My name's Peter Morgan, Mr Piper. Could I have a word?"

"What about?"

"Your assault."

"Are you a policeman?"

"I used to be. Open the door Mr Piper, I just want to have a word."

Peter Morgan turned out to be someone David already recognised from the parish council meetings although he had never known his name. He was an imposing individual, even in late middle age. He was comfortably in excess of six feet tall with broad shoulders and would not have disgraced the front row in any rugby team. He had a policeman's face, the sort that's seen quite a lot, thank you. His eyes narrowed when he took in David's appearance.

Once they were seated at the kitchen table, David asked, "What can I do for you, Mr Morgan?"

Peter Morgan heaved a sigh. "I was the village bobby for over forty years, Mr Piper."

"Call me David, please."

"Very well, David, you can call me Peter. Even now I've retired I still keep an eye on the place, and I know most of what's going on."

Conscious of Peter's very direct gaze, David shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wondering where this was going.

"How are the bruises?"

David grimaced. "They'll be gone in a week or so, thanks."

"It's interesting that you only have bruises," Peter observed.

David stared at him. "Only bruises! Interesting you say!"

"Mister Desai is not inclined to mercy, David," said Peter mildly. "Punishment usually comes in the form of things broken, teeth, limbs et cetera."

David stood up. "I never gave Desai's name to anyone! Who are you really?"

Peter Morgan leaned back in his chair and made calming gestures.

"Don't be alarmed, David, I really was the local bobby until I retired and I'm not here to threaten you. Quite the reverse. You may not feel like it, but you've got off lightly for someone that's come to Desai's attention. If he thought you'd been messing with his granddaughter, you'd be in a ditch somewhere or maybe bulking out the food supply on a pig farm."

David felt faint, he'd never been involved with criminals in any way. He knew they existed because they featured regularly on the news, but actual gangsters were an abstract concept. He sat down abruptly with a terrible cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Peter was talking.

"Nina Desai is a spoilt little princess, David, used to getting her own way. If she sees something she wants, she goes and gets it, generally without regard to the consequences.

You've been the subject of a considerable amount of gossip recently and some of that has obviously made its way to her shell-likes.

It's one thing to console lonely widows -- give my regards to Marjorie by the way, I hope you're being kind to her -- it's quite another to recklessly put it about in a community like this."

David put his head in his hands. "Is nothing private in this place?"

"So little happens, David. Every nugget is seized upon, such as your fortnightly visits to Mrs Barrett. Once would be unremarkable, twice would be interesting, but a series? Amongst other things, human beings are an intensely social species."

"You wouldn't know it," muttered David.

Peter continued, "That doesn't mean friendly, David, far from it. It's about competition, who's in favour, who's not, who's doing things that they don't want others to know. It's about getting ahead, getting a bigger slice of the pie. In humans this is the basis for one of the most valuable currencies known."

"Gossip," replied David, his interest piqued.

"Precisely so. In other primates, status is resolved by posturing and fighting. Sapiens, on the other hand, still fights from time to time but mostly we posture, using a mixture of material possessions and information. Your liaisons with Marjorie, ostensibly they're to discuss parish business but then you're not on the parish council, David and somehow what you discuss never comes up at the meetings. Not that you'd want that either, I don't think."

David coloured. Em was such a private person and the thought that anything he had done might have given her any pain was deeply unpleasant.

"You're not a gossip, Mr Piper and that's to your credit, but it means that you're mostly oblivious to what's going on here. Tread very carefully, David, if you mean to carry on in this line of work."

His face now crimson, David looked down at his hands and nodded. "Understood."

Why did everything seem to end up with him somehow in the wrong?

"Don't feel too bad, David," said Peter, kindly.

His head back in his hands, voice muffled, David replied, "I can't seem to do the right thing at all."

Peter laughed. "Don't become a policeman, then! Quandaries are our speciality, they come with curry sauce on a Thursday night."

David looked up, somehow Peter's laugh had leavened things. He shook his head.

"I never intended anything, Mr Morgan. It all just happened."

"Events dear boy, events."

"Huh?"

"A quote from Harold Macmillan, Prime Minister of the day. A reporter asked him what was likely to blow a government off course."

David surprised himself by laughing. Peter smiled and said, "As above, so below."

David laughed harder; the stress of the last few days being driven away by the older man's gentle wisdom.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked.

Peter considered the question. "What do you have?"

David grimaced. "Not much, do you drink bourbon?"

"I have been known to."

***

Unbeknownst to David, at about the same time as Peter was giving him some friendly advice, a conversation was taking place between Phyllis Tindall and two women he would come to know as Rosemary Ogilvie and Jane Cranshaw.

Phyllis knew Jane to say hello to, but they were most definitely not on speaking terms, and then to be invited to take tea!

Phyllis was unaware of the use that Rosemary would make of what she was about to learn and would probably have been, after her own fashion, somewhat concerned. However, her own excitement at socialising with Jane firmly quashed any potential concerns.

"Oh God, yes!" she confided in a low voice, even though they were the only people in the long drawing room. "Hung like a horse. I could hardly walk straight afterwards!"

Jane's lips pursed; Phyllis might fancy herself a cut above, but her mouth gave her away.

Rosemary's face took on a thoughtful expression.

"And you paid him for this? Like a common prostitute?"

"Oh, it was a pittance, fifty pounds a go and well worth it. I rather miss it," Phyllis giggled.

"So, you don't use him anymore?" Rosemary asked carefully.

Jane looked at Rosemary after she made this enquiry. Really?

"No, he made a fuss over some nobody from the village and we parted company."

"How peculiar!"

"Quite."

"Is he clean?"

"Oh God, Rosemary, are you thinking of getting him in?"

Phyllis had the expression of one let into a juicy piece of scandal. She didn't really move in the same circles that Rosemary did and was pleased to be getting a bit of traction.

"I do know that he only deals with a very few regulars, no passing trade, so to speak. Did you hear about Nina Desai?"

She proceeded to relate the by now heavily embroidered tale of how David had thrown Nina out of the house and her grandfather had had him beaten within an inch of his life.

Jane's eyebrows rose at the tale. She knew a few villains, but there was never any mention of their trade. Yet this was the reality when it came down to it. Even not knowing David, she was surprisingly relieved he had not been more seriously injured.

Rosemary pondered. Commonly known as Nina, Parvani Desai was a distant cousin and a spoilt little bitch, fond of throwing her money around. She and her grandfather were distant relations. It had been useful to promote her connection to him in the early days, but he was best kept at arm's length.

That David Piper had refused Nina's money was intriguing. Time would tell whether he could withstand Rosemary's own brand of coercion.

"Do you want his number?" Phyllis offered, hopefully.

"No, thank you," responded her confidant. "He's got an unusual surname, hasn't he?"