Foxtrot 6

At the bar I'm disappointed to discover there's no cider. Instead I get a bottle-poured pint of Kirkstalls Altered Beast, described on the chalkboard as being: 'a bitter and hoppy West Coast style IPA.' I don't hold the description against the ale and get it on the grounds that it sounds like it's the least pretentious. To be fair, it doesn't taste half bad.

I notice a young woman sitting alone at a table. She has blond hair halfway down her back and is wearing a curve-hugging red Lycra mini dress. I take my beer from the bar and sit at a table close enough to see her better.

As a result I realise that Raymond Chandler had sussed out women like her a very, very long time ago. 'From thirty feet away she looked like she had a lot of class, from ten feet away she looked like something to be seen from thirty feet away.'

A young man approaches her table from the bar. He has a spiky afro and dresses flashily in expensive designer branded sportswear.

He puts two bottles of WKD Blue on the table and sits down opposite her. I recognise him, he's a professional footballer. Well professional in that he plays for Salford City, but just how professional are they?

Neither the footballer or the young woman speak to each other. They're too engrossed in their phones. I reach for my own battered iPhone and tap the footballer's name into Google then add 'girlfriend'. As a result I learn that she's twenty-four and has a career that involves appearing nude on Babestation. Oh, and she's recently increased her breast size from a 36 D to a 42 double G.

While I wait for my Filthy to turn up I check the bar's review on Tripadvisor. The blurb in the about section reads: 'Explore our secret garden of food and drink, where resident jardinières craft secret and unusual concoctions and trinkets hang from walls...'

How pretentious is that? The answer is, I suspect, very.

When he walks into the bar, Filthy McNasty looks as out of place as a bacon sandwich in a synagogue. He's clearly uncomfortable in the bar. I wonder if I looked as self-conscious when I realised that the Griffin Social Club had lunchtime pole dancers.

He spots me and comes over. He looks both grumpy and relieved, a neat trick if you can pull it off. Filthy can.

'This your local then?' he grunts as he sits down across the table from me.

'Nope,' I shake my head, 'I've never been here before.'

'Then why did you set up a meet here?'

I shrug.

'Outside of a drag bar in the Gay Village, I can't think of anywhere you'd feel more uncomfortable,' I give him an evil smile. 'Payback's a bitch, aint it.'

I take a sip of beer.

'Talking of drag bars, I've got some information about who belted your girlfriend,' he says.

'My girlfriend?' I ask quietly, 'I don't have a girlfriend.'

'Yes you do,' he smirks, 'that little tranny who got her eye blacked.'

I stiffened in my seat. I don't like that word at the best of time. When a dirty old bastard like Filthy uses it to describe Nell, well, I can feel acid bile rising in my throat.

Then I realise, the best defence is a bloody good offence. It's time to go on the offensive.

'Who do you think I work for?' I ask quietly.

'How the bloody hell should I know,' he grunts, 'now do you want to find out who hit your little tranny or not?'

I locked his gaze with mine.

'Tell me.'

'His name's George Bradshaw, he works as a Project Manager at the site for that new office block they're building in Minshull Street,' there's an air of sneering in his voice. 'He hangs round the Moulin Lounge but never goes in.'

I nod to acknowledge that I've heard him but keep my trap shut to encourage him to tell me more.

'He hangs about outside but never goes in,' Filthy continues, 'probably one of them queers who's in the closet.'

'Quite probably,' I agree with him.

'Anyway, he finds your tranny girlfriend in a service alley having a vape,' he's openly sneering at me. 'She's a hot little slut that tranny, lovely big tits. I've seen the CCTV footage of her giving him a blow job. She got her tits out and everything. I've gotta say, she's got a nice pair, falsies are they?'

It takes all my willpower not to lose my temper under his goading.

'Have you got the CCTV footage?' I ask.

'Want to get your rocks off watching her giving another bloke a sloppy tit job?' he asks, 'have one off the wrist as you watch, eh?'

I ignore his comments.

'So, have you got a name and address for this guy?' it's becoming a strain keeping a civil tone when I speak to Filthy.

'Got it all on a flash drive, but it'll cost you to get it,' he leers. 'We'll discus how much after I've pointed Percy at the porcelain.'

+++

Chapter 16 - Punishment

Le Jardin Secret, Northern Quarter, Manchester, Thursday, 4 July 2024

As I watch his back retreating to the toilet I get my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans. I scan through my contacts list until I get to the name and the work email address for a contact of Viki's, Louise Chapman, a mate of hers from her time in the job. Louise is a Detective Sergeant with Greater Manchester Police Special Branch. I send an email from the drafts folder with Filthy's full name and address and attachments of screen shots where he boasts about having 'classic' seventies peado porn.

With that done, I put on a pair of leather gloves, pull up my hood, stand and walk slowly towards the toilets. It's in what used to be the basement when this was, God, I don't know. Maybe a big shop or a small department store. Anyhow, the only way to the toilets is down a narrow, steep stairway.

When I get downstairs I find that we're the only people in the lavatory, which suits me just fine. He's standing at the urinal fumbling with his fly zip as I enter. I move quickly and and quietly, pushing him hard face first into the wall.

'What the fuck!' he squawks.

I shut him up by punching him in the back of the neck. His face hits the wall with a satisfying thud. While he's stunned I grab him by the back of his trousers and shirt collar, swing him round hard and push him head first into a toilet stall.

The key here is momentum. Keep up the speed and aggression and I'll be done with him before the bugger can regain his wits.

I slam the instep of my right foot into the back of his knee while simultaneously pressing down on his neck. The old man sags to his knees and I push his face into the toilet bowl. I'm really glad to see that the person who used the toilet previously hasn't flushed. Now that's a bonus. I grab a fistful of greasy hair and lift his face from the water.

'Give me everything you have on the assault on Nell Mackenzie,' I hiss in his ear.

'Fuck off!' he responds.

I push his head back into the shitty toilet water and wait until his struggles turn into panic before I pull his head back up.

'Don't play silly buggers,' I spit.

Filthy begins to to gurgle and splutter in the shitty toilet water. I haul his face out again.

'The flash drive,' I say through taught lips, 'give it to me. Now.'

'Fuck off!' he spits again.

'I take that to be a negative response and push his head back into the toilet, using my foot to keep it in the water before flushing. When the tumult is finished I haul him up and frogmarch him out of the toilet stall. I keep building up speed until his face hits the tiled wall hard.

I can see blood begin to trickle down his face this time. Nothing major. I reckon I've maybe broken his nose but that's all. Twisting his right arm behind his back makes Filthy yelp again and keeps reminding him who's the boss here.

I frisk him until I find a flash drive in his wallet.

'Does this have your report and the CCTV footage on it.'

'I'll fucking kill you...'

'Who upgraded you from the cheap seats?'

I smack his face into the wall again and follow up with a short, sharp left jab to his kidneys. I swing him round and, sweeping his legs from under him, drop Filthy face down onto the tiled floor. I drop onto my knees straddling his shoulders. Filthy lies still and whimpers.

'Now, stop getting stupid delusions of adequacy and answer the bloody question. Does this have what I'm looking for on it?'

'Yes,' he says, and his shoulders start to quake.

I realise he's crying. He's stopped being an unpleasant, arrogant, bigoted, dirty bastard; now all he is, well, he's just a sad, lonely old man. I feel sick in the pit of my stomach about what I've done. This is not my finest moment.

There's still one thing I've got to do, and I need to do it fast before someone with a slack bladder comes down to do the business after a couple too many beers.I need to deliver a health warning.

'See this?' I hiss into his ear and show him my MoD ID card, 'if I'm not in the forces, how the hell do you think I got this? I'll tell you, it's because I'm a spook. I work for Defence Intelligence.'

Filthy lets out a pathetic moan.

'If you'd just given me the flash-drive there'd have been no need for any of this poxy fucking aggravation,' I growl, 'but you slagged off my girlfriend. You called her a tranny. You probably think that makes me gay or bi and therefore a weak wimp. It looks like that was the wrong conclusion to jump to.'

He starts crying again.

'You don't have a lot of time to lie there snivelling. You need to get back to Blackpool fast' I tell him and jump up. 'See, when you first came down here I sent an email with lots of lovely evidence of your kiddie porn collection to a colleague in the Branch. She will, in turn, have passed this on to her colleagues in Blackpool CID. You can expect a visit from the old bill soon.'

I turn and walk to the door, but pause before opening it.

'When you've finished helping the boys in blue with their inquiries I'll be in touch,' I tell him. 'Just you keep remembering, you're my bitch now.'

I leave the toilet and jog up the stairs. At the top I meet someone about to descend.

'I'd leave it ten minutes if I were you,' I warn him, 'there's an old geezer down there having a bad case of the trots. The stench is intense.'

I push past him and head out of Le Jardin Secret.

+++

Chapter 17 - Independence Night

The Warehouse Serviced Apartments, the Northern Quarter, Manchester, Thursday, 4 July 2024

As soon as Smith entered the flat he encountered Nell dressed in a cheerleader's outfit. She was fussing in the flat's tiny galley kitchen.

She turned and beamed broadly at him, picked her phone up and tapped at the screen. The Bluetooth speaker started playing John Philip Sousa's The Liberty Bell.

'And now for something completely different,' he said wryly.

Nell gave him a strange look.

'You tripping or something babe?' she asked.

'It's the theme to Monty Python's Flying Circus.'

'Never heard of him,' she shakes her head and raises an eyebrow questioningly, 'is he some kind of indie musician or something?'

'Not him, them,' Smith is beginning to get exasperated. 'They were a sketch comedy group. You know, the ministry of silly walks, the Lumberjack Song.'

Nell shrugs. She has a great poker face. Until her lips form a cupids bow pout and then it morphs into a wide grin.

'You forgot Life of Brian,' she chuckles. 'And this is part of the all-American patriotic playlist that I put together for tonight. Next up it's Glenn Miller's American Patrol. Happy Fourth of July.'

She goes to the fridge and takes out a silver metal flask.

'I didn't know we had a cocktail shaker,' Smith comments.

'We didn't until this afternoon,' she answers, 'you didn't have decent cocktail glasses either, so I went to Harvey Nichols. Those guys charge like wounded buffaloes, the glasses were, like, almost fifty pounds for the pair. But I think they're worth it.'

She holds up a long stemmed conical martini glass to demonstrate before pouring. Nell hands Smith a martini, takes his tie in her hand and tows him over to the couch. They sink down together.

The flavour is intriguing and botanical, with the subtle tang of the dry vermouth.

'Vodka martini?' Smith asks, smiling wryly, 'as in James Bond, shaken not stirred?'

'Correct,' she purses her crimson lips and sips her own cocktail, 'hmm, something missing, but what.'

'Olives?' he suggests.

'You're right,' she says, and chuckles self-deprecatingly, 'and what was the one thing I forgot?'

'Olives,' Smith answers her question.

They finish the cocktails in silence, savouring them, while listening to the music.

John Philip Sousa segues into Glenn Miller which in turn segues into John Mellencamp's R.O.C.K on the U.S.A. Smith puts his now empty glass down on the coffee table.

OK hun, go get changed,' she tells me, 'I've laid out your clothes in the bedroom.'

It used to be 'my' bedroom Smith thought, but it's now become 'the bedroom'. Or 'our bedroom' come to that. Since Monday night Nell had started sharing the bed with him, and that also meant she was sharing the bedroom. The first thing was she'd started leaving her discarded underwear lying around the bedroom. Now her clothes have started being added to his in the wardrobe.

I know what this is. It doesn't take a behavioural psychologist to recognise that Nell's marking her territory.

The bed has the outfit he's supposed to wear tonight laid out on it. There's a brown paper bag with the logo of a trader at Affleck's Palace, an indoor market that specialises in all things alternative. Inside the bag there's a tie-dyed t-shirt.

Nell's also laid out a pair of baggy cargo shorts. This troubles Smith as he doesn't actually own such a garment. On closer inspection he realises that they were formerly a pair of his cargo pants that she's cut up to make shorts. The final item of clothing are a pair of flip flops and sunglasses, both with Poundland price tags still attached. Finally there's a Green Bay Packers baseball cap. Smith dresses quickly and heads back into the living room.

'Is this really how American men dress?' he asks.

'Yep,' she smiles, 'why do you think I prefer to date British guys?'

'Fair point well made,' Smith nods to her.

'The ribs!' she says with sudden urgency and jumps up from the couch, rushing to the galley kitchen and the small oven. 'Damn, I nearly let them burn babe, and that would never do now, would it?'

Nell pulls a baking tray with a rack of barbecued pork ribs from the oven.

'OK, so this is a rack of Marx and Engels BBQ ribs,' she put the tray down on the worktop next to the two ring induction hob.

'Marx and Engels?' Smith asks.

'Or as they're better known here, Marks and Spencers,' she giggles. 'Now, it said on the packaging that this is enough to feed four people, but as they're talking about Brits, it's only really enough to feed two Americans.'

She plates up the ribs and adds nachos, and takes them to the circular glass table that serves as a dinning table.

'Well don't just sit there y' big lummox,' she teases him, 'dinner is served.'

As well as the ribs and tortilla chips there's guacamole dip, a bowl of salad and two bottles of Alamo Golden Ale, Texan beer. They tuck in, eating with gusto.

'Hey, don't pig out,' Nell warns him, 'you need to leave room for desert.'

'What are we having desert?' he asks.

'Hun, we're having each other.'

They finish the food quickly and Nell takes him by the hand into the bedroom. Smith pulls her close to him and holds her tight. Green Day starts to play American Idiot, but it doesn't suit the way Nell wants to dance.

'Alexa, play Dusty Springfield A little Loving,' she says.

'Dusty Springfield's British,' he whispers.

'Yeah,' she replies, 'but the album's Dusty in Memphis, it was recorded in America.'

'You make a compelling point,' he tells her.

She takes his hands and slips them under the top of her cheerleaders outfit. Smith begins to fondle and caress her large breasts. Nell slides her hands under his t-shirt and begins to caress him.

'Tonight I want you to top me hun,' she whispers, 'I want to feel you in me. Do you want that?'

'Yes please,' he answers enthusiastically.

She grins at his response. There are times when Smith's mask of coolness slips, when he is boyishly enthusiastic. These are the times when Nell can feel herself falling for him. Like now.

They undress and Nell pushes Smith backwards onto the bed. She Begins to give him a bow job, pulling his foreskin back, she gave it a small, chaste peck. Next her tongue swirled around the gland. She takes the whole of his dick in her mouth, her head bobbing up and down and her blonde hair cascading around his lap.

Smith's cock rises to become fully hardened. Nell stops her oral attention and looks up at him.

'It's time to take the hill soldier,' she grins.

'Ma'am, yes ma'am,' he responds with a cheeky wink.

Nell gets the lubricant and a condom from the drawer on the bedside table. She slips the latex sheath on him and squirts the gel into her hand before massaging his erection.

She lay on her side and patted the mattress by her backside, encouraging him to join her. Smith spooned up to Nell, she felt, well, she felt comfortable in his arms. He nuzzled into her long blond hair and inhaled her scent. Her buttocks began to butt into him, he began to respond with by rubbing his hard cock along the crack of her buttocks.

He slid his left arm under hers and cupped her breast. He began to gently tease her nipple; pinching it, stretching it out and twisting it. Nell gave a small gasped intake of breath. He knew her well enough by know to know that by now Nell would've she'd have closed her eyes while she chewed her lower lip. She did when she was concentrating over her university studies. She did it when they made love.

Smith kissed her neck, gently working his way up until he found her earlobe and gently nipped at it.

Nell raised her right leg, bending it at the knee. He lined his cock up with her anus and pushed into her, penetrating her for the first time.

Their love making was both passionate and gentle. They quickly established a comfortable rhythm, timing things so that as he thrust into her she pushed her arse back, allowing him to penetrate her deeply.

He reached over her him with his right arm and took a soft hold of her penis. He began to stroke her hard cock.

Smith nuzzled into her neck. Nell lifted her chin and tilted her her head so that he had better access to her neck. He gently kissed and nipped at the offered flesh causing her to sigh.

They built up tempo until Smith stiffened as he pulsed his sperm into the latex of the condom. After he finished orgasming into her, he lay still, but continued to jerk Nell's cock at an ever faster tempo, until she shot streams of come onto her inner thigh.

Smith pulled out of her, took the condom off his cock and threw it in the general direction of the bedroom waste basket. He missed, but couldn't be arsed to get off the bed and throw it away properly. Instead he rolled onto his back.

Nell rolled over onto her front, her head on Smith's shoulder, her hand on his chest. Her slim fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest.

'Oh Wolfie,' she sighed, 'this is the best damn way to celebrate Independence Day I know.'

+++

Chapter 18 - Truth to Power

Trans-Atlantic Institute for Strategic Studies, UK HQ, Battersby House, Sackville Street, Manchester, Thursday, 4 July 2024

There's a word in German: backpfeifengesicht. It means a face badly in need of a fist. I can see how it might very well apply to one star Brigadier General Frank Schwartz. From what I can see of him on the big screen in Colossus.

He's tall, certainly too tall for his hair, judging by his shiny domed head and a well groomed but largely superfluous comb over. But the things that I most detest about him, is his smug face and arrogant.

'OK, so we've identified the units that are being redeployed,' I glance down at my tablet, 'what we've got is three out of six battalions of the 69th Anti-Aircraft Brigade...'