mirror. Lipstick. Hair. Teeth. Everything looked in place. She quickly fanned her face, cooling it down a tad.
The bell buzzed, once more.
There’s no fool like an old fool
, she thought, opening the door, dreading the lies she would hear, but willing to forgive.
“Hello, Francis.”
C HAPTER F OURTEEN
“World is crazier and more of it than we think …”
Louis MacNeice, “Snow”
K arl entered his office just as the early Friday morning sun began rising over Belfast’s dishevelled skyline. Naomi would hopefully be sound asleep – thank goodness – though this time he wasn’t dreading a confrontation.
His clothes stank of cigarette smoke and spilt liquor as he began peeling them off before stepping into the shower.
While the water washed away his stench, he kept thinking of his winning hands at the card game, over the past six hours. Three aces. Three kings. Numerous straights. And then the final
coup de grâce:
a royal fucking flush!
He could simply do no wrong. If he wasn’t a grown man, he would have wept with joy.
Showered and dried, he counted his winnings, again. Almost one thousand, nine hundred quid – a small fortune, at the moment. And to add to his pleasure, most of it taken from that cheap prick Marty Harrington, owner of a chain of funeral parlours – Heavenly Harrington’s – peppered throughout the city. Unlike Karl, though, Harrington
did
weep.
Thirty minutes later, a naked Karl crawled between the bed sheets,squeezing in close to Naomi’s deliciously warm body. She stirred and growled in protest at the coldness of his touch.
Disregarding the warning, he snuggled in closer, inhaling her early morning, womanly smell.
“Leave me alone,” she hissed, turning away from him, offering up the emptiness of her back. “You didn’t mind leaving me alone all night.”
Her early morning hoarseness was titillating. He felt an erection stirring.
“It’s time to get up, sleepyhead.” He nuzzled her neck and stroked her warm bum. “I have an early morning present for you.”
“You know where to stick your early morning present, don’t you? And it’s not near me. Get your hands off my arse.”
“Don’t be like that, love.”
She opened her eyes and blinked a couple of times. “I have to pee.”
He pressed hard against her bum, his erection adding an exclamation mark between her buttocks.
Yawning, she tried moving out of his grasp. He held her close, resisting her feeble efforts.
“I
have
to pee,” she whined, getting out of bed. “I can’t hold it in.”
“Be quick, my dearest.”
“Get stuffed,” she pronounced, walking towards the bathroom, braless breasts bouncing seductively, small buttocks see-sawing mischievously. As she passed the window, morning sunlight wafted in around the curtains and stole through her thin cotton T-shirt, tantalising him with the silhouette of her nakedness hidden beneath.
“Hurry, my dearest …” he sang.
She mumbled something nasty before scurrying into the bathroom, slamming the door loudly behind her. A few seconds later, Karl could hear the toilet seat falling, followed by the familiar tinkling sounds. It made him think of his royal flush, again.
Less than a minute later, Naomi re-emerged, poker-faced. He couldn’t help but grin at the T-shirt’s slogan: The only Bush I trust is my own . A glaring caricature of George Bush, depicted as a monkey, looked down upon Karl disapprovingly.
“Your T-shirt’s a bit out of date, don’t you think?”
“I’m not talking to you, Karl Kane.”
“You just did.”
“Well, you can put that tiny dick back in its matchbox. It’s not lighting my fire any time soon.”
“
Oh
. You sure know how to crunch a man’s ego,” smiled Karl. “How does two nights in Dublin at the Shelbourne sound, with five hundred quid for your good self thrown in?”
“What?” Her drowsy face suddenly looked alert. “What did you say?”
“Thought you weren’t talking to me?”
“You won, last
The bell buzzed, once more.
There’s no fool like an old fool
, she thought, opening the door, dreading the lies she would hear, but willing to forgive.
“Hello, Francis.”
C HAPTER F OURTEEN
“World is crazier and more of it than we think …”
Louis MacNeice, “Snow”
K arl entered his office just as the early Friday morning sun began rising over Belfast’s dishevelled skyline. Naomi would hopefully be sound asleep – thank goodness – though this time he wasn’t dreading a confrontation.
His clothes stank of cigarette smoke and spilt liquor as he began peeling them off before stepping into the shower.
While the water washed away his stench, he kept thinking of his winning hands at the card game, over the past six hours. Three aces. Three kings. Numerous straights. And then the final
coup de grâce:
a royal fucking flush!
He could simply do no wrong. If he wasn’t a grown man, he would have wept with joy.
Showered and dried, he counted his winnings, again. Almost one thousand, nine hundred quid – a small fortune, at the moment. And to add to his pleasure, most of it taken from that cheap prick Marty Harrington, owner of a chain of funeral parlours – Heavenly Harrington’s – peppered throughout the city. Unlike Karl, though, Harrington
did
weep.
Thirty minutes later, a naked Karl crawled between the bed sheets,squeezing in close to Naomi’s deliciously warm body. She stirred and growled in protest at the coldness of his touch.
Disregarding the warning, he snuggled in closer, inhaling her early morning, womanly smell.
“Leave me alone,” she hissed, turning away from him, offering up the emptiness of her back. “You didn’t mind leaving me alone all night.”
Her early morning hoarseness was titillating. He felt an erection stirring.
“It’s time to get up, sleepyhead.” He nuzzled her neck and stroked her warm bum. “I have an early morning present for you.”
“You know where to stick your early morning present, don’t you? And it’s not near me. Get your hands off my arse.”
“Don’t be like that, love.”
She opened her eyes and blinked a couple of times. “I have to pee.”
He pressed hard against her bum, his erection adding an exclamation mark between her buttocks.
Yawning, she tried moving out of his grasp. He held her close, resisting her feeble efforts.
“I
have
to pee,” she whined, getting out of bed. “I can’t hold it in.”
“Be quick, my dearest.”
“Get stuffed,” she pronounced, walking towards the bathroom, braless breasts bouncing seductively, small buttocks see-sawing mischievously. As she passed the window, morning sunlight wafted in around the curtains and stole through her thin cotton T-shirt, tantalising him with the silhouette of her nakedness hidden beneath.
“Hurry, my dearest …” he sang.
She mumbled something nasty before scurrying into the bathroom, slamming the door loudly behind her. A few seconds later, Karl could hear the toilet seat falling, followed by the familiar tinkling sounds. It made him think of his royal flush, again.
Less than a minute later, Naomi re-emerged, poker-faced. He couldn’t help but grin at the T-shirt’s slogan: The only Bush I trust is my own . A glaring caricature of George Bush, depicted as a monkey, looked down upon Karl disapprovingly.
“Your T-shirt’s a bit out of date, don’t you think?”
“I’m not talking to you, Karl Kane.”
“You just did.”
“Well, you can put that tiny dick back in its matchbox. It’s not lighting my fire any time soon.”
“
Oh
. You sure know how to crunch a man’s ego,” smiled Karl. “How does two nights in Dublin at the Shelbourne sound, with five hundred quid for your good self thrown in?”
“What?” Her drowsy face suddenly looked alert. “What did you say?”
“Thought you weren’t talking to me?”
“You won, last
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