night?
Didn’t
you?” a smile was slowly emerging on Naomi’s morning face. “Tell me you won.”
“I won!” exclaimed Karl, suddenly pulling the sheets away, exposing his full meaty erection resting beside a wad of money. “
Big!
”
“Oh, Karl. For little me?” smiled Naomi, falsely fluttering eyelashes, approaching the bed on tiptoes.
“For you!
Come!
And I mean that in more ways than one, you sexy thing, you.”
Naomi practically leapt from the floor on to the bed and into Karl’s waiting arms, money and erection.
That was when his mobile phone rang on the bedside table.
“Shouldn’t you answer that?” whispered Naomi hoarsely into his ears, her hand cupping his balls as if weighing them.
“Answer what? I don’t hear a thing except the sound of someone playing ‘Tubular Bells’ on my balls.”
The phone stopped ringing.
Both Naomi and Karl smiled.
It rang again.
“Fucking nuisance! I’m turning it off,” said Karl, reaching for the accursed piece of plastic.
“No … don’t. You better answer it. It could be important.”
“What’s more important than early morning sex with the woman I love?”
The phone continued ringing.
Naomi reached and handed it to him. “Just answer it. We still havea business to run, despite all your winnings.”
Sighing, Karl spoke into the phone. “Yes? Tom? This better be damn –”
For the next thirty seconds, Naomi watched the blood siphon from Karl’s face.
“What is it, Karl?” she asked, as soon as he clicked off the phone, two minutes later. “What’s wrong?”
The sun spilling into the room accentuated the lines on Karl’s suddenly weary face.
“That … that was Hicks. It’s … it’s Ivana. She’s been murdered.”
C HAPTER F IFTEEN
“Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.”
Oscar Wilde,
The Canterville Ghost
A pproximately a quarter of a million people have been buried on the site of Belfast City Cemetery, including politicians, inventors and writers such as Robert Wilson Lynd, one of the finest scribes Belfast has ever produced and friend to J.B. Priestly and James Joyce. The cemetery itself is dotted with beautiful cast-iron fountains and even boasts its own stream running through it. Local myth claims the stream is a purification, washing away the sins of forgotten and lost souls.
Over the years, Karl had attended numerous funerals at the cemetery, some sparsely attended, others labelled “a good turn out”. But nothing had prepared him for the gathering crowd from the gay and transsexual community thronging the grounds as Ivana’s pink coffin was slowly being eased into the clay on this clear-skied Wednesday morning. Local news reporters – predictors of a circus-type funeral the day before – seemed bitterly disappointed at the dignity of the mourners and onlookers, and suddenly became instrumental in fulfilling their own dark prophecy by acting like clowns, jumping over nestling headstones like horses at theGrand National as they jostled for position using cameras and elbows as weapons.
Granted, a goodly number of mourners
were
dressed in brassy outfits of orange, pink and rainbow-coloured garments, but the vast majority – including Karl and Naomi – wore sombre blacks and greys.
“Oh Karl,” sniffed Naomi. “Poor poor Ivana … she … she never did anyone any … any harm. Did she?”
“No. Of course not,” replied Karl, his suspicious and cynical mind thinking the opposite.
“But why … why poor Ivana?”
“I really don’t know, love,” replied Karl, wondering the exact same question.
“Has Tom told you anything about how it happened?”
“The cops have stated it was a burglary gone bad. There’s been a spate of them in that area over the last two months. They’re working on the theory that it’s the same
Didn’t
you?” a smile was slowly emerging on Naomi’s morning face. “Tell me you won.”
“I won!” exclaimed Karl, suddenly pulling the sheets away, exposing his full meaty erection resting beside a wad of money. “
Big!
”
“Oh, Karl. For little me?” smiled Naomi, falsely fluttering eyelashes, approaching the bed on tiptoes.
“For you!
Come!
And I mean that in more ways than one, you sexy thing, you.”
Naomi practically leapt from the floor on to the bed and into Karl’s waiting arms, money and erection.
That was when his mobile phone rang on the bedside table.
“Shouldn’t you answer that?” whispered Naomi hoarsely into his ears, her hand cupping his balls as if weighing them.
“Answer what? I don’t hear a thing except the sound of someone playing ‘Tubular Bells’ on my balls.”
The phone stopped ringing.
Both Naomi and Karl smiled.
It rang again.
“Fucking nuisance! I’m turning it off,” said Karl, reaching for the accursed piece of plastic.
“No … don’t. You better answer it. It could be important.”
“What’s more important than early morning sex with the woman I love?”
The phone continued ringing.
Naomi reached and handed it to him. “Just answer it. We still havea business to run, despite all your winnings.”
Sighing, Karl spoke into the phone. “Yes? Tom? This better be damn –”
For the next thirty seconds, Naomi watched the blood siphon from Karl’s face.
“What is it, Karl?” she asked, as soon as he clicked off the phone, two minutes later. “What’s wrong?”
The sun spilling into the room accentuated the lines on Karl’s suddenly weary face.
“That … that was Hicks. It’s … it’s Ivana. She’s been murdered.”
C HAPTER F IFTEEN
“Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.”
Oscar Wilde,
The Canterville Ghost
A pproximately a quarter of a million people have been buried on the site of Belfast City Cemetery, including politicians, inventors and writers such as Robert Wilson Lynd, one of the finest scribes Belfast has ever produced and friend to J.B. Priestly and James Joyce. The cemetery itself is dotted with beautiful cast-iron fountains and even boasts its own stream running through it. Local myth claims the stream is a purification, washing away the sins of forgotten and lost souls.
Over the years, Karl had attended numerous funerals at the cemetery, some sparsely attended, others labelled “a good turn out”. But nothing had prepared him for the gathering crowd from the gay and transsexual community thronging the grounds as Ivana’s pink coffin was slowly being eased into the clay on this clear-skied Wednesday morning. Local news reporters – predictors of a circus-type funeral the day before – seemed bitterly disappointed at the dignity of the mourners and onlookers, and suddenly became instrumental in fulfilling their own dark prophecy by acting like clowns, jumping over nestling headstones like horses at theGrand National as they jostled for position using cameras and elbows as weapons.
Granted, a goodly number of mourners
were
dressed in brassy outfits of orange, pink and rainbow-coloured garments, but the vast majority – including Karl and Naomi – wore sombre blacks and greys.
“Oh Karl,” sniffed Naomi. “Poor poor Ivana … she … she never did anyone any … any harm. Did she?”
“No. Of course not,” replied Karl, his suspicious and cynical mind thinking the opposite.
“But why … why poor Ivana?”
“I really don’t know, love,” replied Karl, wondering the exact same question.
“Has Tom told you anything about how it happened?”
“The cops have stated it was a burglary gone bad. There’s been a spate of them in that area over the last two months. They’re working on the theory that it’s the same
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