Boyd wondered if the boss knew his life had sat on a knife edge. Maybe that was why he’d made up the story of the girl — the daughter he’d never had. Perhaps the old man just wanted one last chance to make things right.
The pathology report had stated that the brain aneurysm that killed Cameron had been developing for some time. He would have experienced all the symptoms; light-headedness, rapid heartbeat, nose bleeds and finally a massive drop in blood pressure as it burst.
Detective Inspector Boyd sat for a minute in the darkness of his office. Everyone else had gone. He picked up the phone and called home. After a few moments Bev answered.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Boyd said, happy just to hear her voice.
Bev lay on her right side, her swollen breasts leaking through the T-shirt. She was sound asleep, her breath coming in small puffs. Boyd went to the cot and looked in at the other male in Bev’s life, the one who had stolen those breasts. The lips were puckered from sucking, eyes moving behind blue lids.
“I know what you’re dreaming about,” Boyd whispered.
The eyes flickered open, a tiny fist thrust the air. Bev stirred in response as though the two were still attached, umbilical cord unbroken.
Boyd offered his finger. At his touch, the fist fastened round him. Boyd was amazed at its strength.
He undressed and got into bed, gathering his wife in his arms. Bev pressed against him, damp, smelling of milk. Boyd kissed her hair, her eyes, her mouth.
The Turnip Farm
Allan Guthrie
Lester closed the gate, stepped into the field, wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Sweat glistened in the creases of his skin. He wiped his hands, front and back, on the legs of his dungarees.
It was only five o’clock but already Lester could tell it was going to be a hot one. Yep, by doodly, he’d better do it now rather than chance it later during the heat of the day.
Decision made, he felt his dangle stir. He gazed at the dozens of rows of turnips poking through the soil like a field of breasts, round and firm and ripe, and his dangle stirred some more.
He glanced around. Nothing moved apart from a couple of crows gliding in the thermals above the barn. Back in the cottage, everyone was still asleep.
Lester dropped to his knees, reached down, brushed surface dirt off a pair of fine wee beauties and placed them in the palms of his hands. He grasped them tightly, pressed against their fullness, and relaxed. Pressed and relaxed. As he kneaded the turnips, his breathing grew faster. He shifted, leaned forward, squeezed and stroked and tugged and nipped. He drew circles with his thumbs on the skin of the turnips, whispering, “Like this? Oh, yeah.” He squeezed and stroked again until his fingers were tired and the muscles in his thighs burned.
“Use my mouth? Okay.”
He lay on his stomach and wrapped his lips around the sweet, bare turnip flesh, and sucked and licked and nibbled, first one turnip and then the other, until the earth beneath him moaned.
“You want me to touch you there? In a minute.” He liked to tease.
When his lips were numb and his tongue was raw, he gently placed his fingers between the turnips and traced a line in the soil towards his belly, stopping only when he felt the earth under his fingers part. He prodded and pushed until his fingers sank inside a delicious softness, the soil still moist from yesterday’s spurts of rain. His fingers stiffened and he thrust them deep into the welcoming shaft that wrapped around his skin, clinging to him as he probed deeper and deeper, his fingers throbbing like over-excited hearts about to explode.
He was about to unzip himself when something caught his eye. He squinted. It was Sheena, his tractor, the shiny jealous ring of her exhaust pipe glinting in the sun. This is where his fumble with the turnips ended. Sheena wanted him inside her. She wanted him to ride her hard and fast, up and down the field, in and out of the turnips, harder and faster, engine roaring and screaming, until she shuddered, finally, to a furious climax, and came to rest by the gate, spent.
That’s what he did most mornings and he’d have done it again today if his oldest brother, Anne, hadn’t shouted at him from Mum’s bedroom window, “Lester, come up here. We’ve got a problem.”
It was still early, and Lester was surprised that Anne was up, but he saw right away when he stepped into Mum’s bedroom that she hadn’t budged from her usual position. Lester couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her out of bed. When their dad had got ill, she’d watched them move him into the barn, and then she’d sunk between the covers and stayed there.
Lester supposed she must have got up to go to the bathroom now and then, but he’d never seen her do it. And she didn’t have to get up to eat cause Lester’s youngest brother, Bamber, brought her food that he’d caught himself in his traps and prepared in the kitchen. He wasn’t a bad cook, but all he’d cook was meat. Lester liked to prepare the vegetables, but the rest of the family were often reluctant to let him. They’d seen what he’d done with a carrot once, a long thick one. Walked in on him on his back on the table with his pants down and his legs in the air. Wasn’t his fault. He was only human, with human desires.
Mum was in bed but she was awake. Sitting up, propped up against the pillows. Petey, one of Lester’s other brothers, had his back to her, facing the wall, and his body shook under the covers. Made a change that the pair of them weren’t curled up together. They were always giggling. Lester used to giggle too, but not for a while.
Dad would have been mad if he’d seen them, Mum and Petey. He was mad when he saw his friend, Alf, between the sheets with Mum. He’d shot Alf and then fed him to the pigs. Course, they didn’t have the pigs any longer, not since animal welfare had visited. Lester missed the pigs. He liked how they snuffled and squealed and how sometimes they looked like they were smiling.
Anne stroked his beard and looked round the room.
“What’s going on?” Lester said.
Petey snuffled.
“Waiting on Bamber,” Anne said.
“Want me to fetch him?” Lester said.
Anne shook his head. “He knows we’re meeting here. We’ll wait.”
They waited, fidgeting, listening to Petey’s slavering sobbing noises.
When Bamber finally appeared an hour or so later, he was carrying a tray with steaming plates of food on it. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “But I thought you might be hungry.”
They all tucked in, except for Petey, who ignored everybody and groaned now and then. Mum had Petey’s, along with her own.
“Very good,” Lester said to Bamber. Rabbit. Would have been better with potatoes, though. Potatoes in their skins. Lester enjoyed peeling the skin back and nuzzling the exposed potato underneath.
After Lester had finished licking his plate, he turned to Anne. “What did you want us all here for?” he asked.
Anne rose to his full height of six foot eight and bit his lip. “Mum,” he said. “You better tell Lester and Bamber the news.”
Mum looked a little worried. Her hair looked even wispier than usual and her bald patch seemed larger. She looked more worried when the bed began to shake with Petey’s sobs. She slid down the bed and out of sight under the covers.
Anne sighed. “It’s Dunlop.” Dunlop was their nearest neighbour. He lived four miles away, called himself a farmer but he just rented out his land and lived off the proceeds. Didn’t even own his own tractor. “He’s asked her to marry him.”
Lester felt the undigested meat in his stomach come alive. He looked at Bamber and Bamber shook his head sadly. “No,” Lester said. “She can’t, by doodly. Dunlop’s not right in the head.” He’d never been the same since Ruby, his daughter, got her tongue pierced. After the accident, Dunlop had started to talk to himself, not like normal folk, but whole conversations. And not just one side either as if he was talking to an imaginary friend. With Dunlop, you got both sides.