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The women’s toilets are nicer than the men’s, he thinks as she steers him inside. There’s no one by the sinks, and she pushes him toward the cubicle at the far end. She locks the door, then grabs his face and snogs him, hard.
Adam’s surprised, but not disinterested. She tastes of something sweet, Red Bull maybe, with the energy to match. Her dress is short, her legs bare. He slides his fingers up her thighs: she’s hot, slightly sweaty. He can feel her hands in his shirt, then fumbling with his belt.
They hear someone else come into the toilets—two women, talking. The woman giggles, her mouth still pressed against his, and now her hand is down his trousers. He presses his lips together, forcing himself to stay quiet but fuck, he’s not sure how long he can stand this.
He grabs her wrist, stopping her, and she looks up, a wicked grin on her face. A flush from the toilets, conversation fading as the women leave and the door opens and closes. The woman—still nameless, to his shame—backs away from him and then, maintaining eye contact, pulls her knickers down and places them very deliberately on the closed toilet seat. She puts one hand on the wall of the cubicle, the other on the other side and pulls herself up, her dress now bunched around her waist. Christ, she’s not messing around.
Adam doesn’t wait. Condom out of his wallet, trousers around his knees, he pulls her legs around his waist and fucks her. Her hands in his hair, his mouth on her neck. No questions asked. A warm body, a moment of connection. A meeting of hot skin when he needs it the most.
Concentrating on one thing and one thing alone, the feeling of this random woman on his dick, pushing all thoughts of his ex-wife out of his mind. Her tongue in his mouth, hands on her ass. The sweat, the spit, the futile fucking carelessness of it all.
He feels his mobile vibrate against his leg from the pocket of his trousers, but he ignores it. It stops, then starts again.
He knows he needs to answer it, but all other desires overtake his rational thought. Because this feels so good. Awkward, uncomfortable, but better than the awful sinking feeling he’s experienced since Romilly walked back into his life. He just wants this woman here, feeling the heat build, the pressure, skin against skin—
His phone rings again.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. He can’t ignore it any longer. “Wait a moment,” he directs the woman, who pulls away from him, a scowl on her face.
“Adam?” the voice at the other end shouts. It’s Jamie, but something’s wrong.
“What’s up?”
“Adam …” The voice again, something like a howl. Reception cuts in and out; Adam curses again. He can’t make out what he’s saying.
The woman sighs and pulls away from him, her two feet back on the ground, pulling her skirt down. Adam uses one hand to awkwardly pull his boxers and trousers up.
“Jamie? What’s going on?”
He can hear a scattering of words now. A sentence cut into two. “She’s …” Jamie’s saying. “… not sure … called you.”
Adam frowns.
“Jamie,” he starts, but then, for one fraction of a second, reception catches, and Adam hears what his DS is saying. And it makes his whole world screech to a halt.
“She’s disappeared, Adam,” Jamie shouts. “Pippa. She’s gone.”
BEFORE
IT BEGINS WITH the belt. The sadist’s tool of choice. A length of brown leather. Aged and worn to a sheen, the buckle at one end.
He doesn’t know what’s going on, not at first. He hears his father pacing the house. Angry, thumping beats, fading to slower, measured steps. Then the count. Starting at twenty, and slowly, softly, working his way down.
He sits in his hiding place, behind the sofa. Confused. Listening. His father is closer now, in the room. Checking behind one chair, then another. He can smell him, the pervading cigarette smoke. Mud, diesel, tar. The unmistakable tang of cheap spirits sweated from pores.
“Come out, come out. Wherever you are.” The words are friendly, the tone anything but. Breath chokes his throat. Moisture disappears from his mouth.
Eleven. Ten. Nine.
He feels a rough hand on his foot, fingers grab at his hair. Pain in his scalp as he is pulled roughly to his feet.
“Nine,” his father calls, triumphantly.
He squeaks as he’s dragged into the center of the living room.
“Nine,” his father repeats. “Nine punishments.”
