Flowers at Midnight - Nick Sweet

Flowers at Midnight by Nick Sweet

Book excerpt

Bella smiled. “Taste okay, darling?”

“I’m sure you could find worse stuff on the wine shelf at Waitrose,” Alex replied.

Bella had been trying to persuade Sir Alex to drink her urine ever since they first slept together ten days ago, and he’d finally agreed to play ball. The best part was that she’d secretly used the spy camera in her wristwatch to photograph him guzzling it down.

Sir Alex said, “I have to be at the House in a couple of hours.”

She threw him a coquettish glance over her shoulder and saw the greedy lust sparkle in the old goat’s eyes. Sir Alex was an extremely rich man with a wife of around his own age who probably loved him, but that wasn’t enough for the wrinkled bastard. She turned and smiled at him. “Can I do anything else for you?”

“A cup of tea would be nice, darling.”

Bella patted her bobbed black hair into place, and as she pouted into the mirror to check that her cherry lipstick was on right, she saw Sir Alex ogling her ass. She lifted her white cotton dress from the hook on the back of the door and slipped it on. The dress clung to her wet buttocks, their rounded contours shifting like miniature seismic plates as she padded softly to the kitchen.

Sir Alex followed in a black silk bathrobe, his greying hair still wet from the shower. He shuffled up and took her in his arms. He smelt disgusting when he kissed her, and Bella almost gagged. The next thing she knew, he was lifting her onto the worktop, and he entered her for the second time that day. She dug her nails into his back as he fucked her hard.

The knowledge that her boyfriend, Martin, would kill her if he knew what she was doing only heightened her excitement.

Sir Alex cannoned into orgasm, and Bella came with him. Then she slipped down off the edge of the worktop. “I say,” she giggled, “we are feeling hot today.”

“It’s hard not to feel that way when I look at you.” Sir Alex took a deep breath and smiled as he let it out.

“You only want me for one thing, Alex.” Bella balanced this accusation with a coquettish smile.

“I love your pussy, darling, it’s true,” he confessed. “But that’s only because I love you, Gina.”

Gina was the name Bella was using.

“A case of love me, love my pussy, is it?”

“Precisely.”

“But is that the man or the politician talking?”

“How can you possibly say such a thing? I’m only Machiavellian when I’m in the House, darling. Never with you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Machiavelli was an Italian political philosopher. He wrote a book called The Prince, which is all about how to succeed in politics.”

“Don’t tell me. He says you need to bullshit a lot, right?”

“Something like that, yes, as it happens.”

“Did he like to drink women’s pee-pee, too?”

“You’d have to ask him —only that might prove a tad difficult.”

“How come?”

“He died in 1527.”

Martin Butler developed Bella’s film and printed the photographs the following morning down in his darkroom at the Chelsea Centre. Having satisfied himself that they’d come out okay, he went out and called Mrs. Big from a phone box on King’s Road. He stood there in his stonewashed jeans and leather jacket, thrumming his fingers on the window as he listened to the ringtone.

“Hello?”

“It’s me. I’ve got the photographs.”

“And they came out as clearly and as I wanted, did they?”

“They came out perfectly.”

“Good. In that case, I need you to bring them to me. Be on the embankment by Putney Bridge, on the northwest side, at eleven sharp tomorrow morning.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll need the camera and the chip you used in it, too, of course. Bring it all in an A4 manila envelope. An associate of mine will be there to meet you.”

“Why won’t you be there?”

“I’ll be nearby. You will need to wait a minute or two while my man brings me the package so I can check it. Then so long as everything’s in order, he’ll come straight back and pay you.”

“How long’s all this gonna take?”

“Couple of minutes, tops.”

“But how will I recognize this associate of yours?”

“You won’t. He’ll recognize you.”

“And how do I know you’re gonna pay me once your guy leaves with the camera and the photographs?”

“Listen, if people who work for me do a good job, then I pay them—that way I can always use them again. You understand me?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Don’t be late.”

They hung up and Martin drove back to the flat in Cambridge Gardens off Portobello Road.

Bella was sitting up in bed reading a magazine when he walked in. She was wearing one of his old shirts and nothing else and looked utterly ravishing. “All right, Bel?” He winked at her and worked his arms out of his leather jacket, dropping it over the back of an upright chair.

“What happened?” She put her magazine down and looked at him.

“I’ve spoken to the lady.”

“Mrs. Big?”

Martin sat on the side of the bed, took his brown leather loafers off and swung his legs up. “We’re gonna make the exchange tomorrow morning at eleven.” He turned and caressed Bella’s cheek, which was very white and wonderfully smooth to the touch. “You look’n smell terrific, babe.”

“What about the photos, Mart?”

“What about them?”

“You’re sure they came out okay? I mean, you can see that it’s definitely him in them, can you?”

“Old David fuckin” Bailey couldn’t ‘ve made the guy come out any clearer, Bel, I’m telling you. No worries.”

“Let me have a look at them, then.”

“They aren’t here. I’ve got them stashed away in a safe place along with the camera.”

“Can you see my face in them, too?”

“Course you can’t. D’ you think I’m stupid or something?”

“I was only asking.”

“Fuck me, Bel.” Martin shook his head like he couldn’t believe she could ask him such a dumb question.

“But what if he comes into the Revuebar looking for me, Mart?”

“Who?”

“Alex fucking Boulton, our politician friend. Who d’you think I meant?”

“But he doesn’t know you work there.”

“He might be able to find out, though. . . I mean, he must have all sorts of contacts, a man in his position.”

“Now you’re starting to get paranoid. Anyway, even if he did find out you work at the Revuebar, he’s not gonna try’n come after you, is he?”

“How do you know he won’t?”

“The man’s a fucking politician, not some bloody lunatic.”

“You just love the danger of it, don’t you?”

“We need the money, Bel. Besides, we need to move out of this place. That mad hubby of yours ‘ll be out to kill us both if he knows I’m shacked up here with you.”

“But Joey’s banged up in nick.”

“He won’t be in there forever.”

***

Mona Chapman drove through South London and pulled up outside of a particularly dilapidated squat on Brixton Hill.

After climbing out of the car, she walked and hammered on the door. A lad with his hair in dreadlocks came and opened up. “I’ve come to see Al,” Mona said.

“Ain’t no Al lives here, man.” The lad went to shut the door in Mona’s face, but she used her foot to stop him.

“I’m an old friend of his. Tell him I’ve got some good news.”

The lad eyed Mona up and down suspiciously for a moment, but then he told her to wait and disappeared inside the house.

Moments later, Al came to the door. An extremely pale and skinny man of medium height, he was dressed in dirty jeans and a dirtier T-shirt. “Oh, Mo, it’s you. This’s a surprise. How’re tricks?”

“I don’t do that kind of thing anymore.”

He laughed. “You always did have a sense of humour.”

“I’ve got a job for you.”

“You mean you’re bringing me a commission?”

“Not exactly. There’s money in it, though.”

“What do I have to do, Mo?”

“I’ll explain on the way. Come on, let’s go.”

“Hang on a sec.” Al disappeared for a moment, then when he came back he was wearing an old pilot’s jacket.

“Aren’t you going to brush your hair?”

“This is the way I wear it.”

“I’ve seen tangled spaghetti that looked less of a mess.”

Mona pushed the button on the fob in her hand, the locks on her Volvo opened with a clunk, and they both climbed in. “Good solid set of wheels you got here,” Al said, patting the seat.