Forever Shores by Peter McNamara Page B

underwear. No attempt to search his jacket for billfold, nor to riffle his pockets. These were not pranksters, and certainly not simple thieves. He was blubbery and covered in hair about the back, shoulders and chest in the Mediterranean fashion; his hair-style had been a comb-over, which flopped repulsively to one side as they jostled him. I saw a small black hole in his left breast, and some thick, oozing blood. He had been shot through the heart. My own heart was ready to expire from overwork. The tough little wench took the murdered man under his armpits and hoisted him toward the bath.
    â€˜Loon, get the feet.’
    She wasn’t saying loon , it was more like ‘lyoon’. Lune, the Moon seen from France?
    Wait for it, I thought. Surpr- ise! Beautiful Lune grasped the edge of the plastic screen, threw it back along its runner. I stood up fast, bowed with a sweep of my right hand, and stepped out of the bath.
    Both women stood petrified. In that moment of silence, stocky Maybelline’s grip failed in terror, and the corpse hit the tiles again with a flat, unpleasant thump. ‘Fuck!’ she said, and shot through the window. I’ll never again underestimate the speed of a corpulent human. Lune gave me a look of lovely, utter confusion, dropped the man’s legs, bolted for the window.
    â€˜Sorry,’ I said, and slammed the cricket bat down on the sill. She jerked back her fingers, stared at me in outrage, open-mouthed, and flew at me like a cat. There was nothing to grab of her but skin and hair. I was brought up nicely never to strike a woman. The corpse was leering up at us. I fell over on top of him, bringing Lune down as well, pinning her arms. She smelled really, really nice.
    â€˜Good god,’ she said, ‘get off me, you oaf. You stink! How long is it since you had a bath?’
    It was so terribly unfair I just burst out laughing and let go of her.
    Big mistake.
    Lune had me in a headlock a second after I’d released her. She smacked the top of my head against the toilet bowl. I yowled and got free, stumbled to my feet, head ringing, slammed down the open window and locked it. In the night beyond, as the pane came down, I saw no sign of Maybelline or the crane that must have hoisted two women and a dead man up to this floor. I locked the window and the cricket bat caught me behind the right knee.
    â€˜Ow! Fuck! Will you stop that!’ I yelped. As I turned I saw her in the big mirror, bat raised for a lethal stroke at my bruised skull. She was off balance for a moment as she brought it down; I sidestepped, kicked one leg of the corpse sideways to catch her next step. Lune fell into my arms. I was shockingly aroused, and tussled her into a sitting position on the lavatory. The seat was up, and she cried out indignantly as her bare backside hit the cold rim. One leg came up and her foot caught me in the thigh; something flashed, and I went shudderingly cold. From the heated rack I grabbed a thick, fluffy, warm towel and shoved it in her face, grasping her right foot and dragging it up so that she slid forward on the lavatory, banging her spine. There was a small row of silvery hieroglyphs carved into the instep of her foot.
    She saw my shock, failed to recognise its nature.
    â€˜The mark of the beast,’ she said sarcastically.
    â€˜Are you going to stay put, or do I have to hurt you? I’d rather not hurt you,’ I said. Then: ‘What?’
    â€˜My ID number,’ she said, gibingly. ‘My use-by date. That’s what you think, I suppose? Another stupid mutilation fad.’
    I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort, but it was a useful suggestion.
    â€˜Yeah, well, it’s preferable to a bolt through your tongue, I suppose.’ I have nothing against body jewellery, but it seemed sensible to follow her lead up the garden path. I had the cricket bat by this point, and sat down opposite her on the edge of the bath. ‘How did you