Part One

 

 

Dawn. Friday. Northern W. Australia.

The sun edged its way over the horizon and a hazy pale pink dawn began to streak the deep purple night. It was the time of day he loved best, before the burning heat set in and the vast cloudless sky became an intense reflective dish for the parched land. It was still cool and misty. A soft breeze ruffled his hair as he stood on the veranda of his simple wooden property and he drank a strong cup of coffee from a mug, tossing the bitter dregs to the dusty dry earth below.

He wanted an early start. It would be a long hot drive to Broome and at least the first few hours would be over before the sun really heated up the straight endless roads, all shimmering tarmac and a haze rising that made your eyes swim and your head feel as if it would burst. Every time he made the run, he wondered why he hadn't got a decent air-conditioned 4 by 4 instead of the old jeep he used; some stubborn refusal to take the easy way out seemed to dog his every choice these days. Must be that cussed thing that happens to men as they age; the refusal to accept that they were not the young bucks they once had been. He laughed to himself and picked up the backpack that carried the few things he needed for the few days' trip, closing the door to the house as he left. That was all the security this place had, a flimsy lock on the front door. Who in their right mind would want anything inside? It was gratifying to own so little of any value that no self respecting thief would even dream of breaking in. Terry thought there was something really satisfying about that thought.

He'd lived here more than a year now, in the middle of nowhere, a tiny hamlet in the back of beyond up in northern Queensland. The former owner had never expected to find a buyer for this rundown farmhouse on a former sheep station that the drought had ruined. But it had suited him and, although he had tinkered with a few improvements, by and large it was still as basic and primitive as the day he had moved in - but it was all he needed.

As he pulled off the track that led from his place out onto the main road, he settled back for the miles ahead, straight as an arrow and an endless horizon still not quite revealed in the murky dawn light. He flipped on the car radio and played with the channels until he finally picked something up. It was an old country love song; he hummed tunelessly along to it as he drove, his thoughts as disjointed as the patchy scudding clouds above him.

He hadn't heard from the kids for weeks; his satellite link had packed up months before and he had had no success in realigning it. Partly that was the purpose behind his trip to the smoke, if you could actually dignify Broome with such a grandiose title. There had to be some superior technology available by now to assist him getting a decent communication system up and running. In the meantime, he'd check on his mails in town and give them all a call. He wondered what they were up to and then was struck by how sad it was that he didn't even remember how long it was since he had last spoken to any of his three children. Who would have ever believed his life would finally end up like this, a virtual recluse, living a solitary existence in the middle of the bush?

He lit up a cigarette and leaned his elbow on the open window frame, enjoying the cool of the day and the peace and solitude. In his own way he was happy - or something close to that emotion. He wasn't exactly sad anyway. Terry thought it was more that he had come to terms with his life and was no longer trying to find a way forward through his work or other people. Existence was a much simpler thing these days, especially living in this hostile climate. A large part of every day was spent just getting through the tasks you needed to stay alive and the rest of the time he spent wandering about just enjoying the natural wilderness. It had taken him a long time to learn to stand still and just smell the breeze but now that he had, the attractions of his former high pressured life seemed a mystery to him.

Women didn't feature prominently in his life these days. When Liam had dropped off for a visit earlier that year, he had remarked on that one night as they had sat drinking beer on the veranda, listening to the noisy silence of the bush night.

"I'm trying to work out whether you live here like a monk because you've taken a vow of celibacy since you left Mum or whether it's to prevent ever finding yourself involved again. Bit short on the female of the species, round here, Dad. Haven't even seen any sheep yet...."

"...There's actually more to life than women, you know? Maybe when you stop being controlled by your dick you might realize that," Terry had retorted.

But you couldn't get one over on Liam. "Don't lie. The day that happens is the day most men die. You're no different even if you do like to act like you're beyond such trivial pleasures...How do you manage anyway?"

"None of your business," Terry had replied gruffly and ignored Liam's crude hand gesture. 

If the truth were told, he had dropped out of all that for a long time, uninterested in either getting laid or even reaching orgasm. Too many painful memories lay red and raw just below his surface; it was no longer a pleasure when the images that your libido conjured up left you gasping for breath at the pain of the loss. Unrequited love was quite a passion killer, he had found.

But men are men and the time had come when he knew he needed female company and some measure of intimate human contact again. And that was another reason for his trip to Broome today. There was a woman there he looked up every few months. The arrangement seemed to suit her. She didn't pry into his private life, nor he into hers. They might have shared a detailed knowledge of each other's bodies and sexual fantasies but neither knew much more about the other than their names and a few general facts about their individual lives. It should have felt soulless but it didn't. Gillie was a free spirit, an artist, a warm, earthy woman, full bodied and luscious, uninhibited but curiously pure for all her lack of sexual restraint. In her arms he felt a real connection to all the deeper emotions that he had chosen to withdraw from. And she seemed to find a quiet peace in him that suited her. The few days he would spend with her would be like a therapy, a balm for his wandering soul.

Perhaps this was the sort of woman he ought to have loved instead of yearning for a settled life with a more challenging and assertive partner? Gillie never seemed to mind what he asked of her or whether months passed between his visits. She just welcomed him when he knocked on the door of her workshop and then gave herself over to sensuality without recriminations or demands. But wasn't that because she didn't love him? It's simpler then to require nothing more from a man than his naked body in the night. He suspected that to Gillie he was just a rather enigmatic stranger who was fun to play with for a while. If he never came back at all, he wasn't sure she would even notice in the long run.

No. He might have loved and lost but still, even now, he would not have had it any other way. A man like him had needed passion. With a woman like Gillie, he would probably have simply faded away inside himself years ago. And then he allowed himself the luxury of taking Annie out of the box he kept her in just for a little while, replaying memories of the old days as the miles passed. He hoped she was happy and safe. It still scared him that she might be alone. He worried if she had enough money. He missed just talking to her. Sometimes he thought he missed that more than the physical side of their relationship. He was his own confidant now. It wasn't much compensation.

The radio DJ was running on about some local country fair at the weekend and then he went back to the play list.

'...Here's one of our boys who made it good overseas....we even make the best miserable suicidal bastards over here, you know? C'mon Liam, me old mate, sing us another of your songs...and cheer up, sport...she's only a Sheila, mate...'

Terry laughed out loud at the juxtaposition of it all: Liam's haunting music being played on some outback radio station and the thick skinned cobber's laconic sense of humour about it all. Liam would have loved it. The irony was, this song wasn't Liam's story at all. He turned up the volume to listen to his son's beautifully lyrical piano playing and the husky needy voice echoing through the empty bush as he drove on.

 

 

If only he had said goodbye. 

 

 

Dawn. Friday. London.

She had tossed and turned most of the hot sticky humid night and lay half awake, half asleep staring at the light sky that never really grew dark at this time of year. High summer in London in the midst of the annual heat wave. It was a pale pink dawn streaked with gold; the red of the night before now leaking into pastel, another glorious hot summer day ahead. A glance at the bedside clock told her it was barely five but she was restless and awake and knew she wouldn't be able to turn over again for that final hour or so.

Rising, she wandered into the kitchen and made a cup of herbal tea, carrying it to the tiny roof garden that she had made on her top floor apartment. There, above the roof tops, she gazed out on the new day, on a city still asleep but bathed in a rosy glow. At certain times of year, anywhere can look beautiful, depending on the light or weather. A crisp snow covered scene makes even urban decay have a certain bleak charm, autumn leaves carpet the most squalid of cityscapes - and this gorgeous light, the cool breeze wafting on the warm air, the prospect of a fine day ahead, brought a touch of light to her heart.

But not for long. Happiness always made her feel sad these days. What was the point of a morning like this with no one to share it with? The memories of those mornings in their home in the Dordogne, the incredible hazy light that was so unique to the area, breakfast out on their shaded patio, riots of flowers, insects buzzing about, sitting and talking about nothing much, soon overlaid the moment. It was the little things she missed most. A sleeping body in the night by her side. Pouring out two strong cups of coffee and his hand glancing off her hip as she leant on the table by him. His muttered comments from behind a newspaper. Silences that were too comfortable to need to be filled.

Annie wrapped her arms about herself and sank her head onto her lap. There was no point. It was gone. Why torture herself over and over about the life she had lost? She didn't even know where he was. The kids had said he had spent a lot of time in Australia but she hadn't even seen much of them for a while. They had very busy, highly pressurized lives and she discouraged the topic of their father in her company. So she knew absolutely nothing about him anymore. Once he had called her several times a day just to hear her voice. Now she was beginning to forget what he even sounded like.

She flicked on some music and indulged herself, listening to a song she played a lot these days. 

 

 

In a burst of temper at her own sentimental neediness, Annie switched it off and stormed through to the bathroom. Throwing down the music player she ripped off her nightwear and ran the shower. Freshening up under the warm jets, she wished she remembered how to cry. It might just alleviate that hard knot of pain that lay deep within her and nagged night and day.

This is what she had chosen. This is what he had left her with. Her children had made their lives as children must. She had to accept and stop looking back. It was almost two years since they had separated. They had been divorced for more than a year. Terry wasn't coming back; she had known that the night he had cruelly stood her up with no explanation and flown as far away from her as he could. When it had come down to it, he had been unable to trust her again.

Maybe it was time to listen to Stephen and try to make something work with him? He was a good friend, a constant companion. Everyone thought they were lovers. It was cruel to keep a man hanging on with no hope of anything as he had faithfully done for eighteen months now. Perhaps he could put her back together again? Was it fair to ask that of another man? But why should they both be alone? They worked together, traveled together and spent a lot of their time in each other's company. It wouldn't make much difference to sleep with him. She missed sex. She longed for a man to hold her. She liked Stephen a lot. Couldn't that be enough for them?

But, I miss you, Terry....I just wish you were here...

 

 

Dawn. Friday. Mallorca, Balearic Islands.

It was already dawn as his eyes closed and he finally fell into a deep slumber, lying naked sprawled across the bed. Gabrielle strolled in from the bathroom yawning, totally nude, like a nymph from a Romantic painting, her glorious profusion of golden hair tumbling down her back. "He's finally gone off?" She giggled and slipped into the bed at his side, stroking her hand through his messy hair fondly. "Boy, can he go!"

Lisette snuggled in close to him, half asleep herself, purring with pleasure. "He's so beautiful. I adore him. I could just eat him up!"

Gabrielle smiled. "As I recall, you already did. We better get some sleep. We're on at midday again. He'll probably bounce back, you know what he's like, and we'll be like two hags with bags under our eyes and no energy. Where do you get it from, Liam?" she whispered to him. Liam muttered and rolled on his side, drawing her against his body and wrapping his leg around hers.

Her friend, another dancer working on the video shoot in Majorca, slipped her hand around his waist and buried her face against his warm back. "It must be great to be with a man like him. He got a girlfriend?" she asked.

"No. He said he was keeping his options open when I asked him last night. I'd be his girlfriend. At the drop of a hat...even if he had no money. How often do you meet a guy like him?"

Lisette brushed back her long black hair. "Well, the money helps. He might not be so appealing if he worked in a bank or was on the dole, you know what I mean? This lifestyle is pretty alluring. But I thought that was his girl...the one on the picture over there on the table." She pointed to a framed picture of a beautiful woman with a mass of chestnut curls.

"It's his sister."

"Sister? Who carries a picture of their sister around with them?

"Apparently they're very close. She's very special to him."

"He got parents?" Lisette seemed to be swotting up on Liam Thorne.

Gabrielle laughed. "Well, he must have had at some point. He never said. Just mentioned his sister. She's a journalist or something. Travels all over. He doesn't see much of her. You need to check his website. What you so curious for?"

"Well, I'm going to make a play for him. I'm just warning you. It's every woman for herself, Gaby..."

Gabrielle stretched and nuzzled against Liam's unshaven cheek. "He's not interested in the likes of us. I don't think he's the kind of man who'd be satisfied with a tart with a heart. Liam's looking for the grand passion. Someone he can break his heart over and write beautiful love songs about. You know how soft he is, God bless him. He would, however, have a much better life with the likes of you or me. Instead he'll choose some cold hearted bitch who'll screw him over and leave him high and dry over girls like us who would give him anything he asked for and a houseful of beautiful babies. It's the way it goes, Lizzie. The stuck-up cows always get the best guys."

Lisette sighed. "And what do we get?"

"What's left..." she mused as they settled down to get a few hours' sleep while Liam, unaware of the level of devotion of his fan club, snored into the pillow.

 

 

Dawn. Friday. Berlin.

The weather had broken over night after the soaring high temperatures that the city had enjoyed for the past few weeks. There had been an impressive electric storm followed by a tremendous downpour that the parched streets had sucked up gratefully. Zoe woke and stared about her, her head heavy and her mouth bitter. She groaned softly when she saw her bedmate. She had no idea who the naked man slumped next to her was; her memory of the night before was hazy.

She must have popped something on a skinful of booze- the usual story - and this creep had no doubt jumped straight in to take advantage. There was always someone who did. She'd lost count of the number of unknown men whose beds she'd woken up in. At least there was only one this time. Other times she hadn't been so lucky.

The apartment she was in was a dump, the bed sheets stale and yellowy as if they hadn't been changed for months. Nausea rose in her throat. Had she really let this jerk do it to her? Sitting up she touched herself; there was no evidence of spunk. Hopefully he'd used something, she thought, and looked about the floor. Sure enough she saw the used condom and sighed in relief as she dragged herself onto her feet and began to gather her clothes.

The man stirred and opened his eyes. "Where you going?" He grunted in guttural German.

"Somewhere else," she answered back.

"I haven't finished with you..." he muttered, lashing out an arm to drag her back in. He was a big, heavy set guy, shaven head and tattoos, a tooth missing and a thick growth of stubble. He was also none too clean.

Zoe stepped back nimbly and took a stance. "You want me to knock your balls into your throat this early in the morning?" She demonstrated a kick, one from her martial arts repertoire. The guy cursed profanely and rolled back into the sheets.

"You're not worth the effort. Too thin. And I already fucked you..." On that note, he appeared to fall back to sleep and Zoe finished her dressing, more than relieved to be able to slip out alone into the cool dawn.

 On the damp streets, she shivered in her thin top and pulled the flimsy satin jacket closer around her scrawny shoulders as she picked her way in her stiletto boots over puddles, and tried to work out where she was.

Zoe had lived in Berlin for about six months now, based at a news agency there. The city suited her. Something of its edgy dour grandeur complimented her mood these days. Too many places looked like too many other places these days, bland, modernized, homogenized, sanitized, airbrushed sameness with everyone living identical lives, sharing some global anti-culture, safe and blinkered in their suburban tedium. Berlin still felt like it was not quite a suitable place to live, its grey skies, heavy ornate architecture and run down inner city dwellings, the bad weather and the innate gravity of its citizens seeming suitably real after her months in the dangerous and squalid poverty of the places she visited in pursuit of her career.  The contrast between a refugee camp in Africa, paying witness to those dying of starvation did not make it possible for her to make her home in other more pleasant places. They made her feel guilty.

Passing through an alleyway to a square she recognized, Zoe took a seat at a pavement café, ordering a coffee, rooting through her handbag for her cigarettes but unsuccessfully for a light. She threw the packet down in temper and took a sip of the strong black coffee. It made her feel a little sick. She hadn't eaten much the day before and should probably have ordered a pastry to settle her stomach.

"You need a light?" She heard a voice ask her in German. A lighter snapped and a flame leapt before her eyes. Zoe fumbled for a cigarette and lowered her head to light the tip. A shadow was cast across her table; she glanced up at the owner of the voice.

"Mein Gott!"

 

 

Dawn. Friday. Berlin.

He had trailed her to the man's place, watching impassively as the guy had half hauled her out of the cab and up to the door of his apartment block. Zoe had still been lucid but staggering; she was stoned and juiced up but not completely out of control, still talking and laughing at her apparent inability to manipulate her feet. Her companion seemed little interested in her condition ; Nick could see he just saw a chance for an easy lay with a girl who wouldn't have given him the time of day without benefit of illegal substances.

He had watched the outside door slam behind them and assessed, by the switching on of lights, the location of the guy's flat. Part of him wanted to break the door down, kill the bastard and drag her out again but he knew he had no right. Her life was her life. If she chose to give her beautiful body away to some jerk then there wasn't much he could say or do about it. For a while he stood out there in the heavy summer rain, his collar turned up against the downpour, smoking cigarettes in the shelter of a doorway, but finally he decided to call it a night. Up there she was fucking some lout she'd picked up and he had to walk away. How did it feel?

It felt like shit. So what's new, he mused as he wandered down alleyways back to the main Strasse and hailed a cab to return to the luxury of his 5star hotel. He would have a few hours' sleep and catch up with her later, maybe as she returned home in the morning. There was nothing he could do until then.

The past eighteen months had not been easy but they had been worthwhile. He hadn't gone downhill into some wild spiral of self destruct. All in all he was actually feeling better than he had done in years. His working life was pretty tame but successful, he worked out, was careful about the booze and had cut out the drugs and pills completely. He had a real life now in Sydney; he was a respected member of the community, even nominated for a young entrepreneur of the year award, much to his amusement. The friends Zoe had introduced him to hadn't cut him off when she'd left him - very much the contrary, always trying to fix him up with nubile young contacts, weaker clones of Zoe, as if he had some pervy thing about young women. He had dated a few but never taken it anywhere much. Most of them he hadn't even had sex with. Now there was a change in direction for the king of sleaze himself, if ever there was one.

It struck him as strange how little interest he had in sex these days. Maybe it was age? Is that how it happened? Some sort of hormonal decline that slowed down his libido? But since Zoe had given him the boot, he had slowed down almost to a stop. He still noticed beautiful women, flirted on occasion, but when it came down to it mostly backed off. He wasn't sure why. It felt wrong somehow, this revealing of his intimate self just for self-gratification. Zoe had taught him that men and women were about something finer. He wanted that or nothing.

From time to time when the urge was powerful, he preferred something impersonal. A woman from an agency. He always asked for the same thing. He knew it was pathetic to want a young woman in the image of her, but he would keep the lights low and his eyes closed and make love to her as he wished he could. The women were grateful. There were worse ways to earn your fee.

Returning to his room, he set his alarm for five and took a shower, falling into bed and, with the experience of years, going straight into a dead sleep, a combination of exhaustion and despair. He dreamed a rough thug beating her while he watched chained and powerless to stop what was happening. When the alarm rang he awoke, drenched in sweat.

A shower and a shave and he had restored himself to his usual sharp and businesslike appearance. Glancing at his face, he realized he was looking older and there were a few grey hairs in his thick black hair, more in his beard, which was one of the reasons he close shaved these days. He was still a slave to vanity it would appear, for a reason that he could not fathom, some latent narcissism that still lingered even after all this time. Maybe it was his expression that made his face look older these days, a more grave demeanour, making him look like the man he was, not some spoilt overgrown teenager. He had lost the irreverent grin and the cocky swagger. It was an improvement, some might say.

But she had loved him for all that. He wondered what he might appear like to her now.

That's when he had decided to come out of the shadows and let her see him again. Off and on since they had parted, he had dogged her steps, always hiding and watching from a distance. He could tell himself he was just checking that she was safe and that her life was happy, that she was not in any need, but he knew in his heart that he was trying to pluck up the courage to approach her again and find out if there was even the remotest chance that they might be able to find something of what they once had.

But if he continued to hide, what did that serve but feed his unhappiness? He knew he was afraid of rejection. To go through another scene like the one where she had walked out on him was something he was not entirely sure he could bear again. The first time had beaten him down to rock bottom. Another go might totally destroy his confidence.

However, Nick Costello was not a coward, whatever his other faults. He looked at himself in the mirror and knew he couldn't keep running away forever. "You have to find out. Talk to her. See how she feels now. She's not happy. Any fool can see that. Maybe I have a chance. Maybe I don't. But she has no reason to drive me away now. Go see her. As a friend. Give her the opportunity to show me how she feels."

He rubbed his face in his hands, aware that he felt nervous and jumpy and disliking the unfamiliar feeling intensely. Very little disturbed his equilibrium normally but that girl had him in pieces every time he thought of her. It made him smile, the first smile in a long time. She was something else. In all his life he had never met a woman like her. He never wanted to meet another even remotely close.

Out on the streets in the drizzly dawn, he pulled up the collar of his raincoat and waited in the shadows of the square that he knew she would have to cross to reach her apartment. It might be a very long wait. Not to worry. Stakeouts had always been a normal part of his life, hours spent watching, observing and waiting.

There she was, stumbling across cobblestones in heels too high for walking, her arms wrapped around her thin body against the cool morning. His heart skipped a beat. Full face in the morning light, she looked worse than he'd expected, wan and thin, bags under her eyes and her body wasted. She had once been the most beautiful girl he had ever set eyes on. Now she resembled any other heroin chicette who filled the nightclubs of modern cities, brittle and rapacious, disillusioned and cynical. Was he a part of what had brought her to this?

As she made her way across, slumping into a pavement café just opening up on the square, he realized that it made no difference to him how she looked or whether she ruined her beauty with her destructive life style. He loved her. Nothing would ever change that. Her real beauty to him came from within and he believed that glorious girl was still there somewhere inside.

For a moment he hesitated, steeling himself to approach, rehearsing lines he might say that would sound smooth and not make her suspicious. Then he swore to himself and simply walked forward briskly. She was looking for a light. The oldest pick up in the book but it would more than do. "You need a light?" he muttered in German, flicking his gold lighter and holding the flame steady for her. She bent to light the tip and then glanced up absently. Her pallid face managed to whiten further when she saw who it was.

"Mein Gott!" 

 

 

Afternoon. Friday. Broome, W. Australia.

He reached Broome late afternoon, dusty and sweaty, tired and hungry, but most of all longing for a cold beer. Pulling in at a municipal swimming pool on the beach, he hauled up his gear, changed into his shorts and dived into the seawater pool, grateful for cool water after weeks living with the drought of the interior and water carefully rationed. He swam lazily for a few laps and then dragged himself out to go and shower. With a change of clothes into a pair of khaki pants and a pale blue short sleeved shirt, he felt more human and in a decent shape to visit a bar for a quick beer and then see if Gillie was around.

She lived a few miles out of town on Cable Beach in a rickety wooden house whitened by the intense sun and festooned with tubs of flowers and creepers. It also housed her workshop and gallery, a chaotic mess of artifacts arranged in no particular fashion, an eclectic Aladdin's cave where tourists spent hours if they accidentally stumbled onto it. Her clientele relied on word of mouth to learn of her existence; she seemed unconcerned about advertising her unusual sculptures and objets d'art crafted from sea flotsam, let alone considered making money. If someone bought an item then she was grateful but she was just as likely to give it away on a whim or decide she couldn't part with it and reject a sale. God knew how she funded herself.

He bent down to slip out of the deck shoes, throwing them into the back seat of his jeep and he set off across the sand in the direction of her beach home. It was at the end of a strand inaccessible from any other route but across the sand itself; a long spit of land giving her an almost private beach. She often bathed naked. The locals were used to her eccentricities now.

He ran up the wooden staircase to the lower veranda and the front door, throwing his bag on an old cane chair and ruffling up the fur of her arthritic old Labrador, Pablo, who had padded over to welcome him. "She around somewhere, old mate?" he asked as the dog snaffled at his legs.

He knocked softly on the shuttered door and then stepped into the shady interior, the blinds still down against the late afternoon sun. There was the usual clutter she lived in; he doubted she had ever cleaned or polished, myriad dust motes like tiny spirits dancing in the shafts of hazy light that slipped through the wooden window slats. This place had a good feel. He always felt at peace in its untidy shabbiness.

Walking through the lounge and the kitchen, he stepped down into the outhouse where her workshop was situated. Gillie was there, wearing a mask and applying a blow torch to a large metal installation piece; he waited until she rested back, viewing her work, turned off the flame and lifted her goggles, manipulating the softened metal with a tool and deftly creating a wave effect. "Gillie?"

She shot round in surprise and her face lit up at the sight of him. "Terry! Oh my God! You should have called!"

"Just for a change?" he smiled. She laughed heartily and almost skipped over, slipping her arms around his neck and brushing back his hair fondly.

"It's grown. I like it. Makes you look younger."

He laughed and ran his hand back through the thick locks, shaggy and untidy, curling where they had dried naturally, the chestnut heavily streaked with grey. "Younger? I think not."

"You look pretty fine to me. I'm a mess. Let me go shower. Grab a beer." She shrugged off her apron and dashed through the house, running upstairs; he helped himself to a cold one and followed her up, sitting on the bed as she stripped and walked easily to the bathroom, chattering to him. He said nothing, enjoying two of the things he had missed the most - the sound of a woman's voice and the visual pleasure of her naked body - while he let himself anticipate the third. The joy of making love to her.

Standing at the bathroom door, drinking beer, he watched her bathe. She left open the shower door and stood under the jets, face raised as if in prayer while the rivulets found serpentine paths to travel slowly down her brown body. Gillie was a voluptuous woman, heavy breasted and soft fleshed, with smooth rich golden dark skin, well shaped buttocks and long slim legs. Her hair was wild and untamed, a riot of close curls, a throw back to some Aboriginal forefather she claimed had inserted himself somewhere into her Scottish- Norwegian ancestry. His eyes slowly traveled down her body, pruriently, enjoying her disporting herself for him. Gillie understood men and what they liked to do with women. She was unconcerned with the conventional hang-ups that most women, had, Annie included. He doubted whether Gillie McShane had ever been on a diet in her life, plucked her eyebrows, had a manicure or a wax treatment. She didn't shave under her arms and her pubic hair was thick and unshaped. Her sensual naturalness aroused him; she seemed all that was woman in a fundamental, atavistic sense that was in tune with the wild, lonely life he led these days. She was the sort of earthy woman that the old masters had loved to paint and that men instinctively desire, even if they have been taught to demand wafer-thin and highly-groomed partners in the modern image of manufactured perfection to which everyone seemed to aspire.

Blood pooled in his loins as he watched her soap herself, shampoo her hair, rinse and then step out of the shower to dry herself languidly on a thick towel, openly displaying herself unselfconsciously, bending over allowing her full breasts to hang down, patting between her splayed legs as she rested back on the wall, one leg raised on the edge of the bath. His erection hardened as she sat down and liberally smoothed on a thick body cream, massaging her breasts sensuously for him, rubbing her belly and buttocks, gliding up and down her legs, offering him an unfettered view of her naked cunt. Gillie knew men and what thy liked; she knew what they never cared about too. A few extra pounds? An unshaven armpit?

"You going to say anything, sport, or do you just plan on getting your rocks off perving?" She asked him with a husky invitation in her voice. Terry leaned off the door and set the near empty beer can down on the sink unit, walking over to her, stripping off his shirt as he did.

"No need for speech...but I am planning to have at you, love..." He grinned as he ran his hands down her naked curves and touched her softly, turning her round to lean her back against his chest while he caressed her breasts and suckled on her neck, burying his face into her clean wet hair and inhaling the sweetness of a woman.

His fingers left her nipples hard and his right hand slipped down to play with her dark curls, sliding between her legs and groaning deep when he felt the creamy wetness of her soft lower lips. Gillie turned in his arms, already aroused, searching for his mouth; they shared a deep and sexual kiss, muttering crude endearments to each other.

She fumbled with his belt and the zipper of his pants before yanking it down and easing her hand in. He hadn't bothered with underwear after his shower; her guttural moan showed him she approved of that as her hand closed around his shaft and jerked it lazily. "God, I missed you, Terry....I have so needed this..." she muttered. "Where've you been, ya bastard?" But her comment was followed by a deep chuckle; he hoisted her up in his arms with a wide smile and carried her to the bed, tossing her down and shucking off his trousers to fall in next to her.

"Not as much as I have, love...needed this, I mean..." he mumbled as he parted her legs and lowered his face to kiss her labia. She arched and slipped her legs languidly over his shoulders; he buried himself in naked female flesh, fragrant with arousal, smelling of sex, driving him to feast on her until she couldn't take anymore and was writhing helplessly in her coming.

He held her then, rubbing his aching cock against her thigh and resting his head against her breasts, pillowed on their softness, licking at the salt sweat of her skin, suckling on a hard nipple. It felt like sinking into a warm wet sea as she eased herself on top of him and straddled his hips, lowering herself down gently, gasping at his size as he rotated his hips lazily to improve her angle of entry. He knew why she was choosing this position now; it would slow him down. Any other penetration, or her lips around his cock, would have made him come too fast after his long lay off. Gillie always knew just what she was about.

Her internal muscles were strong, gripping him tightly, fully stretched round his girth; her open mouth and her unfocused eyes made him feel gratified that he was man enough to make her feel this way. He undulated his lower body until he felt his cock contact with her g-spot; she groaned crudely and tightened more as he began to pound against it. She kept up his rhythm, rising and falling on him, her buttocks slapping against his thighs. He arched back as he felt his balls draw in, muttering a curse, trying to hold back but he had done enough - Gillie's movements became erratic as his own thrusting intensified; she cried out, he grabbed her hips and jammed her down forcefully on his groin, grunting over and over and over, suddenly throwing her onto her back and mining for his own orgasm as she lay helplessly moaning beneath him. One last jerk and he came shuddering, his head buried in her hair, whispering words she couldn't quite catch and he probably didn't mean.

He slumped on her, exhausted by his efforts and the powerful after- effects of ejaculation. Gillie held him, her tender hands stroking his back streaked with perspiration and brushing his hair off his forehead. She was gentling him like a child. "It's alright, baby...shush....you did so good....just relax, go with it...it's what you need..."

Lying in her arms he was quiet and reflective, no need to talk just enjoying the sensations and her touch. She leaned over and took a joint from the drawer by the bed and lit it, toking deeply and then passing it to him. He lay back, staring at the ceiling, dragging hard and then closing his eyes as he exhaled, letting the buzz of the weed hit his brain. Gillie rolled onto her side and watched him, playing with the tattoo on his arm, tracing its outline.

"I always meant to ask you. When did you get the tattoo? You don't seem the type."

He opened his eyes and looked at her as she accepted the joint, taking a drag. "Type? How do you know what type I am? I live wild in the bush, love. I'm not exactly your average Joe."

Gillie laughed and blew the smoke in his face, its effects already working. "You haven't been a bushwhacker all your life, mate. You've got reformed workaholic written all over you. I don't want to pry or know your reasons, Terry, but you're very far from your average aging hippy dropout. So don't come that with me. But that's your business, man. I'm asking about the tattoo. When, where and why?" She sat up cross-legged and reached over him to grab a tissue to mop up the drip of his semen; he fondled her breasts as she leaned over him.

"Chile. Fourteen years ago. Because I'd had enough." He took another draw. She watched him. He wasn't going to enlarge on that. 

"So you've traveled. Don't think you were on the hippy trail somehow."  He didn't reply. Her fingers walked over his naked flesh and settled on the deep pitted scar on his left shoulder blade, sampling the puckered rougher texture. "This is a bullet wound," she remarked directly and looked questioningly at him. In all their time together she had never made mention of it before but had always been curious.

"It is? Well, that's explains it then," he retorted and took another deep draw before taking her head in his hands and forcing her mouth to his lips, exhaling the sweet strong smoke into her lungs sexily. She coughed and then laughed throatily as it hit her, jumping out of bed, walking to the music system, wiping between her legs and throwing the tissue into a basket. Choosing a CD, she loaded it and then wrapped a bright orange batik scarf around her damp hair, and began to dance softly, swaying to the music. She loved to be naked, post-orgasmic and grooving with a good man.

Terry rested down the joint in an ashtray and sat up. He smiled at the song. Gillie talked dreamily as she twirled around for him.

"I love this CD. Play it all the time. Seems to be written with me in mind. Sad but inspirational. Don't suppose you're up to date with the latest music, huh? He's the next big thing. Liam Thorne. People are talking a modern day Dylan. Personally he's too pretty, eloquent and musical but then I'm a bit young to appreciate the original, I guess. " She extended her hand to him to come join her in the dance. He stood up and pulled her over towards him, moving from side to side, pressing his bare flesh against hers.

"It isn't dancing music," he observed wryly.

"You can dance to anything. Let your inhibitions run wild, as the man said."

"It's...." he smiled. "...It's a bit off putting dancing naked with a beautiful nude woman to the strains of this. He's my son, you see," he added.

"What?" Gillie took a step back, eyes widening. "Who is?"

Terry chuckled. "The singer. My son... Liam." He nodded in the direction of the CD player.

Gillie picked up the cover. "Liam Thorne? Actually, he looks a lot like you..."

"That's a surprise," Terry replied.

"Really? He's really your son? Is that your surname, then? Thorne?"

"Yeah. Terry Thorne. Liam's my youngest."

She flopped back onto a white cane armchair. "Youngest? There's more like him?"

Terry rolled his eyes. "I have an elder son and daughter. Henry and Zoe. I have three children."

"Their mother? Where's she? " Suddenly Gillie paused; she had this instinctive feeling that he was going to say she was dead. It made sense of that melancholy seam deep within him that she had sensed but never got close to touching. Was that what had happened, had he lost his much loved wife to cancer or something and just given up on the world? Was this how he dealt with his grief?

"Mothers. I've been married twice. Divorced." His answer disappointed her inexplicably. She had wanted a more poignant story for this man than the usual tawdry string of failed marriages everyone dragged behind them like a chain. She observed his face and saw that he was already closing down; he wouldn't say any more about this topic. Terry turned away to sit on the bed putting on his pants.

"You going somewhere?" she asked softly.

He shrugged, running his hand down his face. "No plans."

"Stay, then. No more questions. I'll cook dinner and we can share a good bottle of wine...please..." Gillie suddenly realized how strongly she wanted him to remain with her and how acutely she would miss his presence if he walked away now.

He nodded, his face softening. "I've got a couple of bottles of decent stuff in a cold box in my car. Picked them up for you on the way in. I'll go get them."

Gillie watched from the bedroom balcony as he strolled bare-chested and unshod across the beach towards the road where he had left his jeep. His broad back, burnished with the sun, still knotted with muscles as impressive as many men half his age, seemed somehow vulnerable, as if he were carrying an invisible weight that he was barely holding up. Terry stopped and looked out to sea, admiring one of the unique sunsets that this place was famed for sinking beneath an ocean facing west. He raised his eyes to the heavens and stood there in an almost suppliant pose; she wondered what he was thinking of. Or who he was thinking of. His children? His ex-wife? Some other woman?

She doubted if it was her.

But she wished it could have been.

The song played out, filling the room with the plaintive glory of this uplifting ballad, the young man's voice husky and alluring. His son. He had created this boy with a woman he loved. What a child.

 

To Part Two

*High by James Blunt can be heard here.

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