When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.
Maxwell Scott, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance
Sunday morning. Bedroom. Karl sat at the table, typing his latest soon-to-be-unappreciated manuscript on his beloved Royal Quiet DeLuxe typewriter. Actually, there was little typing being done, but Karl was doing plenty of staring blankly at a blank page. His fingers hovered nervously over the keys, like a helicopter trying to perch on a house of cards.
A couple of times, his fingers landed briefly on the keys, only to quickly pull away, as if touching acid.
‘It’s like a damn hothouse in here. That heat must be up full blast,’ Karl said, more to himself than to anyone in the room. ‘The bloody sweat’s trickling down my arse.’
Behind him, Naomi sat contently in the middle of the bed, reading a passel of morning newspapers. She was wearing only Karl’s shirt, and no panties, something Karl was finding rather distracting.
‘Did you say something, Karl?’ Naomi finally raised her eyes over the top of the newspaper.
‘Very cheeky of you.’
She looked over at him, slightly confused.
‘What is?’
‘You pretending to be from Donegal when you’re actually from Derry.’
‘What’re you talking about?’
‘You, airing your beautiful derriere shamelessly to the world.’
‘Is it really beautiful?’ She smiled coyly.
‘And loyal.’
‘Loyal?’
‘It follows you everywhere, just like me.’
She giggled. ‘You must have writer’s block, my love? Want me to unblock?’
‘You can start by dumping those rags you’re reading, and getting me a nice cup of very hot coffee.’
‘I enjoy reading the Sunday newspapers. There’s always juicy gossip to be found.’
Karl made a disapproving sound with his throat.
‘And the coffee?’
‘You didn’t say please.’
‘You didn’t have to say please when I went out into the cold and pissing rain this morning, just to get you those juicy rags.’
‘True, but you were only expressing your love and deep gratitude for all the things I’ve done for you.’ Naomi returned to reading. She turned a page. Her face suddenly changed. ‘Oh! Karl, Sunday Exposé have an article about you and Lipstick.’
‘What?’ Karl said, pushing away from the table.
‘It’s not a bad photo of you. Especially compared to the one they have of the thug you beat up. He’s scary-looking.’
‘Never mind that, let me see what the bastards have made up this time. Chambers warned me about this.’
‘Chambers?’
‘You know who I’m talking about. The lover-boy detective who fancies you.’
‘Stop being silly.’
‘Am I? Then why are you blushing, just like he did?’
Naomi laughed. Patted the bed coaxingly. ‘Sit beside me. I’ll read the article to you.’
‘I really don’t have time for this kind of…but okay.’ Feigning reluctance, Karl sat down on the bed, edging over beside Naomi. Her latent perfume and body-warmth tickled his nostrils. He hoped that’s not all they’d be tickling before the morning was over.
‘“Is this the man who took on notorious London crime boss Butler?’, says the wee headline.’ Naomi cleared her throat, and continued reading. ‘“This silhouetted figure is believed to be the man who sorted out one of London’s most feared crime bosses, last week at the Europa, according to our inside sources.”’
‘Inside sources, my bollocks. It was that greasy little worm Raymond.’
‘“The notorious London gangster, Graham Butler, was left with a suspected fractured jaw, missing teeth, and a face his own mother wouldn’t recognise.”’
‘Can’t believe I’m agreeing with this rag.’
‘“Our sources believe they know who this man is, who rescued a young woman, the victim of a brutal assault by Butler. Her mystery benefactor decided to go quid-pro-quo, giving the London thug a good old Belfast justice beating. Police say no charges have been brought, because no one has come forward with a complaint. Sunday Exposé hopes the big bad crime boss has learned his lesson about beating up defenceless women in Belfast and elsewhere. Bon voyage back to London, and good riddance.”’
‘Let me have a look at the pictures,’ Karl said, secretly chuffed at the article not making him the villain for a change.
‘I like that photo,’ Naomi said, handing over the newspaper. ‘Even in blurry silhouette, you can still make out that roguish grin of yours.’
‘What roguish grin?’ Karl said, flashing his roguish grin. ‘Anyway, how about that coffee you still owe me?’
Something wickedly seductive twinkled in Naomi’s eyes. ‘I’ve something a lot tastier.’
‘You do?’
‘Want to see?’
‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘Is it hot, and does it come in a cup?’
‘Very hot, and comes in two cups.’ Naomi smiled, and slowly began unbuttoning the white shirt of Karl’s she was wearing. Next came her black-laced bra, unhooked from the front, leaving her full breasts fully exposed, nipples hardening. ‘Irish coffee or café mocha?’
‘Irish, of course.’ Karl snuggled closer, and kissed the left breast gently and lovingly, before coming up for air. ‘Bonne bouche.’
‘I love it when you talk dirty and French at the same time. Whisper more to me,’ Naomi whispered in her lover’s ear.
Despite the pissing rain and shitty weather outside, things were starting to look sunny for Karl. Very sunny indeed. Of course, in his world, sunshine never lasted very long, before it was chased away by darkness and demons.
Soon he would meet an old demon from his darkest nightmares. The most dangerous demon of all.