Peter May - Snakehead

Margaret looked at him coldly. ‘You know what, Felipe? Chances are Steve would probably have have been amused by that, too. He had a pretty bizarre sense of humour. Personally, I just think it’s sick.’ She took a moment to collect herself. ‘I’ll see you back at the house.’ And she swept out leaving Mendez to reflect on an error of judgment.

By the time she got to the ranch, the storm had passed. The air was hot and damp and hung in shifting strands of mist over the lake. The sky was torn along its western fringes, revealing ragged strips of blood-red sunset behind the cloud. The chestnut mares stood glistening in the meadow, nostrils raised to the sky, sniffing as if they could smell the coming night.

Clara barked and danced around Margaret as she made her way through the gun room and into the kitchen, but quickly returned to sulk in her basket when Margaret gave no indication that she was going to feed her. The dirty dishes piled on every available workspace were depressing, and Margaret wondered why Mendez didn’t simply have someone come in for a couple of hours each day to keep the place clean. The smell of stale cigar smoke and alcohol hung sour in the living room. She switched on the ceiling fan, kicked off her shoes and went upstairs to her room to find some clean underwear.

She stood for a long time under the shower, letting the hot water cascade over her upturned face and run in snaking rivulets between her breasts, pouring in a stream from the thatch of golden hair that covered her pubis. It felt so good she didn’t want it to stop. Fatigue swept through her, deliciously warm, irresistibly enticing. She soaped herself with a soft sponge, smearing the lather in luxurious bubbling sweeps across her skin and then allowing the water simply to wash it away. She worked the shampoo through her hair and then rinsed it until it squeaked between her fingers, letting the water wash the soap from her eyes before she opened them to see the fleeting movement of a shadow beyond the bathroom door. A tiny, startled exclamation escaped her lips and she instinctively crossed her arms over her breasts.

‘Who’s there?’ she called, but there was no response. The door was lying about six inches ajar, and she could see into her bedroom, clothes strewn across the bed where she had dropped them. She immediately turned off the shower, goosebumps standing up all over her body. Still there was no sound, and there was no further movement. She pushed open the door of the shower cubicle and grabbed a soft white towel from the rail, wrapping it around herself and stepping quickly out on to the mat. ‘Hello,’ she called again, and was answered by the same silence as before. Tentatively, she pulled the bathroom door open wide and saw that the bedroom was empty. Had she imagined it? And then she remembered that she was not alone in the house. Perhaps Clara had wandered in, curious about the strange perfumed smells. And she let out a deep breath for the first time in what felt like minutes.

Partly reassured, she rubbed herself quickly dry, slipped into her bra and panties and towelled her hair until it hung in curling clumps over her shoulders. She dragged a clean white tee-shirt over her head and pushed her legs into a pair of dark blue baggy cotton cargoes. A sense of security returned with the pulling on of clothes. She tugged a comb through her hair and padded barefoot down the stairs.

Mendez was sitting in the smoking porch puffing on a freshly lit cigar. CNN was playing on the big screen in the living room and on the small TV in the porch. Margaret glanced through the passage leading to the kitchen and saw Clara eating from her bowl. The reassurance that she had clung to briefly in her bedroom quickly evaporated, and was replaced by a sick feeling in her stomach. She slipped on her sneakers and opened the door into the porch. Mendez dragged his eyes from the screen and smiled. ‘There you are, my dear. Good shower?’

‘How long have you been here?’ Margaret asked.

He frowned. ‘I just got in.’ Clara pushed past Margaret’s legs in the doorway and dropped herself at her master’s feet.

‘And you haven’t been upstairs?’

‘No.’ His frown deepened. ‘Margaret, what’s wrong?’

She shook her head, not sure whether to feel foolish or suspicious. Was it possible that he had been in her room, watching her in the shower? Clara had been busy eating, so it wasn’t the dog she had seen. ‘Nothing,’ she said lamely. ‘I just thought I heard someone up there, that’s all.’

Mendez laid his cigar in the ashtray and stood up to cross the porch. He was strangely flushed, so that his white goatee appeared to stand out from his face. ‘My dear, all this is getting to you. You need to relax. Let me get you a drink.’

‘No, thanks.’

He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her face. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

Her stomach was churning now. There was the oddest look in his eyes. ‘I’m fine.’

His head was raised slightly, eyes half closed, as if he was breathing her in, the smell of her fresh and fragrant and warm. She tried to wriggle free of the hands on her shoulders, but they gripped her more tightly. And then suddenly she found herself pulled hard against him, and his face was pressed to hers. Wet lips, a clash of teeth, the smell of cigar smoke and the rasp of whiskers on her soft skin. She felt his erect penis pushing hard against her stomach, his tongue in her mouth. And for a moment thought she would be sick.

With a huge effort, she pulled herself free of him and stood back, gasping half in fear, half in anger. ‘Jesus, Felipe, what the hell are you doing!’

He looked at her with something like panic in his eyes. ‘Margaret, I’m sorry,’ he blurted, and took a step toward her.

She stepped quickly back. ‘Don’t come near me!’ She was breathing hard, fists clenched, trying to control an urge just to turn and run. She knew now that he had been in her bedroom watching her all that time.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said again. ‘Please don’t leave. It won’t happen again, I promise. You’ve no idea how lonely it gets here. How lonely I’ve been since Catherine…’ His voice trailed away and he looked miserable, turning his gaze to the floor, unable to meet her eyes. ‘I’ve always thought you were…’ He lifted his eyes to look at her. ‘…desirable. I used to envy Michael. It’s what I found hardest to forgive him. That he took you away. That when he broke with me I could no longer see you. I could hardly believe it when I saw you sitting at the conference table at Fort Detrick. It was as if fate had brought you back to me.’

Margaret stared at him in disbelief. ‘You’re sick, Felipe.’

He nodded. ‘Yes. Sick with regret, Margaret. Sick that I allowed some base sexual instinct to spoil things between us. I promise…’ His spaniel eyes pleaded with her. ‘…I promise it won’t ever happen again.’

‘No, it won’t,’ she said, and she turned and strode back into the living room, lifting her purse from the recliner. ‘I’ll come back and get my stuff in a day or two.’

‘Margaret…’ she heard him call after her as she went out through the kitchen. A sad, plaintive call of abject misery. She almost felt sorry for him.

It was after ten when she got back to Houston. The sky had cleared and the mercury fallen. The night air had a chill cutting edge to it as she crossed the car park and up the ramp into the lobby of the Holiday Inn. At reception they told her that Li was in room 735, and she rode the elevator up to the seventh floor. Her head felt full of fog. Nothing seemed clear to her any more. All the shapes and patterns of her life, which she had tried so hard these past twelve months to define with decision and clarity, were blurred and confused. She felt vulnerable and, worst of all, lonely. The safety and comfort she had hoped for at the Mendez ranch had vanished in a moment. And now there was only one avenue left open to her. But it was a road she had travelled before and found it led nowhere safe.