Chapter 17: Ain’t Got the Heart to Lose Another Fight

“Run!” I kept my full attention on Barry, but a part of my mind noted that Pauline was already moving towards the door behind me. Barry kept coming, and I stepped backwards, hoping there was nothing behind me to trip on. I didn’t have to pretend to be old and a bit doddery. I was. I didn’t have to pretend to be weak and slow. I was. I didn’t have to pretend to be scared. I was. Very.

Barry wasn’t. He was more than twenty years younger, lots stronger and quicker, and had lived around violence and the threat of violence for most of his life. Besides, he had a bloody great spanner in his jacket. And I appeared to pose no threat. I stood in a ‘surrender’ stance with my arms in front of my body, elbows bent, and hands at shoulder height, palms toward him. He kept coming, but there were very different things happening in our heads.

He was intent on getting to Pauline and the phone before she got to her car. I was intent on hurting him badly and I knew I would have only one chance to do so. I was in his way. A punch would deal to me in the meantime, and he feinted casually with his right hand and then threw a roundhouse left.

The feint didn’t fool me and I nearly blocked the punch, but I was too slow. My right upper arm took most of the blow but his fist carried through and hit the side of my head pretty hard. Shit it hurt! I was dizzy, and my right arm didn’t work, but now I was inside Barry’s reach and laid my left hand against the side of his head and face. My left thumb was in contact with his right eye. I pushed as hard as I could, squashing his eyeball back into the socket, and the fight was effectively over.

Barry screamed and clutched at his face, I stepped back carefully, and equally carefully, kicked him in the knee. I immediately regretted that, as my own knee is dodgy and hates being jarred. It reminded me of that fact with a stab of pain that made me gasp. But Barry went down and showed no ability or inclination to get up.

“Listen CUNT!” I nudged his damaged knee with my other foot for emphasis. “We’ve got you recorded. Ivan’s dead and you’ve got a stack of convictions. Do whatever you want with the lab gear. If Pauline never hears from you again, there’ll be no trouble. If you try pinning anything on Ivan or if you hassle her, the recording goes to the cops and you’ll go down. Call some people and get this place cleaned out tomorrow. On Thursday, commercial cleaners will be here.” Barry just lay and moaned, holding his face. I hobbled and staggered outside.

Pauline had the BMW half turned around. I heard the click of the door locks as I approached, and I half dived and half collapsed into the back seat. The door locks clicked again and we lurched as the car crossed the kerb.

“Jesus you stink!” I did. The car was full of the rank smell of my fear. “Are you hurt?”

“Sore arm and head, and I ricked my knee. Still a bit dizzy.”

“I heard Barry scream. What did you do?”

“Stuck a thumb in his eye and kicked his knee out.”

“Jesus! Do you need a Doctor?” Pauline was solicitous but business-like.

“Not at this stage. Paracetamol and ice unless I get concussion symptoms.

By the time we got back to the Hyatt and handed the car over to the valet, I wasn’t very good at all. My adrenaline buzz was long gone and reaction had set in. I was limping, staggering slightly, and very very sore. We made it to our suite, and Pauline shepherded me into the shower and washed me tenderly but professionally. Then she fed me a gram and a half of paracetamol, put some ice in a towel and applied it, and then put me to bed. I don’t remember what she asked me or what I answered, but I must have told her what I had said to Barry as he lay on the floor, because she seemed to have stopped worrying about the situation.

I awoke just before midnight for another excellent room service dinner. My headache was gone, but my arm was still very sore. Despite Pauline’s minor misgivings, for the first time on this particular trip we thought about wine. We matched the smoked salmon quiche on offer with a very good Chardonnay, and Pauline seemed in good condition and ready to talk without prompting.

“I called the funeral director and Ivan’s solicitor. He’s Ivan’s executor, and will handle everything from here. They’ll cremate Ivan as soon as the coroner releases him and in the meantime the solicitor will arrange for the contents to be sold or given to charity and the house cleaned, appraised, and sold – or at least put on the market. He’ll deal with probate in due course.”

“What about Barry? What if the cops come looking?”

“If Ivan was on the drug Squad radar, they’d have been there already, and I’m quite sure Barry will clean out the house. That’s an absolutely primo cooking setup and he knows we have him on record claiming it’s his. As soon as he does, the estate will be safe from the cops.”

“When can we go home?”

“Tomorrow.”

“No funeral?”

“No point. And I don’t want to do anything to stir Barry any further.” I agreed. I was under no illusion about how my next encounter with Barry was likely to end.

So there we sat in (literally) the middle of the night, looking out over the Waitemata Harbour to the lights of the North Shore, eating smoked salmon quiche and drinking an ‘Elspeth’ Chardonnay. My arm still hurt, and a big bruise was starting to colour up, but life was pretty good and I expected it to get even better.

We snuggled up in bed, with me spooning Pauline for a change. I was rested and not sleepy, but now that the excitement and stress was over, and the wine was having its effect, she was ready to crash. We had had heaps of sex in the previous few days so I didn’t expect to turn on, and for a long time I didn’t, drifting somewhere in warm and dozy contentment until I eventually dropped off. My prostate doesn’t let me sleep through however, and somewhere around three I woke needing to pee.

I tried to repeat my previous night’s effort of sneaking out and back without waking Pauline. I got out ok, but she stirred as I returned to bed and she poked her scrawny arse back against my crotch. That was nice, and it was even nicer when she started to wriggle. I wasn’t fully awake, and I didn’t think Pauline was either, but after a minute or three I was hard and she was wet. Wide awake or not, she had my number.

“Just stick it in me sir. I know you want to. I see the way you look at me in science class. I’ve wanted you to fuck me all year. Stick it in me from behind.” She was so wet I went in all the way with a single thrust, and then rolled us both so that I was on top of Pauline as she lay face down. “That’s what I want sir – fuck me hard!” I did.

Most of the time, Pauline has a dozen orgasms for every one of mine – nipples, then clit, then G spot and then variations on those themes and sometimes a try for tantric bliss. Not this night. She kept moaning “Fuck me - Fuck me hard!”, and I pounded her from behind until I came. She didn’t, and when I offered to suckle on her nipples or eat her out she refused and asked me to spoon her again. I did, and we both dropped off pretty quickly.