Little Flashmarket 9 81. Bob Faces The Facts Bob Brentwood had to face the facts: he was becoming as sex- obsessed as the rest of this mad village. He had so far managed to preserve his marriage vows by fleeing, the only strategy he had ever learned. He had not been pursued by women before his marriage, not the way that men had pursued Laura, and unlike her, he had never learned to say no gracefully. At least he needn't worry about Laura. She had the experience and the wit to turn someone down, to take it in stride. All Bob could do was gape and then run, like some frightened rabbit. He was desperately afraid that he would give in to the prevailing mood of concupiscence, that he would end up between the legs of someone like that randy teenager or that horrid old woman. Laura didn't even notice the atmosphere, though she had been extraordinarily randy and perverse lately. Perhaps that was a good thing; he could count on her to keep his urges down. Though his urges had been evident near Alice. He had, in fact, been instantly hard. He had wanted to see her naked. He had wanted to fuck her. He looked up and found he was near Sneak Reviews. It couldn't hurt to know if Alice had been caught in one of those terrible candids. Let her know about it. He wouldn't watch it. Just rent it as evidence. His pulse quickened. Becky remembered him. "Hello, Mr. Brentwood. You look good!" Bob felt his face flaming. "I must say, your wife is very pretty. And popular." She waved. There on a display rack labelled Laura Brentwood and. . . were dozens of videos. He saw the words Volume 11 and he did the only thing he could do. Bob fled. Heading for Weston-super-Mare. * * * 82. Five Star Crombie There was only one pub in the quaint village of Little Flashmarket: The Flashmarket Arms. Detective Inspector Hugh Crombie scouted out this sort of information whenever London sent him to a new location. Lately, with so many trips, Crombie could author a travel guide for pubs, if he were a writer: Canard's Clive and Coffin -- three star beer, Oxtail's Stagecoach Inn -- one star swill. But Crombie wasn't a writer. He was a lush. Crombie's methodology was solid: pubs were hotbeds for sin and crime, the backbone of his job. Unfortunately, his propensity for ale -- bad or good -- was his shortcoming. The paunchy detective battled it by believing he did his best work liquored up. Cursing his gout, he hobbled his way into the Flashmarket pub and claimed a spot at the bar. The smell of a lunchtime cabbage special lingered in the air. His ankle throbbed as he propped it on the brass foot rail, but DI Hugh Crombie never met a barstool he couldn't make cosy. He nestled in, waiting and watching. The barmaid--brown hair, late thirties, plump -- had a way with a mug. Dark amber liquid jostled in perfect unison with fleshy, unencumbered breasts -- Swish. Swosh. Swish. Swosh -- as she strolled toward the counter. She set the pint in front of a customer and leaned in close. With one hand, the gent lifted the mug and took a gulp. With his other hand, he grabbed a handful of tit. "Lenny Bond! Shame on you," scolded the barmaid. "You know I hate it when you show favouritism." The wench promptly exposed her other tit and shoved it toward Lenny Bond's face. Mr. Bond calmly licked the head from his beer and then licked the proffered tit. DI Crombie scribbled a mental note: Flashmarket Arms -- five star service. * * * 83. Isabella Talks Flashmarket was smaller when Isabella and Eve came. A few cottages, a church, the Flashmarket Arms, the Manor. Isabella was pregnant, and people -- even in Little Flashmarket -- talked. There's no father. You know what's going on, don't you? It's not right. Isabella gave birth to twins. Rebecca was strong. Cecile wasn't. They buried her in the yard, under the sweet peas. Months passed. People talked. They won't come to church, you know. Just the two of them, raising that little girl. It's not right Isabella and Eve kept to themselves. Rebecca was well dressed and polite. Their gardens were neat. Villagers knew during a bad winter one good garden could make the difference. Isabella grew her plants, Eve brewed teas, both they sold them at the Market. People talked. She says they'll help with those pains. My George took a tea and It finally happened again. It's not right. Rebecca grew up, moved away. Isabella and Eve stayed in their cottage, tending their gardens, their herbs. Then Eve fell to influenza. Isabella sent for her daughter. The village had grown. Shops, a blacksmith, farms. Villagers were prospering and attitudes had changed. Rebecca came home, with twin daughters and cared for her mother. The girls, Anne and Abby, blossomed, grew, married. Isabella knew it was time. She placed her hand on Anne's belly, where life was starting, and she talked. Do it right, Rebecca, or it won't take. Not in a box, not in the churchyard. My garden. My dirt. But Rebecca had lived in the city and no longer held with the old beliefs. Isabella Fey was buried in a proper box with a carved headstone and church words in church ground. Otherwise, people would talk. After the service Rebecca knelt. Just stay there, Mother, or people will talk. * * * 84. Crombie Pokes Around "Easy to see you're a man of action," said Brigitte Spiewak, snuggling up to Detective Inspector Hugh Crombie. "You quite swept me away with your masculine vigour." DI Crombie, a suspicious man by nature and occupation, wondered about that. The woman had pounced on him like a cat on a rat. Not that he was complaining. The investigation was going very slowly, and diversions were welcome. He tried to focus on his task. A bit of mellow pillow talk, perhaps. "This man Redman," he said, stroking Brigitte's thigh coaxingly. "You knew him well?" "He never touched me," she said, unable to keep a smudge of regret from her voice. "But other women?" he asked, picking up on the inference. "Not Tom," she said. "He was a big friendly bear who wouldn't hurt a fly." A saintly fellow indeed, DI Crombie reflected wryly. Everyone in Little Flashmarket said so. The investigation was dead- ended in every direction. There wasn't even a body. Constable Pickthorne suspected wild boars had carried it away. The widow Penwhistle was still too distraught about the matter to interview. DI Crombie was a patient and plodding investigator, however. He'd just keep poking around. In the meantime, life at the Flashmarket Arms -- where they poured a strong local ale -- was pleasant, and there were excellent pork chops on the menu most nights. Another good local supplier, no doubt. "If I were you. . ." Brigitte ventured. "Yes?" "I'd track down that Bob Brentwood. Not a nice man. Never fitted in here. He left town in a big hurry straight after Tom disappeared. Talk to his wife. She's lovely." DI Crombie's interest picked up. So did his cock, as Brigitte slid her cheek down his stomach, searching for it. Yeah. He'd just keep poking around. Something would come up. * * * 85. Lucretia's on the Menu Two hours into the catering job at Huntshead Manor and Lucretia was dead on her feet. As revellers feasted on hors d'oeuvres and spirits, the waitress leaned on a friend. "You holding up, Lucy?" the middle-aged woman asked. "All but my arse; it's purple from all the attention." "And here I was thinking of taking a bite for myself." From the kitchen came a loud commotion. As Lucretia made to investigate, a naked woman burst out some double doors and ran down the main hallway. Very few guests took notice. Lucretia stepped into the kitchen and found Prudence Huntshead holding a cleaver at the crotch of one Pablo Cruz. The Spaniard was a self-ordained caterer and chef. "You buggered it up!" the crone hissed. "Now what?" Cruz pointed at Lucretia. "What about her?" "Oh my, yes." With a shitter's grin Cruz sauntered over to Lucretia and put his arm around her. "A week's wages for a night's work." "What kind of work?" Lucretia's nipples flared. "Main course at tonight's banquet." "You're on." Two assistant chefs stepped forward and helped Lucretia disrobe while Cruz prepared a massive platter filled with vegetables and garnish. Eager fingers washed the woman's taut body, and considerate hands helped her kneel on the silver plate. Dismissing the aides, Cruz took it upon himself to oil every inch of Lucretia. An apple was placed into her mouth then her arms and legs were bound tight. Into the grand ballroom a procession of ten stewards carried the evening feast. Many male guests began to form a rather restrained line while the women drifted to the edges of the room to watch. Lady Prudence stepped into the middle of the ballroom and smiled. "I give you tonight's hen!" And so began a night of relentless stuffing and spilled gravy. * * * 86. Constable Pickthorne Closes the Ranks "We need to talk," said Lacey Penwhistle to the vicar's wife as they met in the door of the greengrocer. "Constable Pickthorne's worried." "We do, indeed," replied Anne Thomson. "And well he might be. Perhaps we should discuss it in the bookshop?" "Good idea." Lacey, herself, ran the Catholics, Anne ran the Anglicans, and Alice from Twice Told Tales, Books Bought & Sold, Talismans & Spells ran the pagans. Between the three of them, they had the whole village bracketed. They decided on a pre-emptive ecumenical briefing for all the village women. "I don't get it," said newcomer Laura Brentwood when Anne telephoned her to advise time and place. "This all happened because we went outside the village for a Corn Maiden, right?" "I guess," conceded Anne. "But what choice was there?" "Well, can't we change the rules, or something? I'm sure Marie-Louise would be willing. . . or Pepper?" "No. No, can't have that. Got to be a maiden. It's tradition." "Well, what about next year?" "Next year, we'll have next year's crop to harvest," said Anne briskly. "For the nonce, however, don't you think we'd better focus on this year?" The ecumenical meeting was held, for reasons of space, in the Anglican church hall. To keep things peaceful, it was agreed there would be no prayers. "I'm sure that our hearts go out to Tom Redman's family," said Lacey steadily, "so cruelly bereaved, by a bizarre coincidence, while we were all at our last ecumenical meeting." "Ah, yes," said Anne. "Where was that exactly?" "Why, here of course!" "Oh, yes. Of course. Silly me. I'll forget my own head next. And what were we doing? Was it a quilting bee?" "We were praying for peace in Iraq, silly. Don't you recall?" "Ah, yes. It all comes back to me now." * * * 87. Mike's Generous Gesture Lacey Penwhistle, Susan Willing and Thelma Underwood, makers and shakers of the Sodality of St. Margaret, had their heads close together at a lunch table at the Flashmarket Arms, nodding in concentration, speaking low. A closed shop. Mike Matabele walked straight up to them, bumping the table and spilling their drinks. "Next year's Corn Maiden Festival," he said, speaking far too loudly. "I'm volunteering my good self." The three women looked up at him, looked at each other, then bent their heads together again. "I'm right into that stuff," Mike said, pressing his case. "Fire dancing, full moons, blood sacrifice, virgins. As a matter of fact. . . you'll be fascinated, I know. . . I've been trying to start a men's bonding group." The three women continued to ignore him. "Look, I can perform," Mike said. "Don't you worry about that." No response. "I don't mind telling you, I shape up pretty impressively when it comes to physical attributes." Silence. "And I'm a stayer. I can keep going like you wouldn't believe." Nothing. "If you've heard stories about me, they're all lies." Nil. "I like girls. Really. All sorts, all shapes and sizes." Zilch. "Give me a break here. You won't regret it." Nought. "Look, I could do with the action." Zip. "You can do anything to me. Anything. I won't mind." Zero. "Right, then. It's set, right?" Mike wandered away, back to his seat in the corner, as far away from the Watson brothers as he could get. "Now there's a worry," Susan Willing muttered. "Somebody should do something before that copper finds him." They thought about this for a while. "Sheila Baxter," Thelma said. "She's big, she's reliable, and she likes pathetic creatures." The three women nodded their heads. Good plan. * * * 88. Orders for RSM Redman They still follow the old ways in the Wessex Grenadiers. "Davis, for sullying the honour of the regiment, the punishment is 18 strokes of the birch, and four days in the hole." There had been no official court-martial; this was an internal matter. The Regimental Sergeant Major was responsible for discipline in his regiment, and RSM Robert Redman took his duties seriously. Redman gripped young Davis' head between his legs, high in his crotch, pulled out the man's shirt tails and took a grip on the young man's trousers. When Davis said, "Standing by to receive orders" -- the traditional invitation to a caning -- Redman felt the young man's voice vibrate along the length of his own prodigious erection. Davis counted each stroke -- "One! Two! Three!" -- his voice breaking as his back bled. Redman was pleased -- Davis was taking his punishment properly. He might be Army material. The only thing out of the ordinary was that RSM Redman had neglected to put on trousers before administering it. That was Redman's way. Davis had gasped out, "Sixteen!" when Foxcroft entered the barracks. By the interruption, Redman knew it must be important, but he did not stop. Redman gave the last two savage strokes and came, spewing jism all over Davis' face and hair. "In the hole with him." Davis was carried away. Even barely conscious, Davis knew better than to wipe away Redman's spoor. Foxcroft handed Redman orders. "Indefinite compassionate leave, sir. For you. Your brother has died." "Murdered?" asked Redman. It seemed obvious; Tom was ten years younger than he. "Yes, sir." The Redmans were a simple folk. Devious, cunning, brutal: yes, certainly, but basically straightforward. As the senior surviving member of his family, he was now responsible for revenge. Like the Wessex Grenadiers, the Redmans followed the old ways. * * * 89. Colm Comes Back for More Colm McMahon paused to allow the gamekeeper, Mr. Billings, a chance to catch up. He was purposely selecting the widest, smoothest paths, but still Mr. Billings's pursuit seemed well below his usual vigorous par. Colm had set trap after trap after trap, each nearer than the last to the big manor house. He was almost under Mr. Billings's very nose before the gamekeeper had deigned to notice him and give chase. "If but half o' them traps springs," thought Colm as he waited for Mr. Billings to come over the rise, "our Mam'll won't know what to do for pots, there'll be so much cooking to be done." When Mr. Billings appeared and saw Colm, however, he stopped, and put his hands on his knees, and wheezed theatrically. "Bellows to mend," he remarked to Colm, who stood, hands on hips, waiting for him. When his panting could be plausibly prolonged no longer, Mr. Billings remarked in some agitation, "Git along wit' yer, me boyo! If I ketches up to thee, tha knows what 'tis my duty to do." "You already ketched me," said Colm, calmly. "Tha knows I must take thee afore Miss Prudence?" "I know it," said Colm. "So, how old are you, anyway, these days, young Colm?" "Fifteen," said Colm defiantly. Next birthday, he made a mental reservation. Ten months from now. "I seeee. . . " said the gamekeeper musingly. "Well, you come along o' me, my lad. You're nicked." "It's a fair cop," said Colm pacifically. "My, you are a well set up young lad," remarked Miss Prudence appraisingly when Billings, blushing furiously, delivered his quarry into his employer's drawing room. "A gentleman takes his weight on his elbows," remarked Miss Prudence helpfully, somewhat later. "My, you are a well set up young lad," she repeated herself, somewhat later. * * * 90. Impassable Sheila Mike Matabele did not think it was right that a woman should be taller than he was, but he couldn't afford to be fussy. When Sheila Baxter, 6ft barefoot but two inches loftier in her heels, towered over him and invited him to a home-cooked dinner, he wondered if he had got lucky at last, and would get laid. Sheila, champion defensive netballer, was also a champion defender of harmless animals and therefore a strict Vegan. Nuts in a bowl, vegetable soup, a mushy vegetable stew that was just like the soup only thicker, diced fruit, and then coffee. No milk or cream. "You'll stay the night," Sheila announced. Mike's spirits soared from the depths of depression brought on by Sheila's cooking. But briefly. The old doubts came crowding back. Additionally, there would not be bacon, sausages, or even eggs for breakfast. "Why me?" he asked. "Why you? Am I attractive? Are you infatuated, and how will I handle that? Will we have an acrimonious falling out after three weeks and never speak to each other again? Is there any future for us? We have to talk about this. Get it sorted." Sheila, a veteran of Tom Redman's ram-raid cock, a harder and wiser woman for it, and unquestionably a Little Flashmarket team player, knew her duty. "Shut up," she said. "Get into that bedroom and take off your clothes. If your cock is not hard and ready for me, I'll punch your face in." Mike fell instantly and hopelessly in love with her. Dazed and smitten, he watched as she sat on his cock and tossed her long blonde hair. But Mike reckoned two things had to change. She had to stop calling him Tom, and she had to get in some bacon and sausages for breakfast.