Stroking the Flame - 1. Dream Snatcher

On my fourth birthday, father took me and my sister Janine swimming at the public baths for the first time. Growing up, he had never learned to swim and detested his fear of water. On his deathbed, he admitted to me how helpless and anxious he had felt whenever we went to the seaside, when he sat alone on a towel, watching as my mother played with us in the shallow breakers. It was on one such occasion that he made up his mind that no child of a successful, self-respecting chief accountant of one of the country’s finest accountancy firms was going to suffer the same impediment. So began weekly swimming lessons for the three of us. Chlorine odours and echoed screams aside, after the age of ten what I loved and hated in equal measure was the men’s changing room with its stark vulnerability and male earthiness. Swimming itself came naturally, and being immersed in the cold waters of the pool took away all my inhibitions and insecurities. Even now I consider myself a strong swimmer and, growing up, always relished getting into the water.

Until the night at Overton House, Sir Jeremy Winterbourne’s estate, when being held at gunpoint, I was shot in the leg and fell into the icy waters of their unlit swimming pool. Drugged, disorientated and submerged in total darkness, I had no idea which way the surface lay. For what seemed like an eternity, I struggled to hold my breath until DC Ben Whitehead reached in and hauled me free. Such terrifying experiences are difficult to overcome and I have had the same recurring nightmare more times than I care to admit. Tonight is one such occurrence and I know I am holding my breath, struggling to open my eyes and find a way out.

Tonight, however, a large warm hand steadies me, smooths down my spine from neck to the top of my backside, before coming to rest on my hip. Almost instantly, a hot breath warms my ear followed by an equally hot body that pushes up against me and I know that Ben is there. For a moment, my brain wonders if this is still a part of the dream until a deep voice purrs next to me.

“Beautiful,” comes the familiar voice. I wake immediately and roll over to face him. At once he pulls me into his arms and our mouths come together.

“You taste of chocolate,” I say, as he pulls away and starts tracing my chin with his tongue. “You’ve been at the advent calendar.”

Ben’s sweet tooth is a constant topic of amusement. Next moment, he rolls on top of me, his face is hovering over mine.

“It’s gone midnight, so it’s now officially December. I’m not cheating.”

“Honestly, you are such a big kid, sometimes.”

“A big kid who’s feeling really horny, right now,” he says, pushing his hard on against mine.

Loathe to pass up the opportunity, I wrap my arms and legs around him, pull his mouth in for another chocolate flavoured embrace. Multitasking as though his life depends on it, he fumbles open a condom behind my head while returning the kiss with equal hunger. I am still amazed at how fantastic sex is with him. Every time, he seeks new ways to make me overload with pleasure, rumbling deeply and biting my shoulder as he manages to wring shudder after shudder from me. In return, I give him all of me, and occasionally surprise him with a waking blow job or by joining him in the shower in the early hours. One of my favourites is the antique velvet easy chair in our bedroom which has become our personal sex toy. One evening I ordered him to sit with his hands clasped behind his head, while I slipped a condom on him, lubed myself up and straddled him. Initial surprise turned quickly to dark lust, and I now refer to the bedroom accessory as the Torture Chair. Some torture. But it makes me realise all too clearly how Vaughan and I were over long before he left.

Tonight we reach our comfortable rhythm, while he kisses and caresses, and while I taste his skin and smell his body and hair. Even when he is away, the smell of him on the pillow arouses me. When he is back, the passion is ramped to the maximum. Before long, we both collapse into a gasping, sweaty heap. When he rolls away in the dark, we lie next to each other, staring up at the ceiling.

“How was your day?” I ask eventually. “Any developments? Or rather, anything you’re allowed to tell me?”

“I tell you too much as it is.”

“Fair enough,” I reply, because he does.

DSU Callaghan grounded Ben for two weeks, until internal investigators had been satisfied that Ben played no part in the incident. During that time, Ben had said very little about the case, but during time at home together, I could tell the dreadful toll the incident had taken on him. Many a night Ben had long, private conversations on his mobile phone in the back garden. And each time he came back in looking more and more harrowed.

Ben burrows his head into my neck then, and for a few moments, I wonder if he has fallen asleep.

“They found the sniper. Well, his body. None of us were right. He didn’t fire from the office block or the restaurant, but from a crane cabin in a building site in the north directly overlooking the stakeout room. Don’t know why nobody thought to check. Perfect vantage point. Ballistics worked out the rough direction of the shots and the office block made sense. Then the station got a call from the building site manager a few days ago. Work on the site stopped a month ago in part because of lack of funds but also because of the crap weather we’ve been having. They have their usual security guard goons but nobody had checked the crane. Not only did they find the body of a man in the cabin—one Vladimir Krushinski—a known and wanted contract killer, they also found a Russian sniper rifle and casings.”

“So it was the Russians?”

“I’m sure that’s what someone wants us to believe. But just because the killer was Russian and Russian hardware was used doesn’t automatically mean they’re involved.”

“No, I suppose not. How’d he die?”

“Shot through the head.”

“Someone was up there with him?”

“Nope. Another long distance hit. After he’d finished shooting at us, someone shot him. They’re investigating now, grilling the site guards, workers and doing a thorough local house to house. Cops were killed, Colin, so they’re going to be ruthless and meticulous. You never know. Sometimes people are up at that time of the morning, so we’re hoping somebody saw or heard something. According to the ballistics and medical teams the bullet was a through and through, in Krushinski’s left temple and out the right. So the shot would have come from the east. More than that, they don’t know.”

“Hang on. So someone hired Krushinski and once he’d done what they wanted, they popped him off?”

“Again, we don’t have any evidence to link the two incidents. But it does seem the most likely explanation.”

I fall silent for moment, mulling over what he has said. Maybe because of my near death experience last February, but I cannot cast off this nagging feeling that somehow the Schwartz brothers are involved.

“How was your day?” he asks, his attempt to stop the wheels in my head from turning.

“Nothing special. Anyway, how am I supposed to follow that?”

Ben wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me close into him.

“You having another bad dream when I woke you?”

“Uh-huh. So what’s the official line, Ben? On what to do if you’re taken hostage?”

“As a civilian? Do what you did. Cooperate and don’t do anything sudden or stupid.”

“What would you do? Surely they give you training on this kind of thing.”

Ben rolls onto his back then and studies the ceiling.

“Depends on the situation. But pretty much the same advice. No matter what, though, we’re told to keep calm but alert. Because then you concentrate better. Remember that case in the media a few years ago where a young girl in France was abducted. Held in the basement of a house for three weeks. Turns out she was one smart cookie. Even blindfolded or held in that darkened room, she paid attention, listened meticulously. When the ransom had been paid and the police eventually found her, she knew a whole heap about them. Knew from the uneven steps that one had a limp, knew from their accents they came from around the Lyons area of France, recognised the aftershave one of them wore—yes, I know, not brilliant but every bit helped. She even knew one of their names because he had stupidly taken a call on his mobile phone in the corridor outside the room where she’d been held. They were caught in a matter of weeks. What’s brought this on, anyway?”

“Nothing. Just being paranoid, I suppose.”

“I’m here, Colin. Whoever they might be, they’d have to get past me first.”

“Yes, I know,” I reply, an incredible wave of gratitude overflowing. I reach for him then, pull him into my arms.

“Remember I’ve offered to help Derek go through Denny’s old things tomorrow? I hope to be back around six. And then I’ll make a nice home-cooked meal, and we can spend the night in. Is that okay?”

“Perfect. I’ve got a couple of things to sort out, too. Thought I’d go to my apartment, Sunday. Move some more things over. Bring my mountain bike to yours. Any chance of a hand?”

“Think I can manage that,” I answer, trying to keep the enthusiasm from my voice. On a couple of occasions, I had wanted to broach the subject of Ben moving in full time—he spends enough time here—but the time never felt quite right. A part of me hopes he is doing this anyway, bit by bit, without my prompting and the possibility of sounding needy.

“Good. Now come here and let me hold you until you’ve fallen asleep.”

Which is exactly what I do because he is better that a sleeping pill. Seconds later, enveloped in his warmth, I feel myself immersing peacefully into a deep and safe sleep.