As usual the details of those few weeks are still fresh in my mind, and I still get goose pimples whenever I think about it.
Christian had listened in wide eyed wonder, while I explained the details of the plan over an Indian takeaway and a couple of bottles Grenache one Friday evening.
“My God, How’d you come up with all of that? It sounds like something straight out of a spy novel. If I were you I’d give up all that legal bullshit and get a job with MI5.”
“It’s not complicated,” I said, “It just takes a bit of timing and some simple changes of appearance.”
“Not complicated!” he spluttered. “Disguises, hire cars, dodgy keys. Then there’s the chance that you’ll get caught and arrested as a burglar, and get a criminal record, and even end up in prison and become some bull-dykes bitch. And if that happens, everything will come out anyway.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said. “Do you have any better suggestions?”
“Plenty; there’s the hit and run; the push under a train; the cyanide in his coffee, or you could just ask him for the photos.”
“He doesn’t know that I know he still has them, remember. And what about his camera and the computer he might have downloaded them onto? How can I be sure he hasn’t duplicated the images?”
He swallowed the wine that was in his glass and poured himself another. In that case I want to go along.”
“I can be your wheel-man, like in the Italian Job.”
“Some old film made before we were born.”
“This is not a game, Christian!”
I could see the excitement bubbling up inside him. But I didn’t need excitement, I needed someone with a cool head, and worrying about what Christian might do would be a dangerous distraction. Anyway, the less he was involved, the less he had to deny later if anything went wrong.
“You risk losing you contract if Marco finds out that you were involved,” I reminded him. “He might understand why I did it, if it all went tits up. But he might not be so forgiving when it comes to someone he’s helped, and who has shown his gratitude by betraying him. Sicilian’s never forget.”
He downed the glass of wine in one gulp, fear now leaking from his eyes.
But I did need his help for a few things.
“I know just the man,” he said, visibly brightening, when I told him what I wanted him to do. “He won’t ask any questions. And best of all, he’ll do it for the price of this cute ass of mine and a blowjob or two; not that he hasn’t been there a few times before. We started fucking on the second day of university you know. I just loved the way his pink penis slid so easily into me. Speaking of people sliding into other people, what are you going to do if he wants to see you before you get a chance to carry out your dastardly plan?”
“See him, of course.”
“You mean you’d let him fuck you, knowing what you know, and planning to break in to his house?”
“My whole plan relies on seeing him one more time. I have to make copies of his door keys, remember. And I need to find out where he keeps his damn computer and his bloody camera.”
“What about the sex?”
“What about it?”
“He might want to stick his Italian sausage inside you again.”
“All the better. Men a more easily manipulated when their cocks have had some wet exercise. You see, I’ve learnt a thing or two over the past few months, and I intend to give him the blow-job of his life and fuck him silly; then he’ll slip off to sleep, sated and smiling.”
“That’s cold, Mrs. Are you sure you’re not related to Mata Hari?”
“I’m only doing what I have to, to protect my future and my marriage. And it’s not as if I won’t enjoy riding him one last time. In spite of everything, he is a magnificent lover.”