Hunter 2

CHAPTER THREE: BED AND KEYBOARD

 

Hunter woke slowly the following morning, luxuriating both in the memory of his lusting the previous night and his male supremacy. But he also wondered whether he had erred in granting magnamity. He had fluffed his best chance of throwing her out by succumbing to hot passion, and Elaine might well not stray again for quite a while. Now  he would have to construct a row to shift her, and it would be a sham, and he knew that it would make him feel dreadful. He was not a violent man, and he hated rows. She might very well try digging in her heels, and refuse to leave, and then he would be trapped once again in a state of undeclared war, manoeuvering for separation, and it would be a repeat countdown to divorce.

He burrowed back into his pillow to conjure up his recurring daydream. He had wanted so badly for Arabella to stay, and she had gone, and now he wanted so badly for Elaine to go, and he had been weak. He needed to get a grip of himself.

Then he sniffed. The fragrance of fresh coffee, coupled with the crispness of toast, had begun to waft into his bedroom. He opened a questioning eye, to see Elaine standing in the bedroom doorway, her blonde hair tousled, wrapped in a loosely tied white towelling bathrobe, carrying a laden tray covered with a white cloth. She smiled in total submission, and placed her tray on his bedside table, and her breasts were swelling the towelling as she bent to lift the cloth and reveal a steaming mug, a plateful of toast with butter and marmalade already generously spread, and her keys laid neatly between mug and plate.

She straightened again, to stand watching him drink and eat, and her eyes shone with encouragement. But she said nothing.

Hunter tried to ignore the keys. But ingratitude was always a churlish emotion. He spoke gruffly. ‘Thank you.’

‘I'm going to be very good from now on.’ Elaine used her little girl voice again. But she was posing in a most grownup way, and her towelling robe parted slowly as he watched her, first baring the soft round curves of her stomach and then falling away from her generously rounded breasts and the dark circles of pearling skin around her nipples.

Hunter struggled to control himself. He could feel himself beginning to grow under his duvet, and refusal could only be foolish: he had time, and he was deserving, and he could throw her out later. He finished his toast and sipped at his coffee. Now Elaine's bathrobe had parted completely, and she shook it off her shoulders and freed her arms as he watched, to stand naked as she looked down at him.

Hunter swallowed hard. He wanted to reach out and take her hand and pull her into bed. But he knew they were both playing a seduction game, and Elaine plainly wanted to tempt him into forgiveness.

She smiled again, moving closer to the bed, and knelt, so that her nipples were now on a level with his eyes. Her hands crept onto his bed, pushing at his duvet, rolling it back, and she bent forward. Hunter felt her breath on his stomach, and closed his eyes, because now her lips had begun to flutter along the stiffness of his penis, and he could feel the tip of her tongue making a pattern along the gland of his circumcision, and his body arched upwards like a bow, stiff with need and desire.

Elaine smiled to herself. Now she had thrown down Hunter’s defences, and his desire would pave her pathway to victory. She straightened up, and got to her feet, looking down at him, and then climbed onto the bed to face Hunter's feet, lowering herself gently onto him, impaling herself, and enclosing him within her, to rest herself on the palm of her hands as she began to rock herself slowly.

She was contained in a dream, for her own satisfaction, and Hunter was her servant. She continued rocking, oblivious to his thrusting and gasping, until she felt her own desire begin to mount, swaying her loins gently over him as she worked to secure her maximum pleasure, moaning to herself softly in her fulfilment, because a secret victory can often be the sweetest victory of all.

Then she swivelled on him, lifting her legs to place them again carefully on either side of him, and smiled down at him.

‘Are we friends again?’ Her voice was low, and almost tender, for Hunter was trapped within her, as her prisoner, and she knew she could use his lusting to control him. ‘You won't really throw me out, will you?’

Hunter was silent. He stared up at Elaine, and closed his eyes. They had come together, and neither had carried the day. But he knew that his time would come.

Elaine was satisfied. She had led Hunter into combat, and won. Time would work for her, and she need only be careful.

Hunter opened his eyes again lazily, and suddenly caught sight of his alarm, and quivered, and jerked upright. He had been dallying for more than half an hour, and time had flown past all too quickly. He twisted his body, rolling free.

‘I must get a move on.’

Elaine smiled up at him, and yawned lazily. She could feel Hunter tugging and turning at the end of her line, and suspected that he might be nursing bad post-coition thoughts. But she had successfully defused a crisis, and was certain that her hook still held firm. She would play him, and wait whilst he struggled until he tired, and then net him, and sex, good food, and tender loving care would weave golden chains. She had been silly, but she would mend her ways and nurse their bruised relationship carefully for a while. Her mind conjured up a picture of herself at his side in a smart little suit, posing on some register office's steps, and she knew that she would win through in the end.

Hunter showered, shaved, and dressed hurriedly. He faced a busy day ahead, and he was late. He notices that Elaine’s keys still lay on his bedside table, and swept them into his pocket.

Elaine smiled sweetly up from his bed. She had a spare set of keys hidden away, but she might pretend that she had stayed locked in his flat all day, to prey on his conscience.

Hunter felt good as he stepped out into the street. The sky was a cloudless blue, with not a cloud in sight, and he walked briskly to Notting Hill Gate underground station with a spring in his step, sweeping up an armful of papers from the station newsagent before unfurling Financeday. Then he smiled a smile of pure contentment and bliss.

Financeday's splash headlined a sharp slide in sterling triggered by rocketing import volumes. But a three column story across the bottom of the front page, with a generously large Hunter byline, hinted that the Treasury was planning to jack VAT sharply higher in a panic reaction. A smaller page three piece, under another Hunter byline, speculated that rebellious MPs might be plotting to force the Government to take a tougher stance on Europe, whilst a solid business page piece, again with a good Hunter byline, wondered whether Wonders might be planning a major Russian link in a move to fend off bid threats.

He riffled quickly through Financeday's broadsheet rivals, humming a silent victory march under his breath. All led on sterling's problems, and a couple included minor references to problems at Wonders, but nobody had written a word about a possible Commons rebellion, nor any Wonders link with Russians. Hunter smiled to himself, and for a split-second moment his pride and joy made him want to leap into the air and wave his Financeday like a flag and astound all the commuters around him. But he was a modest man at heart, and contained himself tightly, only permitting elation to tilt his chin just a touch higher. He was a star, and he was shining brightly. But he was no braggart.

Financeday's newsroom was already busy as he loped proudly to his desk, with Scott and Naismith deep in conversation. But both broke off momentarily to lift their hands in greeting, and it was a double accolade.

After a moment Financeday's news editor levered himself out of his chair and strolled over to sit companionably on the corner of his desk. ‘Terry liked the VAT and Wonders stories.’

Hunter looked suitably modest. Scott normally summoned reporters, and his visit counted as an honour. Several Financeday reporters looked up enviously from their work before hunching back over their keyboards.

‘Good San Isidro piece as well.’ He paused. ‘Do you think they’ll get any wind in their sails?’

Hunter ran through his conversation with Butcher.

Scott sniffed. ‘Ben's got a big mouth.’

Hunter had already started sketching out his attack for a follow-up piece on the Tube. ‘I’ll call Marley, then try the press office at Number Ten, play the Dux angle, and try to scare the shit out of Jim.’

Scott began to smile a plotter's smile. Westminster was hot with gossip that Jim Small, the Prime Minister, was struggling to keep his job, and the air was thick with tales of gunpowder and coups. ‘A couple of hundred words on the home news page if you can wrap it up by four.’

‘I'll have to go easy on names.’

‘Hint, hint, hint.’ Scott put a chubby forefinger to the side of his nose. ‘Just make it strong.’ He turned back towards his desk, and paused. ‘What about Wonders?’

‘Harris is going to talk to me this afternoon.’

Scott's smile widened - Financeday's newsday was starting well. ‘Make that another couple of hundred - we've got to stay well ahead of the opposition. Pad Harris out with background if you can't mobilise any good quotes.’

Hunter hesitated, but Financeday's news editor was a clear jump ahead of him. ‘I'll cover you against Madison. Terry wants to promote you.’ He smiled enigmatically, and was gone.

However whilst Hunter was enjoying a moment of glory, a tall balding man in a checked shirt and corduroys, with heavy muttonchop whiskers compensating for his thinning scalp, had a very sour expression.

‘Hunter's getting too fucking big for his boots.’ He bit his words off bitterly as he spoke to a short dark man at his side. Both stood in a corner of the newsroom. The short dark man was conservatively dressed in a dark suit and had a soft face, and plump jowls, and close-cropped hair that made him resemble a mole.

‘A bit pushy, maybe.’ The short dark man looked thoughtful. His voice sang with an almost feminine cadence, and something in his body language suggested that he might be gay.

‘He's a poaching bloody shit.’

‘Tsk, tsk.’ The short dark man obviously disapproved of bad language. ‘Maybe just a bit too pushy.’

‘He wants my job.’

‘You're too jealous, Grant.’

Grant Madison, Financeday's industrial editor, snorted angrily. The omens were bad: Terry Manning had begun treating him as little better than a mere hack, and Martin Scott barely acknowledged his existence. He had feared for some time that he might soon find himself out on his ear, destined for the outer darkness of a provincial paper somewhere north of the Watford Gap, and fear now told him that Hunter's piece on Wonders might prove a sharp guillotine. He snorted again, a baited bull facing a sword.

‘He makes his stuff up as he writes.’

‘They were both clever stories.’ Mo Cowan, Financeday's diary editor, was determinedly neutral. He had his ear close to the ground, and he knew Madison's days were numbered in very small figures.

 ‘People probably bribe him.’ Madison lowered his voice. He might have to flail wildly, but accusation and innuendo might yet save him. ‘I've got a chum at the Treasury, said there wasn't an iota of truth in his main piece.’

Cowan shrugged, plainly bored. ‘What else do you expect the Treasury to say?’

‘They think he's a menace.’

Cowan did not bother to reply.

‘They're developing a secret weapon, to shoot him down.’

Cowan pricked up his ears.

‘She's a trainee, starting next week, they're going to float her across his bows.’

The diary editor looked baffled.

‘A girl from the FCO, very sexy.’

Cowan waited. It was hard sometimes to tell where Grant’s facts ended and wild fantasies began. But good gossip was always good gossip.

‘Whitehall thinks Hunter is trouble: they want to put him in the frame.’

‘Really?’ Cowan looked at Madison quickly. ‘Since when have the Treasury and the FCO worked together?’

Madison lowered his voice to a near whisper, his mouth close to Cowan's ear. ‘Number Ten wants him slaughtered.’

Cowan moved away from his companion. Personally he preferred more masculine men. ‘Why?’

‘The PM is pissed off with his negative stories.’

‘You mean he wants to get his own back on Manning?’

‘On both of them.’ Madison leered. ‘Hunter will make a pass at her, she'll scream rape, and the scandal will blow them both away.’

Cowan frowned. Madison seemed to have some kind of direct line to Whitehall, and to be using it to plot against his own bosses. He edged a little further from his companion. This was something he needed to pass on to Terry Manning, if only to protect his own position, because mudslinging was a dangerous game, that tended both to leave mud-slingers with very dirty fingers, and splash bystanders with unpleasant stains. But he was curious, as diary editors always are, and decided to probe just a little bit deeper.

‘What's in it for you?’

Madison looked conspiratorial, and put his index finger to the side of his nose. ‘Something nice.’

Cowan made a face, hesitating for a moment, and looked for an escape route. Madison's winks and nudges suggested that he planned to trade loyalty for some cushy government PR job, and sell Financeday down the river. Manning would go ballistic, and the fall-out might be shattering. This was no place for a fun-loving diary editor. He moved off like a cat, careful and delicate, and was quickly gone, shadowy and almost invisible, melting away into thin air like a close-cropped dark ghost.

Madison opened his mouth to speak again, and realised with surprise that he stood on his own. He spied Cowan, or perhaps Cowan's shadow, slipping between two rows of computer terminals some way away, and frowned vengefully. Hunter was a bastard, kissing arses in high places, and needed cropping. He would watch him, and wait, praying that the FCO girl landed both Hunter and Manning squarely in the shit, and stand ready to jump ship as Financeday began to sink.

Meanwhile Hunter was already busy, telephone clamped to his ear. He located Marley at home, but the Labour MP was cautious.

‘Can't say much at the moment, brother.’ Marley was keen on maintaining traditional socialist phraseology. ‘People are fighting like cats in a sack, and we obviously welcome any moves to block the present drive towards federalism.’

‘Would you back a cross-party leader as a stalking horse for Kent?’ Hunter's voice was pure honey.

Marley hedged. ‘Dunno. Can't say.’

‘Off the record?’

‘Hmm.’ The telephone hesitated. ‘I suppose, off the record, that anybody would now be better than Jim Small. But don't quote me.’

‘What about the rest of your people?’

Marley laughed, for the New Left was notoriously prone to squabbling. ‘You'll have to do the rounds. But I suppose we'd all back a change.’

He hung up, but it was enough. Hunter held enough ammunition stacked up for a direct attack.

However Ten Downing Street refused to rattle.

‘It's a hot day, Richard, and everyone's about to go on holiday.’ Jack Yeats, Small's personal press officer, was dismissive. ‘People have these fits of end of term madness quite often, you know.’

‘They're sharpening their knives.’ Hunter was barred by convention from naming Butcher or Marley, but he was determined to drive a wedge somewhere.

Yeats merely laughed. ‘Politicians spend their lives gossipping. You don't want to believe all that trash.’

Hunter replaced his telephone and stared at his screen. Then he began to write. 'Powerful eurosceptic forces across the political spectrum were talking yesterday of linking across party divides in a bid to topple Jim Small. Nobody was prepared to speak out openly. But several leading backbenchers speculated that the Prime Minister might not last very long past the end of the summer recess.'

He sat back to admire his handiwork, and then powered on. The rest of the Financeday newsroom emptied for lunch, but he had a good weekend story on his plate. Downing Street might refuse to rattle, but Financeday would rattle Downing Street.

Cowan materialised briefly, suggesting lunch at a nearby pub, but Hunter shook his head. He must get on, and he must also wait for his mystery voice. Lunch must be for later.

His telephone rang at precisely twenty past one. The voice was the same: elderly, and a touch irritable.

‘Mr. Hunter?’ Again the same aetherial quality, as though beaming in from outer space. ‘We spoke yesterday, and I said I would call back. Can you be at Waterloo Station, at seven this evening?’

Hunter could be anywhere for a good story, but railway stations ranked alongside rabbit warrens for recognition. He hesitated. ‘How will I know you?’

‘You won't. But tell me how you will be dressed, some distinguishing feature.’

Hunter pictured himself in his mind's eye, trying to think of something clever to say, and dithered.

His caller coughed impatiently, and took control. ‘Well, I will tell you what to do. Do you have a copy of today's Financeday? You do? Good. Fold it in half, and carry it against your body, in your left hand, with the title facing outwards. Go to the departure board first, and then to platform ten. Are your manners good?’

Hunter mumbled a doubtful assent.

‘You will have an opportunity to display them.’ The voice was crisp now, otherworldliness all gone. ‘Do you understand what I have told you?’

Hunter mumbled again.

‘Good. We will meet later.’

The telephone clicked, and it was an end.

Hunter rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, wondering what kind of a game he had joined. His stomach rumbled, and he remembered Cowan's invitation. But Cowan's invitations always presaged intrigues, and it was much too nice a day to play office politics.

He ran out a line to Croesus, to book an afternoon chat slot. However a charming secretary explained that Harris had been called away suddenly, leaving him an invitation to midweek lunch at Simpsons. It was a disappointment, but he alread had one decent story in the bag, and nobody should ever be greedy. He picked up his telephone again and punched Colin Blakeley’s private line. Blakely was plainly munching on a sandwich, but his greeting was warm.

‘Nice piece, Richard. Have you seen our price?’

Hunter punched a key to flash up Wonders’ shares. A steady line of blue numbers marched from left to right, whilst the rest of the retail sector was a wash with red. ‘You're going the right way.’

‘We are indeed.’ The sandwich crumbs grew jovial. ‘Do you want to come and talk to Bob on Monday? Say at two? That should give you plenty of time to get him away.’

Hunter bounced in his seat with delight. Knives for Jim Small would make a nice Saturday item, interviewing Morissey would add a star piece for Tuesday, and lunch with Croesus would keep Wonders rolling for Thursday's paper.

‘I'll bring a photographer.’

‘No problem.’ Blakeley purred. ‘Bob's just about ready to come out fighting.’

Hunter replaced his telephone, and beamed at his screen, flashed back to his political piece, scrolled through his copy to harden up a couple of points, and cleared it away. It was time to get out, into the fresh air and sunshine, and find something tasty.

Hunter 4