INDIAN WINTER (Part 9)


By KATZMAREK ©


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Author's note,


This work is my property and cannot be used for gain without my express permission in writing.


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Jake's mind gradually made the transition from, 'where am I?' to 'oh shit!' The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was a glaring shaft of sunlight through unfamiliar, orange drapes. It bore into his brain, he winced, and closed his eyes again. The next time he opened them they were a little clearer and he could make out some detail.


He was on a sofa and his neck had a crick in it. On a far wall was a painting of Shiva and next to it, the Taj Mahal. A joss stick was burning in a brass holder on the mantle and the room bore the powerful aroma of sandalwood. The white, brushed wool carpet had an expensive look to it and, on the whole, the room appeared to be part of a reasonably swanky apartment.


For instance, the wide screen plasma TV was patched to a 5 channel home theatre. The sofa he was on smelled new and the polished, mahogany veneered table was unstained. In fact, everything in the room looked liked they'd barely been unpacked from their boxes. Someone had been spending a great deal of money, or flogging their Mastercard to death.


On the table, however, was something he never expected to see. Casually placed, as though someone had taken it out of their pocket, was a 9mm Steyr Automatic pistol. By the look of it, Jake was fairly sure it was a cheap Chinese clone. A box of ammo lay beside it.


There was a menace about it, which transcended its deadly purpose. Jake had guns himself, but always locked away in accordance with his arms licence. Why any responsible gun owner would leave a thing like that lying around, he'd no idea.


It's also illegal to possess one, except under specified, and rare, circumstances, unless professionally disabled. Jake felt a knot of fear begin to develop in his stomach. What had he gotten himself into?


He began to piece together events of the previous evening. He and Mary had a fight, although he thought it was over nothing. He remembered the bar, the late night crowd, and drinking far more than he was used to. He thought of the cigarettes he'd smoked, proffered by some instant friend he'd found. He recalled standing in the smoking area outside as people milled around and laughed at corny jokes.


Then he was sitting in the driver's seat of his car. He was staring at the clocks, knowing full well he was unable to drive. He wondered where he was going to spend the night and thought he might stay there, in his car. His keys had not made it to the ignition and lay at his feet. That was probably what saved him from a night in the cells.


There was a loud rapping on his window and he saw the Nightview, flourescent white letters 'POLICE' spread across the man's chest. The man stood back as Jake opened the door.


"Are you intending to drive, sir?" The cop said, kneeling, in a faux assertive voice.


"No!" Jake said.


"What are you doing?" the cop continued. Jake shrugged his shoulders and he heard squawking voices as the guy listened to his radio. "May I see your license?" Jake fished out his wallet, spewing his cards all over the passenger seat. He handed the cop his license and he walked back to his car to verify the details. "You can't stay here," the cop said when he came back. "Have you anyone you can call to pick you up?"


"Sure, sure," Jake was desperate to sound cooperative. First he'd called Mary's number but she'd turned off her phone. The only other number he could think of was Sharmila's. He'd copied her number into his phonebook earlier in the day.


Her voice had sounded sleepy. He'd explained his predicament and she asked to speak to the officer. He'd seemed satisfied, then, and, after stressing it was illegal for him to drive, seemed content at the outcome and went away. Jake waited another half hour before Sharmila turned up in a taxi. She was happy to drive him home, she'd said, and took him to her place.


He was not too plastered to remember that nothing happened. He'd sat on her sofa and he must have drifted off. Waking later that night, he'd found Sharmila had thrown a rug over him. He was far too gone to have initiated, and too bombed to respond.


But he knew he shouldn't be here. He thought Mary would be willing to take him back after cooling off, but this situation wasn't going to improve his chances.

 
The door to the bedroom opened and Jake was confronted by a vision straight out of a soft focus softcore video. Sharmila didn't so much as walk but glided into the room. She was dressed in a pale blue satin nightdress that clung to her body like a second skin. Her full breasts were barely restrained below an acre of sexy, brown cleavage. She'd been brushing her hair and it was long, loose and shone with copper highlights. Sharmila looked at him and smiled so that the room seemed to increase in temperature a few degrees. 


"You're awake?" she asked in her lilting, exotic, New Delhi accent. "You look terrible."


"I feel it," Jake told her, his voice rasping through a cracked throat and a mouth like sandpaper. He felt truly ill from a hangover and his voice sent stabs of pain through his temples. "Ah... ya shouldn't leave that lying around," he croaked, nodding towards the gun. "You get caught with that, the police will throw the book at you."


"I'm sorry," she replied, "it was my husband's. I was just seeing if it was still in working order."


"Why? Expecting trouble?" he grinned. He couldn't imagine any trouble Sharmila could get herself in requiring artillery of that magnitude.


"No," she smiled, "but it's wise to have protection even in this country."


"What the Hell for, Sharmila? It's crazy to have a gun like that. It's the prerequisite for a tragedy."


"How so?"


"Because it's too convenient to grab when you're scared by some noises in the night. You could end up blowing some poor bastard away just for asking directions to the nearest gas station. Even worse, if you were confronted by some villain, without training you could wind up being killed by your own weapon. This is not America, Sharmila, no-one needs a thing like that." The speech exhausted him and he was wracked by a fit of coughing. He really shouldn't have accepted those cigarettes last night! "A kick in the bollocks is all you need!"


"I'm a single woman, Jake," she explained. The words were loaded with emphasis. "I don't have a man to look after me. I must accept responsibility for my own safety."


"Sharmila, I..."


"I will put it away," she told him, "now, do you want some breakfast?"


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Mary gradually became aware of the body lying in bed beside her. She thought it was Jake and rolled over for her good morning kiss. She realised her mistake, then, when she saw the dyed blonde curly locks of her friend, Catherine Sullivan. Cath stirred, rolled over and looked at her.


"Hi, how you feeling, hon?" she asked.


"Like shit!" Mary groaned, "did we drink last night?"


"Just a bottle of wine. I pushed OJs at you for the rest of the evening."


"Why?"


"Because I'm an alcohol and drug counsellor and it's not in your interest to get plastered."


"Fuck you!"


"Fuck you, too. Jake called you?"


"Dunno... turned the phone off."


"Check your messages. The poor guy's probably been going frantic."


"I know... serves him right."


"Well, call him and patch up. Y'know where he would've gone?"


"A motel, I suppose."


"You told him to go and fuck Sharmila?"


"I know!" Mary groaned, "I was mad at him."


"Serves you right if he took you up on it. Shit, Mary, a night on the sofa would've sufficed. Why'd you go and throw him out for?"


"I don't know... I lost my temper."


"The Hell you did! Check your messages? Anything there?"


"Yeah, Jake. Three... no four times. Last one 2 in the morning. Poor honey must've been going nuts. Fuck, I'm a silly bitch!" Mary checked her messages from Jake on her cellphone. As she listened, she groaned some more and bit her lips. As she got to the last one, however, she sat up. "Oh, no, Cat! Listen to this last one?"


Cath pressed the phone to her ear. She had trouble making out the slurred speech but it was obvious Jake was calling for help, that he'd been picked up by the police and needed rescuing. "Shit, shit, shit. You'd better call him and see if he's all right."


"Yeah!" Mary speed dialled his number.


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Sharmila waited patiently for Jake to finish talking on the phone. She sat at her table, where they'd been having breakfast, and Jake had fled to the other side of the room when his phone peeped. She asked him if everything was all right and he came back, grinning.


"It was all a mistake," he explained, "she got mad. She wants me to come home."


"There, see?" Sharmila said, "I knew it would work out. It was your first fight?" He nodded. "Then you must go home as soon as you can. Bring her flowers?"


"I will."


"And give her a big hug? Kiss her sweetly and take her to bed?"


"Not sure I'm up to it," he replied, abashed.


"You will find the energy," Sharmila laughed, "when you see her, everything will fall into place."


As Jake left, Sharmila stood by the window for a while. When she saw his car take off down the street she went back into the kitchen. Picking up the pad by the phone, she opened the first page and stared at the address hastily written down there. She then got out her road map of the city and ran her finger along the 57 bus route.


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Mary rang her service administrator and rearranged her appointments for the week. She decided to have the day off to make things up with Jake. The woman told her she had a message from the refuge for her. Sharmila Devi had checked out early that morning leaving a message that she was going home.


Mary marked the information for future reference. No-one could stop her leaving at any time, it was not a prison. At the end of the day, women were responsible for their own safety. The refuge could only offer support.


Jake had told her he'd stayed at a friend's place. He'd been a little evasive and Mary had guessed it was someone he'd just met at the pub. Some sympathetic mug had given him a roof for the night. He'd also explained he'd talked himself out of trouble when confronted by the police. He'd got someone to drive who was sober. Mary put her suspicians behind her, even though she could feel them gnawing away. She'd hadn't been in the mood for another scene, or a lengthy interrogation. As Cath explained, there had to be a time for trust, and, she'd figured, she'd better start now or the relationship was doomed.


She'd jumped when she'd heard his car crunch up her driveway. She'd opened the front door and watched him saunter towards her carrying a huge bunch of flowers and a grin. He knew he'd done good, she'd thought, and he was rightfully smug about it.


Mary had taken the flowers inside and had fussed about for a vase. The bouquet languished for the time being on the table, however, when he'd put his arms around her and hugged for a full ten minutes.


She'd quelled his attempt at apology and sniffed, moist eyed, into his neck. She'd mumbled she was sorry and asked him if he was hungry. She hadn't made a move to the kitchen, however, preferring to stay where she was.


Jake reeked of stale booze and cigarettes. Mary'd ordered him to the bath immediately and he'd asked her to scrub his back. She'd waited impatiently while the bath filled and heard him splashing. Quickly, she'd stripped and went in to join him.


Mary'd lathered up his hair, kissing his shoulders, and revelling in the contact, skin to soapy skin. She'd maneuvred around so she was facing him, legs twined around his. She'd kissed and stroked and kissed again, played with his equipment while he'd fumbled around between her legs. She'd thought about fucking right there in the bath, but it was too awkward and she'd worried about vaginal infections with the dirty water.


She'd stood, took his hand, and guided him out of the bath to the towels. They'd dried each other, before strolling hand in hand to the bedroom.


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And now, here they were, sitting naked in their bed poring over the atlas spread on the sheets.


"Here," he said, "Severodinsk!"


"Why?"


"It's a cool name."


"Twit! So you think the Trans Siberian? Then we could catch a flight from Vladivostok to Vancouver?"


"And down here through Seattle... the West Coast Highway, maybe by motorbike? Y'fancy being a biker chick?" He knew she hated the word 'chick.' Rather than a telling off, however, she playfully batted at him with the back of her hand.


"Honey? Where'd we stay? Y'thought about that?"


"Wherever you like. Motels, Hotels, Camping grounds, in a tent..."


"Not in a tent, baby. I've lost the urge to rough it."


"Then maybe one of those Winnebago thingies, with all the modcons?"


"That sounds more like it," Mary chirped, "more my style. Hot and cold, indoor plumbing..."


"You don't piss in the woods, then?"


"All right for you guys," she laughed, "all you have to do is flop it out."


"So!" he summed up, "we do Europe, across Russia, then down the West Coast of the States. What'd we do after that?"


"Isn't that enough?" she said, "I've got a job, remember?"


"Yeah, and you've got twenty years' leave built up. I reckon that must be over a year."


"Not quite. I haven't always worked for the service. I've done other stuff, y'know? I haven't got that much leave owing."


"How much, then?"


"Um, about 30 weeks, I think."


"Well, that's seven months."


"It is? No kidding? Shit, I suppose it is. I've never really worked it out before."


"Why the Hell have you never taken a holiday in 20 years?" he asked.


"I suppose... well, it kind of crept up on me. My life is, was, work. It defined what I am, I allowed it to define me. I had no other life outside of work. I even socialised with the people I work with. What would I do with a holiday? I'd have probably moped around home, bored as Hell, or gone out drinking with Cath or something. Not very healthy, huh?"


"Maybe. But I can understand that," he replied, "I lived above my work. I never left it except to go shopping. Didn't much like pubs..."


"That changed!" she interrupted and he grimaced at the memory.


"Yeah, well, I still don't like them all that much. Last night... I kind of realised I had nowhere to go. I mean, really, nowhere to go and I've lived in this town all my life. I was a stranger in my home town!"


"So how did you spend your time?"


"Mucked about in the shop, read, watched TV. Maybe a movie, but they're no fun on your own."


"But girlfriends, Jake? You're a good looking guy, well spoken and smart. How come you haven't really had a girlfriend before?"


"I dunno," he shrugged, "it just seemed like too much trouble and stress. I wish we'd just cut to the chase, but you have to go through all that courtship stuff. It seems to me it's all about making out to be something you're not until you can trust the other person enough to reveal something of your true self. What's wrong with honesty? 'I think you've got a sexy body and I want to sleep with you?' Something like that, perhaps? Except I think I'd get a slap around the face."


"You'd be surprised!" she laughed, "I'd respond to a line like that. Why waste time on preliminaries? If I liked you, why not get down to business and stop mucking around?"


"But you're different," he laughed, "you're a horny bitch!"


"Haha. Maybe I've got less time left to fool around? Grab what's on offer, that's my motto."


"Except you didn't grab much in the last 20 years, did you?"


"About as much as you, apparently!"


"Face it, we've both avoided romance."


"Love, honey. We've dodged love, that's what we've done. But we can change, can't we? We can let down our guards a little and let the other in. We can accept each other and value what we bring into the relationship? I need to learn to care for you in the way you care for me. I pushed you out into the night with nowhere to go. There was no excuse for that. Even if you were the  biggest arsehole in the world, I should never have done that to you."


"Yeah, well..."


"Exactly where did you spend the night, honey?" she asked, "just curious, you never said."


"You won't be mad?"


"Sharmila," she closed her eyes, "you spent the night with her? I should've guessed. In fact, I think I knew."


"We never did anything!" he told her, "I slept on her sofa... she was in her room... I had nowhere else."


"Yes," she sighed, "I deserved that. Thank you for being straight, Jake, I mean it. I know you didn't do anything, you'd been far too guilty looking."


"You know she's got a gun?" he told her.


"What?"


"Yeah. I thought it was a Chinese copy, but it was a real Steyr pistol. It's as illegal as Hell, Mary, why'd ya think she'd want a thing like that?"


"I... I don't know, Jake. I'm speechless, I..."


"Mary? I know she's been cool and friendly and everything. But frankly, babe, there's something about her that freaks the shit out of me."


"I know what you mean. Why'd you agree to invest in her company?"


"Well, she's very persuasive... and, I kinda felt I was obligated and..."


"Honey, you're too soft."


"I know. She's the kind of woman that gets her own way."


"And she's got a great pair of tits?"


"Never noticed!" he grinned.


"Oh, right! Liar!"


Mary batted him playfully then began to wrestle. Soon the wrestling took on a more amorous aspect.


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Fairview Lane wound off the main road to the pompously named new suburb of Chrichton Heights. Few of the residents knew who Chrichton was. In fact, it was the name of the farmer who originally owned the land. Back in the seventies, it had been a dairy farm before old Chrichton saw bigger opportunities in sub dividing for housing. The city had been expanding rapidly and old Chrichton himself had disappeared to the South of France afterwards.


Fairview Lane had been renamed from 'line,' a farm boundary marker. The original 'line' was a rough gravel road and the only house on it was a former sharemilker's cottage. The 'lane' had been extended, as nearby fields were developed into 40 acre blocks for the rich town folk. The influx of serious money had resulted in the lane being sealed, but the surface by Mary's cottage was still rough. Builders' trucks also had their effects on the lane.


A little way up the lane from Mary's cottage was the remnant of a bay where the milk trucks used to turn. The roadworks company had left a pile of spare aggregate there and sometimes lovers found it a discrete place to park. In any case, a parked vehicle couldn't be seen by passing traffic behind the heap of road metal.


The cottage wasn't that easy to find. Sharmila's map was old and the cottage only had a Rural Fire Service Emergency Number to mark its location. She'd been confused by the difference between 'line' and 'lane.' Eventually, she asked directions at the local shopping centre and they were happy to help out.


She came upon the cottage all of a sudden. She saw Jake's grey Camino up the driveway and knew it must be the place. She also spied the layby back up the road. Sharmila went on past and had a good look around before turning around. She then sped her brand new Audi A4 back the way she'd come.


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It was such a nice day, Mary and Jake decided to have lunch outside on a rug on the lawn. They talked about building an extension on the house for Jake to store his antiques. They paid no attention to the car speeding past. Mary  often thought there'd be a bad accident in the lane soon, with all the idiots and their fast cars.


She made some sniggering joke about garden walls and geraniums. Jake told her he didn't feel like a repeat performance as he was quite happy just hanging out there, with her. She kissed him and told him he couldn't stand the pace.


"Jake?" Mary said, "it kind of concerns me that Sharmila owns a pistol. When you were at her place, did you see anything else, anything unusual?"


"Not really," he shrugged, "although she's sure been spending some money lately. Everything in that place was brand new, and good quality at that."


"Hmm, 80 grand's worth?"


"Maybe?" he shrugged, "but she doesn't seem the type to burn off her whole bank balance. Nor use credit, for that matter. She's way too smart with money."


"You mean tight?"


"As a drum! I'd say she's gotten herself a fair bit of cash, lately."


"I wonder who's she shaken down? I wonder if she's blackmailing..."


"What?"


"This guy, Lionel Sampson..." Mary explained what she heard from Murray Sykes about Sharmila's 'incident' with the 'sleazebag businessman.' "Now, don't repeat that, will you?" she added, "its confidential information from the police computer."


"Sharmila would be playing a dangerous game mixing with the likes of him," Jake told her, "maybe that's why she's got herself a gun?"


"I hope not," Mary replied, "does she know how to use it?"


"Not sure. Someone trained in firearms wouldn't leave it lying around like that, though. And she didn't seem to know it was illegal to own one. She said it was her husband's. I got the feeling she really didn't know too much about them, but, who knows?"


"That's not good," Mary said.


"No, babe, it's not!


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Sharmila, herself, spent the rest of the day working. Her bedroom became her office, for the time being, until she could lease proper premises. Her filing cabinet was her bed, and she had it laid out with her paperwork. The dresser became a desk and her Toshiba laptop was set up there.


Sharmila's dabbling in the local property market had revealed a great deal of untapped potential. There was a shortage of inner city property for commercial space and she felt the fringe residential area was bound to shoot up in value. Most of those houses were old and she discovered the City planned to re-zone the area. If they moved fast, they could swoop on these properties and make a killing.


She needed venture capital and she already had a couple of investors signed up. Jake promised her a million, which would give her a tidy level of equity. She moved fast and already she had the lawyers drawing up the documents.


She buzzed with energy and enthusiasm. There was risk, sure, but that just made it that little more exciting. Her strengths were the ability to get people on board, to persuade them she knew what she was doing.


Jake had been the easiest to persuade, she mused. But then, she knew what made him tick and what tools to use. It had taken little levering for him to agree.


She was gaining a reputation in this town as a dynamic and able businesswoman. It was important to look the part and she'd spent a fortune on snappy business clothes. Outward appearances was part of the package she was selling. She wasn't afraid to use her sexuality, either. Men liked her and found her sexy.


She was working herself to exhaustion, this day, and she'd skipped meals. She recognised the danger signs and thought she ought to put herself to bed. Reluctantly, she turned off the computer and gathered up her papers. After grabbing something from the fridge, she lay on her bed thinking, her mind still in gear.


Sharmila tried to think of pleasant, erotic, thoughts to help her relax. She thought of that lovely Polynesian girl and of Jake. Some dark memories intruded and became persistant enough she thought she'd better let them run their course.


In the weeks following her introducing the Polynesian to her husband, he became sullen and disrespectful. They had fights, argued most days, and he called her 'sick' and a 'freak.' She responded that he was a liar and didn't really love her, that their marriage was a farce and he was responsible. 


He took her to counselling but that didn't seemed to help. Their communication would improve for a day or so, then the fights would start again.


Mary had suggested she had 'intimacy issues' that needed work. She told her she needed to deal with her fears around intercourse and stop trying to seek 'alternatives.' Sharmila had told her she was willing to work things out but her husband had to be more understanding and show his love for her.


In itself, their wasn't anything wrong with 'alternative marriage arrangements,' Mary had told her. But they had to be by mutual agreement and were a problem if they came between the 'bonding process.' Marriage was all about negotiation, but both parties had to be part of the agreement. 


"Your husband seeks other outcomes than you do," she said. Mary made it sound like a trade deal, not a loving marriage.


Her husband had brought others home, but they weren't the type of girl Sharmila would've chose. He seemed to be trying to punish her. The women he picked up from clubs and bars and, for the most part, were drunk and had little idea what they were doing.


One, a solid white girl with big hips and a bust to match, he took right in front of her on the sofa in the lounge. Her eyes were unfocussed and she couldn't stop giggling. Her husband merely took down her panties and hammered her, legs up and on his shoulders, while she sprawled across the couch. Sharmila remembered how he jabbed her as he came, growling and ugly. Sharmila herself, then had to pull up the girl's pants and escort her to the door, dodging her rum and coke breath. Her husband had slammed the bedroom door and wouldn't let her in. She had to sleep on the sofa and it stank of piss, cum, sweat, cheap scent and stale booze.


Their life became sordid, 'dysfunctional' and they developed a hatred for each other. Financial stress, too, intruded, and exacerbated the situation. Her husband wasn't doing well at his job and was hampered with his English. He never could speak as well as her, but, equally, there was a fair bit of prejudice towards those who couldn't speak English like a native.


The tension reached its climax with the assault, which Sharmila found impossible to withdraw the veil from. There were hazy images of him looming over her, of the pain, the outrage, his screaming, and her's. There was blood on the bedcover and on his thighs. He wiped some from himself and smeared it over her stomach. She was a mess, stank of his essence, his sweat, her blood and she'd wanted to die. She remembered ringing 111 and screaming down the phone. She had no idea what she said, but police, ambulance and firemen had crashed through the door barely minutes later.


Her husband was picked up and spent the night in the cells. An Indian lawyer  came and bailed him out the next day and that evening, he was on a plane to India. Not one of the authorities had thought to take his passport. Mary had come to the hospital and sat with her throughout the day. Cops and forensics came and went to collect evidence and ask her, again, to talk through the events. All that time Mary had held her hand, wiped her tears, and even put make up on her face so she could regain a little bit of self respect.


Sharmila was released the next day and Mary picked her up and took her to the Women's Refuge. She found other women there with similar tales of assault and rape but she didn't want to hear any of it. She just wanted to shut it all out, to pretend it never happened, and to be normal again.


All that time Mary and she had grown as close as sisters. She went in to bat for her when the cops, or lawyers or immigration officials came and pestered her. Mary had told one to 'Fuck off, don't you think she'd been through enough?' The guy had scuttled with his tail between his legs, she remembered, and she'd no doubt Mary would've flattened him if he'd persisted. Mary knew all the cops personally and chose one, a woman, who was nice, spoke softly, and respected her. Sharmila had recounted as much of the story that she could remember and she stroked her face and mothered her.


Sharmila felt strange about Jake and Mary together. She dreamed of them locked together naked and wished she could be there with them, to share their special time. She dreamed about having both their arms draped over her. She'd be in the middle and their heads would be pillowed on each of her breasts. Jake would be spreading oil on her bloated tummy and Mary, stroking and kissing her face. The three of them could be so happy together.


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KATZMAREK ©
