Free Sugar & Spice by Saffina Desforges Page A

through, taking in the
headlines, but skipping the details. He preferred the Guardian, for its keener
coverage of social issues, although he found its politics too liberal for his
taste. Having spent the previous night in a hotel in Bradford he’d not had the
benefit of his usual paper and had made do with what the foyer offered.
By eight o’clock there were perhaps three vehicles still remaining. He slipped
in the CD, then made his way to the back of the van, checking about him before
opening the back doors. It was dark inside. He climbed in and secured the doors
behind him before tugging a lever that illuminated the van’s rear interior.
Little Laura lay semi-comatose, the trauma too much for her young mind, curled
in foetal position, her thumb in her mouth, her other arm around the dead puppy.
The scene brought a smile to his face. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her
hair dishevelled, her dress creased and bloodstained where the pup lay against
her. He grasped the now cold animal by its already stiffening tail and gently
eased it from her tiny fingers.
The girl stirred as she felt the puppy move and she opened her eyes. For a
second she stared blankly at the man before her, uncomprehending, then her young
mind focused, the brown eyes widening. Her body shook as she sat up and prepared
to scream.
Far too young to understand his intentions.
Old enough to be so very afraid.
    32
    He drove the few miles back to Prestatyn, staying in a cheap bed and breakfast
overnight, affecting a convincing Welsh accent during his dealings with the
landlady. He gave his name as Jones. Tom Jones. If only, she’d sighed. He
wriggled his pelvis for her in a poor imitation and for the rest of the evening
he received the red carpet treatment.
He said he wouldn’t be wanting breakfast. He had to continue his journey first
thing, to be back in Swansea for his next shift. The landlady was delighted.
Thirty pounds for changing a few sheets was fine by her. But for fifty-three
year old Mrs Gwyneth Humphries the best was yet to come.
When he put on his Tom Jones accent and said he’d like her to join him for the
optional evening meal she was in seventh heaven. When he took to the upright
piano in the guest’s lounge after dinner and ran off a passable rendition of
Delilah, followed by Green, Green Grass she almost wet herself. The other guests
applauded loudly, adults and children alike.
The little girl from Manchester sat on his lap, her parents looking on,
delighted with the free entertainment. “You should be on the stage,” they
said, oblivious to his hand beneath their daughter’s dress. The child too
excited to notice, too young to think anything of it if she had.
At eleven thirty he disappointed them all by announcing it was time for bed. He
had a long drive ahead of him in the morning. He kissed the little girl good
night, shook hands all round and settled with the landlady before retiring. She
couldn’t quite bring herself to waive the fee for the evening meal, but let him
off the two pound surcharge for parking his van on the drive.
He awoke at six on the Monday morning and left the building unnoticed. Mrs
Humphries wouldn’t be stirring for another half hour. Breakfasts were served
strictly between seven-thirty and nine. No exceptions. On the way out he picked
a single rose from a neighbouring garden and put it in a glass of water on the
kitchen table, with his compliments. His calling cards were strictly reserved.
    33
    A brisk wind had brought broken cloud scudding across the Irish Sea. He drove
into the town centre and took coffee and toast at a cafe in the High Street,
collecting a Guardian on the way. With an Irish accent, he made polite
coersation as he paid, enquiring how to get back on the A55 to Holyhead. He had
to be in Dublin by mid-afternoon and couldn’t afford to miss the ferry, he
explained to the disinterested proprietor.
It was eight o’clock when he drank up, leaving a few pound coins, polished on a
napkin,