Free The City Trap by John Dalton

their genitalia. Or it could be pointing to a scam.’
    ‘Find out, Des. What am I paying you for?’
    Bertha lived on the third floor of a ten-storey block of flats some half a mile to the east of Argent Street. Des pulled into the car park and waited for Bertha to get out.
    ‘You coming up for a coffee, Des?’
    ‘Nah, I think I’ll give it a miss if you don’t mind.’
    ‘I won’t bite, you know.’
    ‘I dunno about that, and that worries me, you being my client and all.’
    ‘So what if I did bite, Des? I’m pretty good at knowing where and how to do it. I mean, we’re both well grown-up now and, if I’m not mistaken, you, like me, are pretty
hungry.’
    ‘Don’t say that.’
    ‘I know what it’s like. I’ve been caught out too, hooked on a drug and suffered withdrawal.’
    ‘Bertha, this doesn’t feel right.’
    ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.’
    ‘Oh, I dunno . . .’
    Bertha smiled. It was a warm smile and appealingly accentuated by many lines.
    ‘By the way, Des, do you have a name for yours?’

8
    Flat 34 was a celebration of the pink frill. Everywhere you looked in the various pink-painted rooms, the scalloped adornments were there. On valanced curtains, cushions,
drapes and mirror frames. As mock flowers standing tall on green canes. But for a full realization of Bertha’s taste, the bedroom was the place to see. Pillowcase and counterpane, pink frilly
canopy above the bed and a huge foaming lampshade. All this amid deep magenta walls, pink carpet and bed. Des McGinlay lay on this bed, lit up a fag and tried to think about the mess he was getting
in to. He’d let himself be seduced. The implications were scary, the complications too awful to consider. So Des gave up thinking and sank back down to his feelings. To his surprise, they
were good. The first time he’d writhed with uncertainty in Bertha’s arms and felt guilty over Miranda, but the second time that night, that time he’d really made love, and
he’d felt great because of it. Bertha was true to her word. She knew where and how to do the things that made Des feel almost himself again. She entered the bedroom with a tray of coffee and
scrambled eggs on toast.
    ‘You shouldn’t still be in bed, Des, there’s work to be done.’
    ‘I hate eggs for breakfast.’
    ‘Don’t expect me to know everything about you yet.’
    Bertha set the tray down on the bedside table. She wore a see-through shift, pink of course, and she let it slip off her shoulders as she lay next to Des. But Des, though appreciative of her
body, didn’t really notice. He was still wincing over the word ‘yet’. It sounded so menacing, a threat that he might be swallowed up. But it was a titillating threat. Despite the
flouncy cheapness of all the trimmings, there was an allure to Bertha’s view of home, a sense of snuggling, an oblivious passion that Des could submit to as an escape from the hard-edged
world. Des saw then that the frilliness was indicative of a womb, Bertha’s womb, beginning to open as she rubbed herself against his thigh.
    ‘Bleeding hell, Bertha, I have got to work, you know.’
    ‘What difference will half an hour make now?’
    ‘You never know.’
    ‘And so won’t miss . . .’
    Bertha’s tongue went down to his ribs and onwards like a trickle of warm honey. Des became lost once more in pinkness, moist and alive . . .
    It was midday before he was out on the road, though he wasn’t too sure what he was doing there. He had the names and addresses of two prostitutes who were friendly with
Claudette, but he was still woozy with Bertha and couldn’t think straight. First it was, Well that’s got one back on Miranda , and then, But Bertha, she’s like a bad
drug. Too good to refuse; too dangerous to know . He was elated and pissed off at the same time. Des decided a snifter was needed before he followed any leads. So, it was down to the real world
where the ghosts of murder victims and ex-lovers mingled with the