Wyland, after an uncomfortable night in an unfamiliar bed, with heavy thoughts and what felt like twenty tons of guilt and embarrassment weighing on his chest, got up and went back to New Scotland Yard. He felt like the courage he had felt last night had dissolved completely, with regret and embarrassment left behind.
Connie was there, and seemed relieved to see Wyland at her office door. She smiled sheepishly, and apologized for the previous night. She said she had been "unprofessional", a term that Wyland despised. Professionalism, in Wyland's mind, was simply a way to maintain hierarchies and keep minions in their place. It was a mechanism of social control. It had no place in love or lust, whatever this had been.
Wyland stopped her from making more awkward excuses by gently grabbing her shoulders, sitting her down, and telling her his story. A story he'd never told anyone before. He told her of early successes, a bright, good-looking and promising student with a beautiful fiance, who had, one day, lost damn near everything, and hadn't really regained it since. He didn't know why it happened, but it wasn't her fault. He was cursed to fail; at love, at work, at life.
Connie listened intently, with a deep caring in her eyes. After he finished, tears streamed down her face as she said "Oh god, Wy, I had no idea. I'm so sorry." Wyland was extremely relieved to see that she genuinely believed him.
Then he said "I have to find out what this curse is. I don't care if I die in the process. All there is left for me is to solve this... maybe I can get my life back if I do, and if not, I haven't really lost much. You can help me. You're the only person who can help me."
She sighed, a deep, rattling sigh, and nodded silently. She pulled up the files on Crom and Oliver, printed them and handed them to Wyland. "Please destroy these once you've memorized them, I'm not really supposed to do this."
She continued "There's something else. A work acquaintance of theirs, Stephen McAlerod, was killed yesterday morning, in a most unlikely fashion. An old satellite fell on the house where he and his mother were staying. A Russian satellite with a hot nuclear core. We had to evacuate half the bloody town of Winterbourne. He and his mother were the only casualties, though it started several fires, and several people are still being monitored for radiation exposure." She went quiet, staring out the window, though there wasn't much of a view.
After a while, she continued "I... I heard about it this morning. My boss wants to reopen the case, but we haven't yet. These idiots are dangerous. They're trying to figure out a way to bring them in without allowing them to speak. Tranqs and tasers, we're thinking. They're deathly afraid of these little cunts." She crossed her arms, and shook her head. "Stupid people with power are the worst kind. That's why we don't allow many guns here. It's the stupid ones that ruined it for everyone else. You Yanks would do well to learn that."
After her little commentary, she went back to professional mode. "We pulled Mr. McAlerod's comms history, sorry, um... e-mails, phone calls and such." Wyland nodded, he knew what she meant the first time. She went on "I haven't had time to look at them, but I had the copy center make you up a copy." She handed him a thick manila envelope. "what's immediately apparent is that he knew he was cursed."
"The Cunninghill brothers are currently at work, in a quarry outside Lanark, Scotland. It's all in the case files. Mr. McAlerod left the site a little more than a week ago. An eyewitness in Winterbourne reported that he arrived there the next day looking quite ill, and barely left the house once he arrived. There's quite an extensive internet record in there, I think that's all he did in his final days was search the internet. He had booked a plane ticket stateside, to Detroit, and was slated to leave today."
She looked exceptionally competent and professional as she briefed Wyland, and he could feel the lust for her welling up in him again, and had to stifle it, beat it down, and maintain a calm demeanor. All he wanted to do was grab her and passionately kiss her, but he didn't. He just sat there listening to her, until finally, she dropped another large envelope in his lap. "A copy of all our... more esoteric research associated with the case. I assume you're already familiar with most of it. We will move on the Cunninghills within the next few days, we're still coordinating with the northern police force in Edinburgh. Be careful and stay out of the way."
"Thanks" Wyland said as he stacked everything in his shoulder bag, an old leather case that reminded him of a large purse. He probably would have taken crap for wearing a man purse from his friends, except he never really had any good friends to give him shit like that.
He stood up, and puffed his chest out, trying to look brave and determined, but she could see the fear in his eyes. She smiled at him again, a sexy, sultry smile. He was really going to do this, and she knew she would never see him again, at least not alive. The thought was nostalgic, somehow, like watching a warrior march off to a battle he was sure to lose, but did so anyway, for honor and glory, for king and country. She thought it was excruciatingly sexy of him. She felt like it was 1939, and war was coming, and nobody knew just how bad it might get.
He turned to go, but she stopped him, grabbed his shoulder and turned him around. "Good luck" she said sincerely, then kissed him, deeply and passionately. He tasted salt as a tear fell to their lips. He could feel her slender frame against him, and the warmth of soft skin beneath the silk shirt she was wearing. They lingered there for a moment, breathing each others' air and tasting each others' lips, then they finished, her lips grabbing his as they broke off. Wyland looked at the ground, shouldered his bag, said "thanks again" and left.
After grabbing lunch, Wyland purchased a self defense taser and some duct tape, then boarded the train at King's Cross, bound for Edinburgh. He felt like the weight had been lifted, like he was going to his death with a clean conscience.
Friday, September 27, 2013
Ch.17: An unsuccessful, lonely, loveless life awaits
Connie left the hotel disappointed. Wyland sat on the bed, feeling worse that he had in a long time. He couldn't get it up. Limp as a wet fucking towel. God, how cruel life could be!
She was sexy; A lithe and beautiful figure underneath the boring business suit, with a thick, gorgeous mane of silky, dirty greyish blond hair above and a smaller but equally beautiful tuft of dark blond below. Her breasts were small, with tiny nipples, that were still beautiful and perky, untouched by the cruelty of gravity that so afflicts larger breasted women. Her butt was perfectly round and shapely. She even danced naked for him, a drunken, silly, off balance dance, but still... nothing had worked. He had tried using his tongue and hands to please her, but it was insufficient. She got sick of the embarrassing display he had put on, and got dressed and left, herself feeling dejected and unattractive. She went home, drank some more wine, and went to sleep.
Wyland was there in the hotel room, feeling as lonely as one can, also crying. He hadn't been with a willing girl in years, perhaps a decade, and now it was like his body didn't remember how it worked. No, he was hard at the restaurant, that couldn't have been it. He had been so horny and ready to explode that he was worried about endurance, which after the fact, seemed like a silly thing to worry about. He was still too young to need a pill.
She had seemed genuinely attracted to him. He had pulled off his shirt, and she had growled a little kitten growl at him, and pawed at him, and gotten even more horny than she was before. She had been dripping wet; The whole room smelled of her sex.
He was definitely attracted to her. She was fun and beautiful and friendly.
Why?!? Why had this happened!?
His mind raced from embarrassment, to anger, to thoughts of suicide, and then back to the quiet, empty room, seen through tear stained eyes. It had to be a curse. He was convinced now. Was he getting closer, and now the world was actively mocking him, instead of the passive insults he had endured before? Wyland got a sudden urge to punch a hole through the wall, angry and impotent rage welling up inside him. He screamed at the empty air, pounding the soft bed with his fists, and then, head in hands, really started to cry. A whimpering, toneless cry into a hotel pillow.
After a little while, he remembered what she had told him at the restaurant. The Cunninghill brothers. They might know, they certainly were involved somehow. If they could throw a curse, they should know how to lift one. He didn't even care anymore. He didn't have a life worth living if he didn't solve this, so he wasn't worried about the consequences. An unsuccessful, lonely, loveless life awaited him if he chickened out now. His dejection and despair fluidly turned to resolve and courage. He straightened up, sniffed back the snot in his nose, and pulled out his laptop to look up who these god-damned worthless shit-stains were.
She was sexy; A lithe and beautiful figure underneath the boring business suit, with a thick, gorgeous mane of silky, dirty greyish blond hair above and a smaller but equally beautiful tuft of dark blond below. Her breasts were small, with tiny nipples, that were still beautiful and perky, untouched by the cruelty of gravity that so afflicts larger breasted women. Her butt was perfectly round and shapely. She even danced naked for him, a drunken, silly, off balance dance, but still... nothing had worked. He had tried using his tongue and hands to please her, but it was insufficient. She got sick of the embarrassing display he had put on, and got dressed and left, herself feeling dejected and unattractive. She went home, drank some more wine, and went to sleep.
Wyland was there in the hotel room, feeling as lonely as one can, also crying. He hadn't been with a willing girl in years, perhaps a decade, and now it was like his body didn't remember how it worked. No, he was hard at the restaurant, that couldn't have been it. He had been so horny and ready to explode that he was worried about endurance, which after the fact, seemed like a silly thing to worry about. He was still too young to need a pill.
She had seemed genuinely attracted to him. He had pulled off his shirt, and she had growled a little kitten growl at him, and pawed at him, and gotten even more horny than she was before. She had been dripping wet; The whole room smelled of her sex.
He was definitely attracted to her. She was fun and beautiful and friendly.
Why?!? Why had this happened!?
His mind raced from embarrassment, to anger, to thoughts of suicide, and then back to the quiet, empty room, seen through tear stained eyes. It had to be a curse. He was convinced now. Was he getting closer, and now the world was actively mocking him, instead of the passive insults he had endured before? Wyland got a sudden urge to punch a hole through the wall, angry and impotent rage welling up inside him. He screamed at the empty air, pounding the soft bed with his fists, and then, head in hands, really started to cry. A whimpering, toneless cry into a hotel pillow.
After a little while, he remembered what she had told him at the restaurant. The Cunninghill brothers. They might know, they certainly were involved somehow. If they could throw a curse, they should know how to lift one. He didn't even care anymore. He didn't have a life worth living if he didn't solve this, so he wasn't worried about the consequences. An unsuccessful, lonely, loveless life awaited him if he chickened out now. His dejection and despair fluidly turned to resolve and courage. He straightened up, sniffed back the snot in his nose, and pulled out his laptop to look up who these god-damned worthless shit-stains were.
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