Princes Gate by Mark Ellis Page A

wife, which he kept in the top drawer of his desk, gave him a different ache in the pit of his stomach. He pinched himself before heading down the stairs and out into the freezing night.

    The sharp disc of the full moon shone down, brightly lighting their way. She leaned against his shoulder as he struggled with the stiff lock on the street door. Eventually the door gave and he pulled her up the small flight of stairs. Another lock had to be negotiated but he managed this more easily. Morgan flicked on a light and she saw a bed-sitting room larger and more expensively furnished than her own. “God, it’s cold in here, isn’t it?” He struck a match and lit the gas fire.
    “This is a nice place. How did you manage…”
    He shrugged then pulled her roughly towards him.
    “No, Johnny. I really shouldn’t be here. I must be getting back home. It’s very late and I need to be back at work early tomorrow as Miss Edgar has a pile of things for me to do.” She pulled away.
    “Come on, Kathleen. Don’t be boring. I’ve got a bottle of whisky here that someone gave me. Let’s have a nightcap.”
    She sat down in the room’s one armchair, while Morgan stretched out at length on the bed. She had already drunk more than she’d ever drunk before. Was it four or five ginand-its? Four, she thought, but were they singles or doubles? She felt giddy and her head was pounding.
    Morgan rose from the bed and pulled a bottle of whisky and glasses down from a shelf. “Here you are. Take a swig of this. Best Scottish malt whisky. Macallan it’s called. It’s very smooth. You’ll love it.”
    The amber liquid gleamed in the low lamplight as he poured out two glasses.
    “No, really, Johnny. I’ve had too much to drink. I don’t like whisky anyway.”
    He held out a glass. As she continued to refuse it he lurched forward, tripped and sent the drinks flying.
    “Look what you’ve done, you stupid man.”
    Morgan displayed a lopsided grin as he raised himself up from the floor. “Not to worry, sweetheart. I’ll clean it up for you.” He moved to a basin by the side of the bed and ran water over a flannel. Kathleen stood in the other corner of the room patting herself down.
    “This is my best dress, Johnny Morgan, and look what you’ve done to it now. It’s ruined.”
    “No it isn’t. Don’t worry.” He brought the sopping flannel over and started mopping at the stains.
    “Give me that. I’ll do the mopping, thank you.”
    “Oh come on, let me help you, Kathleen. There’s a spot right there.” He raised his hand to cover her right breast.
    “What are you…?”
    “And there’s another spot.” His other hand moved to her left breast.
    “You cheeky boy. Leave me alone.” Her attempts to sound righteously indignant faltered as she noticed that there was something quite pleasant about the way Morgan’s hands were moving.
    “That’s nice, isn’t it? You’ve got a beautiful body, you know, sweetheart.” His left hand slid down and stroked her lower back before moving below.
    “Stop it. Stop it.” His right hand turned her face towards his and he kissed her lips hard. She struggled to pull away.
    “Johnny. This isn’t fair. I’ve had too much to drink. I’ve not done this sort of thing before.”
    “Don’t worry. I have. Leave it to me. I know what I’m doing.” He kissed her again on the lips and then bent, kissing her breasts through the fabric of her dress. His hands moved to her legs and lifted the hem of her dress slowly up to her waist.
    “Don’t hurt me, Johnny.”
    “I won’t. Trust me.”

    As the nearby church clock chimed, he got out of the bed and lit a cigarette. Muffled sobbing sounds came from the pillow in which Kathleen’s face was buried. He went to the window and half opened it. The moon still shone down brightly on the mews. Across the way he thought he saw a moving shadow. A moment later he heard the sound of a dustbin rolling on the ground. He threw the remains of his