Month: January 2009 (Page 2 of 4)

It was getting cold in the deserted jetway; Gethin shifted in the wheelchair, trying to get some circulation going in his now sleepy backside. There was a time when he had been preparing for this mission that he had tried to make himself ready for the periods of time that he would be left alone in restricted areas of the airport. It amused him that people in general seem to trust people in wheelchairs, as if a disabled person would not do anything dangerous or confrontational, and that was why they had decided to have him masquerade as a paraplegic. Still the temptation to break cover and complete his objectives now that he had a good chance of making it to the plane before the assistance guy returned was really strong. Of course the empty wheelchair and discarded crutches would raise a red flag or two. Better to stick to the plan, to patiently wait for all the pieces to fall into place.

A voice from behind interrupted his thoughts:

“Ah, monsieur, tu es prêt?”

Gethin nodded without turning around;

“Oui, merci.”

“What do you want?”

I stared at her, unsure as to where this dominant styled submission had come from. It was not that I was upset by her desire to please me, to serve my desires, but she had previously been pretty clear about the fact that our physical relationship was about me pleasing her. I had been very happy about that; for all of the potential baggage I am sure that represents, and while this unexpected sea change was a good thing it was a curve-ball.

She could see my confusion;

“Don’t think about it, Paul. Tell me what to do. I’m horny as hell and I want you, but I need to hear that you want me and what you want from me, yeah?”

I nodded and stopped thinking. I let my eyes wander across her body and then back to her eyes, which I fixed in a stare;

“Let me taste your pussy. Don’t move to me, just open your legs more.”

She smiled and did as I requested. I slid off the bed and knelt before her; staring into her eyes. I laid my hands on her thighs and slid between them, pushing my mouth up to meet her wetness.

“How long have we been laying in this ditch, Chief?”

“Shut up Mankowsic, you want those dirtbags to hear you?”

Mankowsic smiled, only Chief Tillman could dead-pan such a ridiculous statement, after all they were a sniper detail over eight hundred metres from the ranch house that they were covering; unless the perps were pointing a laser mic right at them, his low whisper was not going to be detected.

He checked his notes again, re-measured the range, re-calculated the wind shear and then turned back to the Chief, who was checking his sights and double checking the rifle’s action. He was about to crack a joke when the radio crackled in their ears;

“All positions, target exiting North East Corner. Fire Team Alpha provide cover as required, extraction team are going in for snatch and grab.”

“Mankowsic. Ranges for the North East Corner.”

“Aye Chief. Eight hundred, twenty-nine yards, three degree shift for wind. Sights free, Chief.”

Tillman flipped open the sight covers and settled into the firing position.

They waited.

As the band struck up another cover classic and the gentle, partial buzz that he was nursing was amplified by the company and the sing-along spirit in the bar he felt himself let go and really experience the lyrics to song after song of timeless classics that he was in now way ashamed to have on his iPod.

It was only as the set got deeper and deeper into nostalgia and cliché that he started to veer away from the feel-good vibe and start to focus on the person who was not there. He had tried to drive her from his mind before he even left on holiday, but now, in the midst of a good time the only thing that he saw when he closed his eyes was her face, and more to the point the only thing that he could think was that more than anything he wished that she was there.

He knew in his heart that she was never going to be with him on trips like this or in fact in any way other than the friendship that they already had. Why could he not simply enjoy the fact that they had a connection? Why was context, as ever, king?

The table was littered with half empty wine bottles, and the air above the table was hazy with curls of cigar smoke. Hector was starting to despair of Paulo and David, who were apparently unable to come to any kind of conclusion to their conversation. Neither of them were exactly wrong, but neither of them were exactly right either.

Hector could see that they were both operating from a place of emotional investment; they were no longer listening to the caveats of each other’s discourse, but simply hammering away at each other’s position as if it had gone to a place where each of them needed to win more than they needed to hear each other.

He contemplated stepping in, reminding them that despite everything they were friends, that neither of them had started out wanting to hurt or attack the other; they had just wanted to have a conversation. He realised, of course, that if he did he would sound preachy at best and patronising at worst and then both of them would resent his interference to some degree or another.

As the cloud burned off Paul was left with a spectacular, if typical, Alpine vista before him. Even though he would not be taking to the slopes, due to work commitments, there was an undefinable joy in his heart to know that somehow he was actually living the dream that had begun two years before.

It had all started on a cold February evening in Stourbridge in a pub called The Bag of Spanners. As he cast his mind back he remembered that it was a conversation with Daryl about how much he was missing the Alps, despite having only returned three days before, when Daryl made one of his characteristic observations;

“Why the fuck are you not making plans to go and live there you plonker?”

That had really been all of the spur that he needed, and now he was indeed there, and there was no doubt that it had been the right decision. Daryl had, of course, been the most suprised of all. When Paul told him that he had found a job in Les Menuires, Daryl’s entirely appropriate response had been:

“I didn’t mean it yer twat!”

Some people have heard and others haven’t but on day four of my thirteen day skiing holiday I made a stupid mistake at the end of a run (just before the lift) and I have done some fairly crunchy ligament damage to my right knee. I’m ok, just a little miffed and annoyed at myself for screwing up, but I guess 22 years of skiing / snowboarding and just one serious accident is not a bad record, and equally it had to happen sometime…

There is every indication that with some physio, some rest and a bit of care (oh and the purchase of some hinged knee supports) that I could be skiing again next season, so it’s not all bad – hooray for travel insurance!

The accident has not left me with a pressing medical need to be sent home early, so I am marking time in resort, finding the internet when I can and generally just chilling, so at least the relaxation aspect of going on holiday is still being served 🙂

This post is not a request for sympathy, really, just the easiest way to tell as many people as possible at once, but there are a couple of people in Reading and environs that I might need to ask for some bits of help from in the short to medium term – good wine and a place in heaven will be your undoubted reward.

See you all soon(ish) and more regularly online after the 25th of Jan (when I get back home to a land of reliable and accessible internet connections)…

TTFN

The dew on the bracken was, while attractive, leaving Gethin’s leggings damper than he would like. He had left the others sleeping and headed out to find breakfast, while the wood was still asleep. He had already found enough mushrooms, now he was looking for a small boar if he could find one. He was pretty certain that he was not going to scramble about in the morning half-light to make breakfast every day, but some of the young ones on this trip were still getting used to the idea that they had only walked about one twentieth of the trek to the white tower, and they had over a fortnight more of sleeping on the cold, hard floor.

About twenty yards off he saw the ferns moving in such a way as to suggest a small woodland animal, and he hoped earnestly that his searching was over; he did not want to leave the young ones for too long. He crouched down and waited, listening. The telltale snuffling confirmed his hopes. He nocked an arrow, drew the string back into the valley and waited to see enough snout to loose.

“Why is it that you always want to meet somewhere for a hotdog? I mean, normal people meet for a drink, or maybe a coffee. What’s with the hotdogs?”

Yuri cracked a smile;

“You see it’s like this, my friend. All of my childhood I saw American movies on pirate video tapes; the whole of the party was doing it, so my father was no different, and I always saw that among the many things that really meant America, the hotdog was one of them. When I finally was posted here with the diplomatic corps the first thing I did was go out and get a ‘dog with sauerkraut, mustard and relish and I discovered that I was right; they are fantastic!”

Ted laughed;

“Sell it somewhere else Yuri, I’m not buying that ‘I always loved America’ crap. You were a loyal soldier back then. Anyway, if you’re not going to tell me the real reason about the hotdogs then at least tell me why I’m out here in the freezing cold at eight in the morning, when I could be enjoying coffee and a danish at my desk.”

“Sure. You remember Kiev in eighty-seven, Ted?”

The snow felt cold under his head as his consciousness came swimming back. He felt around the back to see if there was any blood, but found no unwanted stickiness back there and breathed a sigh of relief. He opened his eyes more and slowly he could make out the tops of the tall spire-like trees that were everywhere around the resort, blowing gently in the breeze.

He mentally checked all of his other limbs, starting with fingers and toes and then working his way back up to his own trunk, but he could find nothing untoward. He sat up, half expecting the world to swim out of focus and his head to spin, but all was well. It was still light and he could even tell where he was, although he was not sure how he had come to be there on his back in the snow.

Tentatively he eased himself up onto his knees and then his feet; his balance was good and he felt surprisingly steady. He reached into his jacket pockets and came out holding two surprises. One was a matchbook from Dee Dee’s in town, and the other, a small revolver.