The Adulterer's Daughter: A Novel Read online

  Eric sighed. “You’re not going to get cancer, Ollie.”

  “One in two people do at some point in their life. I don’t like those odds. It’s better if I just accept it’s going to happen to me, and employ delaying tactics. Hopefully, I can put it off for as long as possible.”

  ◆◆◆

  Steve returned from the bar with a manly pint of bitter, a rugged pint of cider and a mawkish cranberry juice.

  “You took your time,” Ollie snatched his drink. “We’ve been dying of thirst over here.”

  “Sorry. I was chatting to Mandy.”

  “Oh, yeah. What about?”

  “This and that. Did you know she’s split up with her boyfriend?”

  “Interesting. How come?”

  “Apparently, he was too immature. She prefers older men.”

  “Does she now?”

  “I like her. She’s funny.”

  “I bet you do.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You fancy her.”

  Steve didn’t reply.

  “Don’t forget you always tell the truth, mate.”

  “I did tell the truth. I like her and she’s funny. Those are two true statements.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t like her because she’s funny, you like her because she’s got stonking tits.”

  “There’s more to her than her tits, Ollie.”

  “Okay, she’s also got a perfect peach of an arse and come to bed with me eyes.”

  “And she’s witty and kind.”

  “How do you know she’s kind?”

  “She let her boyfriend down gently when she dumped him.”

  “How?”

  “She gave him a farewell blowjob.”

  “That’s extremely kind.” Ollie nodded.

  Eric took a genteel sip of his cranberry juice. “Is it just me or is the thought of a blowjob – the anticipation – always better than the blowjob itself?”

  “You’re right.”

  “Am I?” Eric was surprised.

  “Yeah, it is just you. Everyone else thinks blowjobs are awesome. Back me up here, Steve.”

  “Blowjobs are awesome.”

  “See.”

  “Perhaps Serena’s just doing it wrong,” said Eric morosely.

  A couple of pints further into the evening and Ollie might have said, “She’s not.” But he managed to bite his tongue. Instead he said, “Right, let’s get this out of the way. What are we talking about tonight, Steve?”

  “Oh, shit! Is it me again already? Erm …”

  Eric placed his glass on the table. “If you don’t mind, Steve, I’d quite like to jump the queue. Would that be all right?”

  Steve shrugged, so Eric continued. “By sheer coincidence, I want to talk about sexual attraction.”

  “What’s the coincidence?” Steve asked nonchalantly.

  “You fancying Mandy.”

  “That’s not what I said and you know it.”

  “You don’t have to feel guilty, Steve. None of us can help who we’re sexually attracted to. We can’t determine who turns us on. Take me, for example. Miss Birth, my French teacher, always gave me a raging boner, but I despised the woman. That didn’t stop me from having wet dreams about her every night. By the time we reach puberty, our sexual preference is embedded, whether due to nature or nurture or a combination of the two. It’s a complex mix of biology, psychology and environmental factors. That’s just how we are.”

  “What’s your point?” said Ollie.

  “My point is, heterosexual people can’t help being sexually attracted to people of the opposite sex. Gay people can’t help being attracted to people of the same sex. Welsh men can’t help being sexually attracted to sheep.”

  Ollie laughed.

  Steve didn’t. “Careful what you say, mate. My grandfather was Welsh.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re trying to say,” said Ollie.

  “Okay, now extend that argument. Necrophiles can’t help being sexually attracted to dead people. And then there’s the big one: Paedophiles can’t help being sexually attracted to children.”

  Steve slammed his pint on the table. “What are you saying? Kiddy fiddlers are the scum of the fucking earth.”

  “I’m saying, it’s not their fault. They can’t help who they’re sexually attracted to.”

  “Just because it’s not their fault doesn’t mean they don’t deserve to have their balls ground to a bloody pulp between two bricks.”

  “I agree. But It’s not fair though, is it? Through no fault of our own, we’re sexually attracted to a particular type. Some of those attractions are socially acceptable; some were illegal just a few years ago but – quite rightly – are no longer so; and some – also quite rightly – are considered the most heinous crimes of all.”

  “Not as heinous as murder, surely?”

  “Worse than murder. A murderer can serve his time and be released back into the community to try to begin his life again. Any paedophile will be shunned by his neighbours for as long as he lives.”

  “Or she.”

  “Yes, or she. And rightly so. I’m not saying these people aren’t monsters; I’m just saying, it’s not fair.”

  “But aren’t there things that can be done these days,” said Ollie. “Behavioural aversion therapy? Religious counselling? Chemical castration?”

  “Therapy and counselling have been shown not to have any impact other than to increase social isolation and shame. The efficacy of chemical castration is unclear.”

  “Forget chemical,” growled Steve. “Cut the lot off, I say. Cock and balls, gone forever. Thorough emasculation; that ought to do the trick.”

  “The available data shows that surgical castration cuts the recidivism rate to under ten percent, but that’s not an operation I’d want to carry out.” Eric winced and cross his legs.

  “There you are, then. It works. Castrate the lot of them.”

  “Who, though? Homosexuals?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t have a problem with gay people,” said Steve.

  “Paedophiles?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Necrophiles?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Zoophiles?”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Bestiality,” Ollie chipped in.

  “Not quite.” Eric, the pedant, wouldn’t let that one go. “Zoophilia is sexual attraction to animals; bestiality is actual copulation between a person and an animal.”

  “That’s just plain wrong, on so many levels … although.” Steve paused. “If I was stuck on a desert island with a snow leopard (Panthera uncia) for months on end, with no hope of being rescued, I might be tempted.”

  Eric laughed. “I think that’s pretty unlikely. Desert islands aren’t their usual habitat.”

  “Shame,” said Steve, and turned to his friend. “You seem distracted, Ollie. What’s on your mind?”

  “Sorry. I’m just working on a limerick.”

  “Huh?”

  “When Eric said ‘heinous’, it made me think that rhymes with anus. Then the beginning of a limerick popped into my head. I’ve nearly got the rest of it now.”

  “Go on, then. Let’s hear your masterpiece.”

  “There was a young paedo called Shamus

  Whose crime was appallingly heinous

  They knew it was wrong

  So they cut off his dong

  And stuck it two feet up his anus.”

  “Hey, that’s not bad. I might put your name forward for Poet Laureate.”

  “I’m not happy with it. ‘Shamus’ isn’t a true rhyme with ‘anus’. One has an N, the other an M.”

  “Does it matter; N or M? They sound similar enough.”

  “That’s it!” Steve interjected.

  “That’s what?”

  “‘N or M?’ is the title of a book by the bestselling fiction writer of all time. I've been wondering for week
s what to buy Ava for her birthday. Now I know: The complete works of Agatha Christie.”

  “Does she like reading?”

  “Not especially, but I do. With a bit of encouragement and the right books, I’m sure she’ll grow to love murder mysteries and thrillers as much as me.”

  Ollie rose to his feet and picked up Eric’s glass. “Another cranberry juice, mate?”

  Eric looked at Steve. “If I have wine, will you tell Serena?”

  “Only if she asks me. I won’t lie for you, but I won’t bring it up in conversation either, so she’ll probably never know.”

  Eric sighed. “Yeah, another sodding cranberry juice.”

  Chapter 30

  Tuesday 30 September, 2003

  McDougal bedroom, 3:45 a.m.

  “Serena?” Eric whispered.

  No response.

  “Are you awake?”

  No response.

  He reached out tentatively in the darkness and found her bare shoulder.

  “What was that?” Serena sat up in bed, heart pounding, eyes wide. “What’s wrong? Is someone in the house?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Why did you wake me?” She rubbed her eyes.

  “Give me your hand.”

  She reached towards him and he took her hand and guided it under the covers.

  “Oh,” she said. “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “Can I go on top?”

  “Sure.”

  Serena sprang into action and mounted her husband, reaching between her legs to guide him. “You’re very hard.”

  “I know. Get it in, quick.”

  She tried.

  “Hurry up.”

  “It won’t go in. I’m too dry.”

  “Have you got any lube?”

  “No. Have you?”

  “No. What about ... er … shower gel?”

  “I’m not using shower gel, it’s full of chemicals and perfumes.”

  “Sun tan lotion?”

  “Same problem.”

  “Olive oil? There’s some in the kitchen, isn’t there?”

  “You want me to go down to the kitchen now, at quarter to four in the morning, locate the olive oil, bring it back up here, and ruin the sheets and the mattress?”

  “Up to you.” He took her hand again and placed it back on his penis.

  “Just a sec.” Serena leapt out of bed and headed for the bedroom door.

  “Get the extra-virgin one,” Eric called after her.

  “Why?”

  “For the irony.”

  Her only response was the thump, thump, thump, thump, thump of bare feet on the stairs.

  He could hear cupboards opening, clattering, cupboards banging shut, swearing, and then, “Yes!” Then lighter footsteps coming back up the stairs, two at a time.

  “Got it,” she gasped triumphantly.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I kept it going as long as I could, but Mr Floppy is back.”

  Serena slumped onto the bed, panting. “Shit! First thing tomorrow I’m going out to buy a gallon of lube.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have woken you.”

  “Don’t be daft. I want you to wake me. Every time. Okay?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Eric was asleep and snoring again within minutes, not waking until his alarm went off at 7:30 a.m.

  Serena, however, lay awake thinking of baby names until 6:45 a.m. when she crept out of bed and went for a long run.

  By the following lunchtime, there were tubes of lubricant in Serena’s bedside drawer, Eric’s bedside drawer, the ensuite bathroom, the lounge, the kitchen, the gym, the wine cellar and the garden shed. Just in case.

  Chapter 31

  Sunday 5 October, 2003

  Fairfax kitchen, 6:50 a.m.

  Ollie walked into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, to find Mia typing away at a smoking laptop computer.

  “You’re up early.” He yawned. “Isn’t it Sunday?”

  Mia didn’t reply until she’d finished her paragraph. “What?” she snapped.

  “It’s not even seven o’clock. What are you doing?”

  “It’s my bloody lesson observation tomorrow. The headteacher wants to watch me teaching Wayne fucking Smith. I told you about this.”

  “Oh, that’s tomorrow, is it?”

  “Yes,” said Mia, exasperated.

  “So, what are you doing?”

  “I’m preparing the best lesson of all time. Hopefully, if I throw enough resources at the little shit, he’ll shut up for a bit and let me teach the others.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “What do you know about finding the nth terms of quadratic sequences?”

  “Tenth terms?”

  “Nth. The general term.”

  “Hmm. I have one quick question before I answer that.”

  “Go on.”

  “What’s a quadratic sequence?”

  “No, you can’t help. Now, piss off and let me concentrate. God, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so stressed.” She resumed her frantic typing.

  Ollie stood behind Mia’s chair, leant forward and cupped her breasts. “I know what will help you relax. Fancy a quick one before the kids are awake?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” She smacked his hands away. “This is going to take me forever. Once I’ve created the most amazing worksheets in the history of education, I’ve got to put together behaviour improvement plans for all the targeted pupils in the class, and all the SEN pupils, and all the statemented pupils, and all the at-risk pupils, and – most importantly – all the pupils with bolshy parents.”

  “I’m sorry, love, you lost me at ‘nth’.”

  Mia let out a roar like a lion who’s just let a gazelle dodge past him while he was looking the wrong way.

  Ollie took a step backwards. “Cup of tea, then?”

  “Coffee. Make it strong. It’s going to be a long day.”

  ◆◆◆

  Mia was still hard at work at 7:45 p.m. when Ollie announced he was going to take Lord for a walk.

  “Can I come, Dad?” said Barney.

  “Have you finished your homework?”

  Ollie didn’t even wait for an answer before he put his coat on.

  “Yeah.”

  “What?”

  This was unprecedented. Barney always had unfinished homework on a Sunday night. It was a family tradition.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I finished it this afternoon. Can I come?”

  “Let the kid come for a change,” said Lord, in the language of tail-wagging.

  “Have you had a shower?”

  “No, I’ll have one afterwards.”

  “It’ll be too late afterwards. You need an early night before the start of the week.”

  “Mum, ...” Barney wheedled. “Dad won’t let me go for a walk with him and Lord.”

  “Just take him,” shouted Mia. “I can’t concentrate with all this bloody racket.”

  “Yes!” said Barney, fully cognisant that his mum always had the final say.

  Ollie looked at his watch. “Get your coat on, then.”

  ◆◆◆

  Lord led the way, pulling hard on his lead until they reached the woods, and Ollie set him free to sniff and explore and pee.

  Bizarrely, at 8 p.m. precisely, they bumped into Serena and Stumpy, coincidentally also out for their night time peregrination.

  “Oh,” said Serena. “Hi, Barney. Fancy running into you two.”

  “Hi,” said Ollie. “Yes, what are the chances?”

  “All right, mate?” barked Stumpy.

  “I’m very well indeed, old chap. And yourself?”

  “I’m good. What’s with the kid?”

  “No idea.”

  “I hope they aren’t going to rut in front of him.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me. They don’t mind doing it in front of us.”

  Ollie, Serena and
Barney strolled up the hill and back again. Barney excitedly telling Serena all about the upcoming Lord Of The Rings movie; Serena faking fascination, and Ollie barely able to get a word in.

  When they returned to the woods, Ollie waited until Barney’s back was turned before he caught Serena’s eye and mouthed, ‘Sorry.’

  She shrugged and mouthed back, ‘Next time.’

  They parted, and Ollie strode home with his cockblocking son struggling to keep up.

  When they reached the drive, Lord said, ‘Woof!’ in his loudest voice.

  In the far distance, Stumpy replied, with an Australian accent, ‘Woof!’

  They knew what they meant.

  Chapter 32

  Monday 6 October, 2003

  Fairfax hallway, 5:55 p.m.

  Ollie took off his coat and hung it up in the hallway. “Hello?”

  “I’m in the kitchen,” Mia called.

  “How did it go?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Your lesson observation. How was it?”

  “Oh, it was fine. Wayne Smith was as good as gold while the headteacher was there. Putting his hand up and waiting till I chose him to answer questions, instead of shouting out unhelpful, off-topic remarks. Getting his head down and doing lots of work when I asked him to, instead of carving offensive graffiti about my sex life into his desk with scissors. He was a different boy.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Which bit?”

  “That he behaved himself.”

  “It was great while it lasted. The minute the headteacher left my room, the little wankstain swore at me and started a fight with two other boys. The lesson rapidly descended into chaos, and within five minutes it was back to business as usual.”

  “Did you get any feedback from your boss?”

  “Yeah. She described my lesson as ‘good, with outstanding features’, and has asked me to do some INSET training with a few of the younger staff. Apparently, I am a ‘skilled practitioner of classroom management techniques’.”

  “Well done. You must be pleased with that.”

  “Hardly. It’s going to mean even more work, and I’m going to feel like a complete charlatan telling other people how to do something I don’t know how to do myself.”