Slugs Read online

  Watson enjoyed the peace and solitude which the garden offered him (when he managed to avoid Mackay that was) and it came as a welcome relief from the hustle and bustle of his every day job. He worked for the computer firm in Merton as a rep and had done for the last seven years. The pay was good, he was proficient at the job and he enjoyed it. His wife was manageress of a small but profitable boutique in the centre of town and they were hoping to move from the new estate soon to buy their own place.

  They were childless by choice, both of them preferring to pursue their careers rather than sink into a welter of wet nappies and midnight feeds. Maureen in particular, had never shown a desire or even a liking for children. It was something which Watson found unusual but nevertheless welcome. She, unlike others of her kind, never felt the urge to pick up a young child and hold it or to gurgle unintelligible words to new born babies. At twenty-eight, she was every inch the business woman and the emotion which most women possessed had been replaced, in Maureen, by a ruthless efficiency which Watson himself respected. They were a perfect match, for he too bore that unerringly ambitious streak which at times bordered on obsess ion and had, occasionally, been known to veer into vindictiveness. He was thirty-two and happy and, right now, he’d be a lot happier if Wally Mackay stopped nattering and let him get on with his jobs.

  ‘I heard your place was making more redundant,’ said the Scot, spitting out a piece of tobacco.

  Watson shook his head. ‘Just rumours.’

  Mackay shrugged. ‘I got the fucking push two weeks ago.’

  ‘You told me,’ said Watson. About fifteen bloody times, he thought to himself. ‘Have you found anything else yet?’

  ‘Nothing about. You haven’t any vacancies at your place have you?’ he asked hopefully.

  Watson smiled thinly and shook his head. ‘Afraid not.’ He knelt again and pulled a lettuce from the row before him, holding it up to admire his handiwork.

  ‘Got any of those to spare?’ said the Scot, admiring the greenery.

  Watson looked at him and smiled again. Good old Wally, always on the earhole. The younger man was about to turn when Mackay began talking about football. Reluctantly, Watson halted and listened politely, nodding every so often as the Scot rambled on, his harsh accent grating like fingernails on a blackboard. He chanced a look at his watch and saw that it was twelve -fifteen.

  ‘Dave.’

  The shout made them both turn.

  Standing in the doorway was Maureen.

  ‘Telephone for you,’ she called.

  Watson stifled a sigh of relief and made his way up the garden, clutching the lettuce.

  Mackay watched the younger man disappear inside his house then he sucked hard on his fag and drove his spade into the iron hard earth. If only my bloody old lady looked like her, he thought.

  Watson hurried into the kitchen and inhaled deeply, the delightful aroma of roast beef meeting his nostrils. He dumped the lettuce on the draining board and headed through to the lounge.

  ‘Who is it on the phone?’ he asked.

  ‘No one,’ said Maureen, laughing. ‘I saw that old Rob Roy next door had got you cornered so I thought I’d rescue you.’

  Watson laughed and came back into the kitchen. He took Maureen in his arms and kissed her gently on the forehead.

  ‘You cunning bitch,’ he grinned, flicking at her blonde hair with one dirty hand. He pulled her close to him feeling the warmth of her body against his. He cradled her head in his hands and kissed her, his tongue seeking hers eagerly. They remained locked together, her right hand reaching for the growing bulge in his trousers, her own nipples stiffening and pressing against the material of her shirt. He finally broke away, shaking his head.

  ‘Lunch,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘To hell with lunch,’ she said, prodding him hard with her long nail. She drew a line from the hollow of his throat, through the thick hair on his chest, to his navel. As her hand toyed with the button of his jeans he held it and smiled.

  ‘Can’t you wait?’ he said, trying to sound stern but, when she shook her head he laughed. They finally pulled away from each other and Watson crossed to the sink to wash his hands. He looked at Maureen as he did.·She was dressed only in a yellow shirt and a pair of tight -fitting canvas trousers, worn thin at the knees. Beneath them he knew she wore no briefs. She never wore underwear in the summer. The blonde colour was beginning to grow out of her thick hair and the darker roots were showing. Every time she said that she would let her hair return to its natural chestnut colour but, each time, she weakened and resorted to the dye. He watched her as she ran the lettuce briefly under the tap before returning it to the chopping board where she set about its crisp green leaves with a razor sharp knife. She cut it up hastily, dropping the pieces into the nearby salad bowl with the peppers and other vegetables.

  ‘I had trouble finding a decent lettuce,’ he said, indicating the vegetable as she tossed it in the bowl. ‘Bloody slugs have been at them.’

  ‘Slugs?’ She shuddered.

  He nodded. ‘There’s about a dozen out in the vegetable patch now. Damn things. I’ll have to see about putting something down to kill them.’

  Maureen set the bowl on the table and crossed to the oven, retrieving the meat. She set it on the table and handed the carving knife to Watson. Quickly and expertly he sliced the succulent joint and, within minutes, they were eating.

  ‘No salad?’ said Watson, offering Maureen the bowl after he’d taken his share.

  She shook her head, reaching instead for the glass of red wine at her elbow. She raised it in salute and smiled.

  ‘Here’s to your success,’ she said. ‘I hope you get that contract signed tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re not the only one,’ said Watson and joined her in the toast. He put down his glass once more and continued eating. She saw him wince as he pushed a lump of lettuce into his mouth. He chewed slowly for a second, grimaced and reached hurriedly for his wine.

  ‘Something wrong?’ she asked.

  He motioned to the salad. ‘I think I swallowed something,’ he said. ‘You did wash that lettuce properly didn’t you?’

  She raised an eyebrow, questioningly and Watson smiled. He continued eating, still aware of the strange flavour but, another glass of wine soon washed away the peculiar taste.

  ‘Where are you taking them to eat tomorrow?’ asked Maureen, running the index finger of one hand around the rim of her glass.

  ‘The City Hotel,’ he told her.

  ‘That’ll cost you.’

  He winked. ‘It’s on the expense account.’ He took a sip of his own wine, his voice turning reflective. ‘Besides, this is an important contract. It’ll be worth millions in the long run if I can secure it.’

  ‘You’re worried about it aren’t you?’ she said.

  He nodded. The contract was a big one and, not only would it mean work for the firm for the next three years it would also bring Watson a sizeable slice of commission and almost certain promotion. Perhaps then, they could actually move out and buy their own house. He had two guests to entertain the following morning, one of them an American, and he didn’t want anything to go wrong. Selling was his business and he would need all his powers of persuasion at the forthcoming business lunch. For the first time in his working life, he actually felt nervous. Four Mark-1 Computers and it would take him all his abilities to sell them and secure the contract. He sipped at his wine, pouring some more into Maureen’s half empty glass with his free hand.

  They ate lunch at a leisurely pace, although Watson left the rest of his salad. The strange taste seemed to have returned almost as if it were sticking to his tongue. He drank more wine in an effort to get rid of it and, even if he’d known about eating half the black slug, there was little he could have done about it.

  He patted his stomach appreciatively and smiled at Maureen.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he said. ‘So was the meal.’

  She grinned, stood up and crossed to his chair, seatin
g herself on his lap. She ran her carefully manicured fingers through his hair, squirming pleasurably as his left hand found its way up inside her shirt. He cupped one taut breast, rubbing his thumb across the nipple until it hardened to a firm bud. Then, with the other hand, he expertly undid the buttons until both her breasts were exposed. He bent forward and kissed each nipple in turn.

  ‘What about the washing up?’ she said, her face flushed.

  He smiled. ‘To hell with the washing up.’

  They both laughed.

  Watson checked his watch as the ten o’clock news came on. It was right to the second. He sat in the semi-darkness of the lounge with only the light from his desk lamp and the multi-coloured flickerings of the TV illuminating the room. They had only just drawn the curtains, shutting out the night but he had been sitting at his desk for more than two hours, going over blue-prints and fact-sheets. He had to be sure that he could answer any question that either of his two customers might put to him the following day. Also, he had to know every minute detail about the workings of the machines so that he could extol their worth to the best of his abilities but, as he sat, gazing at the blue-prints, his mind was not on the job at hand. His stomach felt bloated and he had already loosened his belt but, more disturbingly, he was suffering from what felt like severe flatulence. It had come on suddenly about six that evening and despite the repeated doses of Magnesia, the discomfort had not been relieved. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, rubbing one hand across his protruding belly.

  He had eaten nothing since lunch-time, but, surprisingly enough he didn’t feel hungry. All he was aware of was the unrelenting pain in his stomach which sometimes felt like contractions. If he’d been a woman he might have thought he was pregnant. He smiled at his own quip but the smile dissolved into a wince as another spasm of pain hit him.

  ‘Jesus,’ he rasped, surprised at its intensity.

  Maureen, crouching on the floor before the television looked round.

  ‘What’s wrong, Dave?’ she asked.

  He sat back in his chair. ‘My bloody stomach,’ he said, irritably.

  She looked concerned. ‘Hasn’t that pain gone yet?’

  He shook his head.

  She got up and crossed to his desk which occupied one corner of the room. ‘Do you think I should call a doctor?’ she asked.

  Watson grabbed hold of her and pulled her onto his knee, trying to disguise the violent stab of pain which accompanied the movement. It felt as if someone was pulling his intestines out through his navel.

  ‘I don’t need a doctor,’ he said, trying to catch his breath. ‘It’s probably just nerves from thinking about tomorrow.’

  Maureen smiled thinly, not reassured by his home-grown diagnosis. ‘If you’re sure.’

  He nodded. ‘I’m sure.’ He kissed her. ‘Perhaps an early night would help.’

  She touched his cheek which felt hot, the perspiration beaded on it in a thin film. Maureen nodded. ‘I think that’s a good idea,’ she said.

  In fifteen minutes they were upstairs.

  Watson lay in bed, the sheets pulled back. He looked down at his naked body, studying each outline and contour. Lying flat, his stomach didn’t seem to be so distended, indeed, when he stood up to examine it in the wardrobe mirror the bloated appearance it had shown earlier seemed to have gone.

  The pain, however, persisted.

  He crossed back to the bed and lay down again, glancing across at the bedroom curtains which billowed in the gentle breeze. Both bedside lamps were on but the corners of the room were in shadow. He lay still, his arms behind his head, supporting him. The pain seemed to have moved further up his body and, as he swallowed, a wave of agony seemed to sweep over his entire stomach and lower chest. He cursed silently. Perhaps it was just nerves. Maybe something he’d eaten? He nodded, yes, that was the answer. In the morning it would be fine, he’d…

  He sat up as an excruciating pain tore through him from sternum to groin. He clutched the bed, the muscles in his arms standing out like cords of thick hemp but, after a few unbearable seconds, the spasm passed, even settling a little. He took a deep but tentative breath and lay back again. He heard the toilet flush and, a second later, Maureen’s light footsteps padding across the landing.

  She entered the bedroom and closed the door behind her, the long black, diaphanous, night-dress swirling around her like nylon fog. Through it, Watson could see the smooth outline of her body and she stood before him for long seconds gazing down at his own naked form. He shifted his position slightly, gritting his teeth. against the onslaught of pain he expected. It came only briefly and he exhaled gratefully, watching as Maureen climbed into bed beside him.

  Her left hand stroked soothingly across his belly.

  ‘Does it feel any better?’ she asked.

  He nodded and leaned forward to kiss her, feeling that soft hand sliding further down his body until it enveloped his penis, stroking and caressing it until it reached full erection. Watson thrust his hips forward, forcing his shaft further up into Maureen’s eager hand. He reached for the bow at her throat and pulled it, allowing the night-dress to fall away, exposing her body. He cupped one breast in his hand, bending his head to flick the rough edge of his tongue over her swollen nipple. She held his free hand, pushing it towards her mound where his fingers brushed the soft down of her pubic hair before plunging deeper to find her slippery cleft. She writhed beneath his probing digits and he pushed deeper, smiling at the look of pleasure on her face.

  Her hand gripped his organ more tightly, the speed of her movements increasing and Watson felt the unmistakable waves of early pleasure sweeping over him. He kissed Maureen gently on the lips, whispering to her to slow down but her passion knew no bounds and she pulled him onto her, guiding his hardness into her moist vagina. He thrust into her, both of them gasping at this new ecstasy.

  Watson almost cried out in pain as a wave of agony tore through his stomach and chest. He gritted his teeth, sucking in a tortured breath, suddenly finding that his arms would not support him. He collapsed onto Maureen, the pain driving red hot knives into him.

  He withdrew from her and rolled to one side, his penis immediately losing its stiffness.

  ‘Dave,’ gasped Maureen, breathlessly. ‘What is it?’

  He winced. ‘Jesus.’ The word sounded as if it came from miles away. Watson was clutching at his stomach, lying still on his back.

  ‘I’m going to get a doctor,’ said Maureen, hauling herself out of bed.

  ‘No,’ he said, forcefully. ‘It’s OK now.’ He nodded, noting that the pain was, indeed, diminishing.

  Maureen paused, her hand still on the knob of the door but, when she saw him stand up, she crossed back to the bed. Watson stood before the mirror once more. There was no distension, just the pain. He took three or four deep breaths, relaxing more with each one. Finally he returned to bed. Maureen lay beside him, stroking his hot cheek with one index finger. He twisted his head to one side and kissed her finger, smiling at her.

  ‘Are you going to be all right?’ she said, anxiously.

  Watson nodded. ‘The pain’s almost gone now.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll be as right as rain in the morning.’

  They switched off the bedside lamps and Maureen drew herself closer to him. It wasn’t long before he heard the soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing as she drifted off to sleep. Watson watched the curtains, still billowing in the gentle breeze. Beyond them the night was black, sticky with heat.

  The pain gradually lessened in David Watson’s stomach but, the hands of the clock had crawled round to one twenty a.m. before he finally found the welcome oblivion of sleep.

  It was Maureen who heard the alarm the following morning. She reached up and turned it off, simultaneously touching Watson gently on the shoulder.

  ‘Dave,’ she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.

  He didn’t move.

  She called his name again, rubbing her eyes and blinking myopically at the ceiling.


  Still no response.

  Maureen propped herself up on one elbow and leant across her husband. He was lying on his side with his back to her and, when he made no movement on her third call, she shook him gently.

  Watson remained still.

  Maureen swallowed hard and swung herself out of bed, crossing to her husband’s side where she knelt. She pressed a hand to his cheek which was cool and suddenly she felt afraid.

  ‘Dave,’ she repeated, more urgently, this time shaking him hard.

  She gave an audible sigh of relief when he opened his eyes a fraction. Crusted and heavy-lidded, they opened slowly and he looked at her almost as if she wasn’t there. He seemed to be looking through her.

  Maureen called his name again and, this time, he rolled onto his back. His mouth opened slightly and he made a deep rasping noise in the back of his throat.

  ‘God Almighty,’ he moaned, covering both eyes with his hands.

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ she said, her breath coming in short gasps.

  ‘I think I am,’ croaked Watson, massaging the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. ‘It feels like there’s a brass band marching around inside my head.’

  ‘What about your stomach?’ she wanted to know.

  He sat up slowly, the headache intensifying to a point where he felt as though someone were hitting him repeatedly across the skull with a dozen red hot hammers. He slumped against the headboard and looked down at his stomach. No distention. No pain even. With cautious hands, he pressed the firm flesh in several places.