4 comments/ 9603 views/ 0 favorites When Strangers Meet By: J G Parkes (The Author wishes to acknowledge his indebtedness to Alberto Casella for creating the original idea embedded in this story.) Helen Manning stepped out onto the balcony of her hotel in Sliema on the island of Malta. The light had the soft diffusion of early evening and the heat of the day had diminished, though it was still comfortably warm. Across the blue water of Marsamxett Harbour lay the buildings and massive ramparts of Valletta. It was a breathtaking view, which never failed to hold Helen in its thrall. Looking down she saw a ferry crossing from one side to the other as a customs patrol boat made its nightly entry from the sea, the day's work over. A yacht followed, heading for the marina. It was a beautiful, peaceful scene. At any rate, peaceful now that work on the large building site next door had ceased for the day. The only sounds were the gentle put-put of the boats' engines and the distant rumble of traffic, punctuated by the arrival of a car at the hotel entrance six storeys below. "It's hot." Brian had followed her onto the balcony. "Yes. Lovely. Makes a change from all the rain at home. I was beginning to feel like a fish." "I'm going to get out of these clothes. Fix me a whisky, will you?" "Um." Helen nodded and reluctantly followed him inside. They were three days into a seven-day holiday and it was all going far too quickly. Brian insisted on buying his own liquor from a supermarket rather than use the refreshments provided in the room. "Daylight robbery," he had complained. "I won't give them a penny more than absolutely necessary." He was wearing nothing more than a pair of shorts and sitting on the bed when Helen handed him his drink. The television was already switched on to the 24 hour rolling news. She crossed to the clothes cupboard and slipped out of her dress. Brian studied her as she removed her bra and stood in nothing but her knickers. "Come here," he commanded. "Why?" "Because you're as near naked as dammit and I fancy a quick fuck." "Sometimes you disgust me." She crossed to the bed. "Yeh? Well, that's too bad. I'm used to getting my own way in the business and I mean to get my own way in my home. Or hotel room," he added. "Before you come back at me with some smart alecky remark." Before Helen had time to realise what was happening he began to pull down her knickers, almost ripping them in the process. "Be careful." "Do it yourself then. And be quick about it." She did as ordered whilst Brian also shed his shorts. He pushed her down onto the bed and climbed on top of her, nudging her legs apart with his knee. She gazed up at the ceiling and tried to forget where she was and what was happening. She tried to ignore his hands mauling her breasts as he pumped in and out of her. This was not how it was supposed to be. Where was the love, the tenderness, the romance? He used her without any thought or consideration for her feelings. His breath was coming in short gasps. It wouldn't be long now. "I'm going to fill your hole," he gasped. He made it sound as if he was giving her a treat and ought to be pleased that he was about to flood her with his seed. He'd done it before; countless times. What was supposed to be so wonderful about that? "God, yes!" Helen winced as he achieved a climax and gripped her breasts tightly. When he was finished he sank down onto her, his not inconsiderable weight pushing her into the mattress. After a minute or so he pushed himself up and rolled off her. It had been this way for over ten years, ever since she had married Brian Manning. No, maybe not quite that long. At first it had not been so bad. Their love-making had been a little more passionate, but that phase had lasted an all-too-brief time. The relationship had quickly descended into that of master and slave. An exaggeration, perhaps, but that was how Helen often viewed it. Brian increased the volume of the TV and sat up to watch as Helen got off the bed, pulled a negligee over her naked body and wandered back onto the balcony, ignoring the state of her undress. She reckoned nobody would be able to see her unless they were across the harbour on the Valletta walls looking straight at her through a powerful pair of binoculars. The odds against that were pretty high; in any case, she was wearing a negligee, so they wouldn't really see anything. Helen leaned against the balcony rail gazing at the boats coming and going, but her thoughts reflecting on the past. Brian was the co-partner in a thriving home improvement business, whilst Helen had owned a small hairdressing salon. He was fifteen years older and had previously been married and divorced. There was one child of the union, a son, who had stayed with his mother. "She's welcome to him," was his only comment when Helen had asked how Brian felt about that. She gathered that children were not high on his list of priorities, so it was just as well that she had been on the pill since her teenage years and had not yet come off it. Perhaps she would one day, but it didn't seem likely given Brian's attitude towards his only son. "Make sure you don't leave it too late," her mother had warned, longing to be made a grandmother. Helen had laughed. "Plenty of way to go yet, Mum. Women are having children later and later these days, haven't you heard?" "Maybe, but I don't think for one minute that children want ancient parents unable to relate to them at all." "Don't worry. Brian and I will get around to having a family when we're ready." Marital relations were already beginning to deteriorate when Helen's salon failed with debts she was unable to pay. "Made a hash of that, haven't you?" Brian proclaimed, showing a disdain for someone who was less favoured than himself in matters of business. "No idea how to keep a decent set of books, that's your trouble. Got to keep an eye on expenses against income. Let them run away and you're in trouble." Helen could only agree. She was a good hairdresser, but hopeless business-woman. It was a mistake to buy the salon when her employer had put it up for sale. "Don't worry about it," Brian had expansively told her. "My business is doing well and I can afford to pay off your debts. They won't fling you in prison, I promise." Helen managed a small smile. "I don't think they do that any more for debt." "Probably not, but it could be deuced awkward for you. A financial hell. I wouldn't want that to happen." "Thank you, darling." She kissed him. "Is that all the thanks I get?" "What do you mean?" He fondled her breasts. "I thought you might offer something more." Helen was surprised, but pliant. "If you want," she murmured. As he entered her that night she was aware of the lack of intimacy in the act. He was making her feel that she was repaying him for his financial commitment to her business debts. That made her no different to a prostitute and, she had to admit, that was exactly the way he was treating her. It had been the same ever since. At first the reason why eluded her. After all, they were man and wife and she had never withheld herself from him whenever he had expressed a desire for sex. A distinct chill had entered their relationship from the moment Brian had offered to bail her out of trouble. It was as if he delighted in holding something over Helen; a sword of Damocles that he could drop at any time. She had eventually found the reason when a disaffected secretary, who had been sacked for being a nosy-parker, had proved the charge to be justified when she informed Helen that Brian was in the habit of paying for his sexual gratification. "Prostitutes, do you mean?" The secretary gave a sniff. "Escorts - so called. Slightly higher up the vice scale." Whether or not Brian had given up paying for sex Helen had no idea, but she doubted it. However, the information had made her realise that her husband was a man who got a kick out of paying women for sex and it was even better when his own wife was the receiver of his largesse. She had been reduced to nothing more than a fuck-toy. "Incredible." Helen turned towards him. "Did you speak?" "I said it's incredible." "What is?" Helen entered the room and looked at the picture on the screen. Brian was watching the news. "England have been bowled out for a hundred and fifty-one runs." "What's incredible about that? I thought they were always losing." "That's all too true recently," grumbled Brian. "This is a professional international side, for heaven's sake!" He snapped off the television in disgust and swung his feet onto the floor. "Do we plan on eating in the hotel or are we going out somewhere?" "Stay in I think. We could go for a walk along the front afterwards." "You can. I'm going to the bar." Helen began to put her bra on. "What are you doing?" "Getting dressed, of course." "You don't need a bra. It's too hot." "I prefer to wear one." "Too bloody prudish, if you ask me." "That has nothing to do with it. I don't like my breasts to be loose and shapeless." "I like their shape." "They're a bit flabby." "Nonsense." He snatched the bra from her. "Put on that little blue number with the straps." "It's a bit revealing." "Good God, woman!" Brian exploded. "This is Malta on a hot day, for heaven's sake, minimal dress is the order of the day. I'm only wearing light slacks and a T-shirt." Helen sighed. "All right." She chose a thin summer dress, short on length and low on top. She was quite tall, slim, but not thin, with long, shapely legs and firm not-too-large, not-too-small breasts. She looked - in a word - stunning. Brian enjoyed looking at her and it pleased him to show her off to other men; the more she revealed, the more he liked it. He could imagine a few hardening cocks as she was admired and the envy directed at him. They could look, but not touch. Of course, she was always embarrassed, but that just added to his pleasure. Brian looked critically at his wife before they left the room. "How do I look?" Helen anxiously asked. Why she should be so keen to please him she had no idea, but the fact was that she seemed to need his approval all the time. If he beat her up there might be a logical reason, but he had never laid a finger on her in temper. Often she felt like kicking herself for being such a wimp. Not exactly an icon of feminism. "Gorgeous." "Not revealing too much, am I?" "You could never reveal too much." "I don't want to be arrested for indecency." Brian looked at her critically. "I think the police will be so taken with you they'll forget to put the cuffs on." "What sort of answer is that?" "The kind that says you look very fuckable and just about decent enough to walk along the street." Helen felt her face go red. He pulled her towards the door. "If we're going, let's go." "Got the key?" "Of course I bloody have!" he snapped. They left the room, walked along the thickly-carpeted corridor to a small foyer. There were two lifts, one on each side. Brian pressed both buttons and they watched the indicators. At first it looked as they were both racing each other, but one stopped and the other went past their floor and further up. While they waited, Brian pulled Helen, into his arms and kissed her, long and hard, grinding his hips against hers. They were still kissing when the lift arrived, the doors opened and a man emerged. "Sorry," he apologised, as if it was his fault for finding them with their lips glued to each other. He went down the corridor as they entered the lift. Brian was laughing. "God, that was so embarrassing!" exclaimed Helen. "Do you think he was shocked?" she asked. "Devastated," Brian replied. "And fiendishly jealous." His laughter could be heard as the lift descended. ***** Ian Grainger was deep in thought as he briskly walked along the corridor, passing Brian and Helen's room to the one adjacent. He was based there. Based? Yes, that was the word, for Ian Grainger was in Malta on business and not pleasure. In fact, the hotel was his business. He was a high-flying executive in a time-share organisation involved in letting rooms in the hotel to customers wishing to invest in them. At least, that was what they were told, but the investment part of it was extremely dubious. Usually to be found in London, Grainger was in Malta on a trouble-shooting mission; or, more properly, a kick-them-up-the-arse mission. The sales team had not been meeting their quota and he was here to beat heads together; even fire if necessary. And he was willing to do it. There was no place for slackers or the timid. Go out and sell. Bring in the customers. Nothing else mattered. All his time was devoted to the company. It was too much for his wife to handle. She had walked out six months earlier and though they were still married, divorce was almost certain. He would miss Sheryl - and his two daughters. But he could cope with the loss; he would simply put even more effort into the business. In his room he removed the jacket he wore to present the right image. It was far too constrictive and uncomfortable on a hot day such as this. He threw it onto the bed and switched on the TV without the sound. It was sheer habit without any real reason. Not only couldn't he hear anything, but he barely glanced at the moving images on the screen. He sat at a desk in front of a lap-top and opened up the e-mails. There were thirty-two of them, mostly work related and all them demanding answers and decisions. He became fully engrossed in the task before him. The phone rang. "Yes?" Grainger listened for a moment. "What the hell do you mean - there's a problem with the figures? What kind of problem?" His fingers angrily drummed the desk-top as the voice at the other end explained. "Don't give me excuses. I've heard enough to last a lifetime. Give me the figures within an hour or you're out on your ear. Do you hear me? Good." He slammed the phone down. Grainger tried to concentrate on his e-mails, but gradually became more and more aware of a nagging pain in his head. He was also having difficulty seeing the writing on the screen. He rubbed his eyes. The pain persisted and he felt slightly giddy. Suddenly he was conscious of a whisper. There was somebody - or something - in the room. He looked round. Nothing. His left hand became numb and he opened and closed it a few times, trying to get the circulation back. "It's no use." Grainger tried to jump up, startled by the voice, but was unable to move. Voice? Was it a voice? It was almost nothing more than a disturbance of air around his head that seemed to form the words. The numbness was spreading up his left arm and a mist was swirling in front of his eyes. "It's no good resisting. It's time." "Time for what?" "You already know the answer." "Tell me." "To shrug off this mortal coil." "Where are you?" Grainger could see no-one. "Close by." "I can't see you." "Of course you can't. There's nothing to see." "Nothing?" "What did you expect? A gaunt and hooded figure with a bony pointing finger and a sepulchral voice?" "Something like that, I suppose." There was a low laugh. "Carrying a scythe, no doubt." "Yes." "Oh Ian, Ian, Ian. You've been reading too many books and looking at too many pictures. Everybody tries to humanise me, but I have no form, no shape. I am nothing but a presence." The whisper seemed to fill the room. It was all around Grainger, engulfing him and he had nowhere to focus. As a result he spun from one direction to another as he spoke. "Why have you come?" "Isn't it obvious?" Grainger shook his head. "Not now. I'm not ready." "That's true of many people." "I have too much to do." "Such as?" "Hopes, dreams, ambitions to fulfil." "Everything stops when it's time." "There must be a mistake." "There's never a mistake." "What if I refuse to go?" "Refusal is not an option." "Can't I make an appeal to a higher authority?" "Yes, I know that story. 'A Matter of Life and Death'. But that was just a film - fiction. This is reality and I am the higher authority." "You're a figment of my imagination. This can't be true." "Why do you want to cling so tenaciously to life, Ian? Surely it's a mess. Your wife has left you...." "How do you know about that?" "I know everything. And your job is on the line. You drive everybody hard to the point where they hate you because you know that their failures reflect on you. The strain is telling. In fact, it's brought you to your present situation." "I enjoy the cut and thrust." "Do you really? It always intrigues me why humans resist me so much. You should welcome me with open arms. I bring an end to all your worries and troubles." "I'd rather you didn't." "Ah. But I'm afraid it's inevitable. It's time." The creeping pain had spread to Grainger's shoulder and up into his head. There was darkness. ***** Mario Delamara apprehensively approached the door. The sales figures for the last month were in his hand and he knew that they were below the target. He and his staff had worked hard to sell the timeshare rooms, but the results of their endeavours were disappointing. In fact, he had to admit, it had been a poor year. Ian Grainger, the firm's trouble-shooter and a most unpleasant man, had been sent to sort them out. Sackings were on the cards and Mario knew that his would be the first head to roll. He stood outside the door for a moment, screwed up his courage and knocked. There was no response. He knocked again. The door opened. "Hello." "I've...." Mario cleared his throat. "I've brought the sales figures for you, Mr. Grainger." "Ah. Yes. Thank you." Mario handed over the papers and stood hesitantly waiting. Grainger casually threw the computer sheets onto a table and strolled across to the window. "A beautiful view, isn't it?" "Er...yes. The best in Malta." "I like it here. A good place for a holiday." "So a lot of people think." "And I've decided to join them. Take the opportunity while I'm here." "Holiday, sir?" Mario was puzzled. "I...I thought you were here to...to..." Grainger turned into the room. "To what?" "Well...er...examine our sales figures." "I think we can leave that for a couple of days, don't you? No, I'm going to have a holiday and I don't want you to bother me. I'll be in touch when I'm ready." Mario was feeling a little elated and relieved. He was off the hook; maybe it was only temporary, but at least he had a reprieve. Ian Grainger was proving not to be an ogre after all. "Right, sir." "And do me a favour as you go. Put the 'Do Not Disturb' notice out, will you?" "Of course." Mario closed the door, hung the notice on the handle, and happily returned to the top floor to give his colleagues the good news. A reprieve; at least for now. It was strange though, the difference between Grainger in the office upstairs, ranting and raving, and this friendly Grainger in the room with a view. Almost like two different men. ***** Dinner was over and Brian had gone to the bar leaving Helen, who disliked alcohol, to return alone to their room. She had contemplated taking an evening stroll, but decided to stretch out in the recliner on the balcony. It was dark now, but still very warm. The lights of Valletta glittered across the harbour and were reflected in the water. She stood by the rail, drinking in the view. "Beautiful, isn't it?" The voice startled her. It came from the adjoining balcony. There was a wall between them, but standing at the rail enabled people to see each other. Helen looked across and saw a tall, not over-handsome man in his late thirties, possibly early forties, gazing at her. His nose was too big, she noticed. Not quite in the Cyrano de Bergerac league, but definitely a little too large. When Strangers Meet He smiled. It was a nice smile. "Yes," she agreed. "Yes, it is...beautiful." "The best view on the island." "Have you been before?" enquired Helen. "Oh yes, lots of times. Lots and lots." "You must like it." "I do, but unfortunately, I've always been here on business. It doesn't give me any time to savour the delights." "That's a pity." "Um." He nodded. "But, not this time. This time I've decided to make a change and I'm having a holiday. Just a couple of days, but that's all I can spare. Even that...." he shrugged. "Anyway, I've decided to cut loose and business can go hang for a short time." "What business are you in?" "Hotels." "Really?" "Yes, really. This is one of them. It's not doing as well as it should and I'm here to put the boot in." Helen laughed. "That sounds rather brutal." "It can be. But I'm tired of all that. I need a rest. Just a couple of days." "Will that be enough?" "It will have to be." There was a silence between them. Helen wondered if she should sit back on the recliner, or even go inside, thus ending the conversation; but for some reason she didn't want it to end. "Do you hear music?" he suddenly asked. "Yes." She looked over the balcony. "It's coming from down there. Near the swimming pool." "Oh yes. There are people dancing." Another silence, then: "My name is Ian Grainger." "Helen Manning." "Pleased to meet you. I expect you have a husband tucked away back there." "Downstairs in the bar." "Ah. But not you." "I dislike bars and drinking. Does that make me sound a prude and misery guts?" "Not at all." "Brian thinks so." "Your husband?" "Yes." "I think I would rather be where you are than sitting in a bar." It sounded as if it should have been a seductive line, but Ian said it casually with no hidden meaning or suggestion. Nevertheless, it was a compliment that made Helen blush. She tried to think of a response, but her mind was blank; she stayed silent. "What do you say to joining those people down there?" The question took her by surprise; her almost instant - and enthusiastic - reply surprised her even more. "I'd like that." "Good. Meet you in the corridor." "Give me five minutes." "Right." Helen went inside and immediately checked her appearance. The dress she had worn for dinner was suitable for dancing. Rather revealing, true; but somehow it didn't matter. Hair; a light brushing was necessary. Makeup; she used it sparingly, but perhaps a little touch on her lips. But no blusher on her cheeks. She was sure they were red enough with pure excitement at what she was about to do. What was she about to do? She paused in mid-action with the lipstick almost, but not quite, touching her lips. This was crazy. She was going to dance with a complete stranger; a man she had only met a few minutes ago. She was a married woman, for heaven's sake. Ian might be married too, for all she knew. "Does it really matter?" she asked of her image in the mirror. "It's only a dance. If Brian can spend his time chatting in the bar to who knows who, then why shouldn't I have a little pleasure of my own?" She finished her makeup and headed for the door, picking up a small vanity bag as she went. It was just big enough to contain a handkerchief, a purse and the plastic key which she removed from the holder by the door. The lights went off. Ian was waiting. He looked at his watch. "Four minutes thirty eight seconds. Not bad." "I didn't want to be late for our first date." She could have kicked herself. What on earth made her say such a stupid thing? Date? Of course it wasn't a date. It was....it was.... What was it? Ian took her arm. "Don't let's waste a moment of it." There were butterflies in Helen's stomach as the lift swiftly descended to the ground floor, but they had nothing to do with the speed of the machinery. She was nervous and eager, worried and happy all at the same time. She had never done anything remotely like this before; running off with a man. Well, perhaps that was something of an exaggeration. One dance by the hotel swimming pool hardly constituted running off. One dance; or perhaps two. Actually, it turned out to be the rest of the evening. A magical evening. The music, played by a trio, was melodic, pleasant on the ears and an asset to graceful dancing. And Ian was able to match the music, gently sweeping his partner around, never treading on her feet and making her feel comfortable at all times. There were fairy lights hung around the area, which was sited by the side of the water. It was part of the hotel, but approached from a walkway under a road that separated the two. Helen liked being in the arms of a stranger. She wasn't certain, as a married woman, whether she should enjoy it quite so much. But what the heck; after all, they were only dancing. They also sat out some of the dances and talked about themselves; at least, Helen did. It was some time later when she realised that Ian had revealed almost nothing about himself. Divorced, two children whom he never saw and his job. That was it. For her part, Helen seemed to give him her complete life story, almost from birth. She also felt she had said too much about her marriage. "It's a pity," Ian murmured at one point. "What is?" "Human beings have such a short time on earth, yet I feel they often lack the capacity to make the best of it." "Ah, yes. War, you mean." "And unhappy marriages." "I wouldn't say I was unhappy." "Aren't you?" Helen thought for a moment. "Resigned might be more correct." "You deserve more than resignation." "That's sweet of you." Sweet, but dangerous. Helen stood up. "Shall we dance?" "I'm at your pleasure." Um. That sounded dangerous too. What was her pleasure? His touch; his smile; his soft and gentle voice.... They were enough to....to what? She felt a flush of heat wash over her. Hard as she tried to dismiss it from her mind and put it down to the warm weather, she knew that it was the heat of desire. The mood was suddenly broken by screams and the screech of brakes on the road above them. Attracted by the sounds all the dancers quickly climbed a flight of steps which took them up to the road level. There had been an accident. It seemed a young child, playing a game of catch-me with his parents had run out into the road and right underneath the wheels of a car. Serious injury - even death - was certain to be the outcome, but miraculously, the child crawled out from under the car unhurt. "That's incredible," said Helen, tightly gripping Ian's arm. It had upset her to see the child apparently crushed. "Yes, isn't it," Ian agreed. There was a lot of shouting between the shocked driver and the frightened parents - all in full volume Maltese - but eventually everything calmed down. The car drove off, the parents and child continued their walk and the music began once more. "I...I think I'd better be going back to the room." Helen sounded upset. "No need to be upset. Nobody died." "I know, but I can't stop thinking what could have happened. The poor child and parents. Anyway, that's not the reason I should go. Brian will be wondering where I've gone." "What will you tell him?" "The truth...I suppose." But she didn't. In the first place, the room was empty and it was obvious Brian had not been near it whilst she was out. In the second...what he didn't know wouldn't harm him. And, after all, what was there to know? She had a pleasant evening by the pool; dancing; with a charming man who made her feel like..... "Having a cold shower," she said aloud to the empty room. When Brian eventually returned he was obviously the worse for drink, but not too far gone to demand that she remove her nightdress and spread her legs. He took her roughly, but mercifully quickly, banging into her hard and making her wince. When he was finished he collapsed down, turned his back and went to sleep. As always, Helen felt cheap and used. ***** The following morning they went down to breakfast and Helen came face to face with Ian. "Good morning," he politely said. "Hello." "Who was that?" Brian enquired. "He's in the room next to us. I saw him out on the balcony last night." "Hm." It was a nondescript grunt, which could have meant everything or nothing. After breakfast and back in their room Brian announced that he was going to play golf. "Arranged it last night with a couple of lads at the bar." "What am I supposed to do?" "No doubt you'll find something that would bore the pants off me. Find a museum or something. But not the war museum or war rooms. I want to see them." He left her flicking through the guide books wondering where she might go. There was no problem in getting around because the Malta buses went everywhere and were very cheap. A tourist had no real need of a car. There were also organised trips going to various places. It was simply a case of deciding what she fancied doing - and doing it. Mdina looked promising: 'A city of peaceful alleys, fine churches and gracious old mansions', as one guide book put it. "I'm sure Brian would be sufficiently bored with that," Helen murmured. It was another beautiful day, hot and sunny, so she put on a light cotton dress and took along a sizable hat and sun glasses. When about to leave she saw an impressively large and stylish super-yacht edging into the harbour. Grabbing her camera she went onto the balcony and took a picture with Valletta in the background. "Very impressive, isn't it?" Ian was on his balcony, also looking at the passing boat. "Yes." "Only the super rich can afford something like that. Roman Abramovich owns it." "Oh." "I'm afraid all I can manage is a harbour cruise." "Yes, we've done that." "I suppose everyone does." "Um." Helen nodded. "What are your plans for today?" "Oh, I'm going to take a bus to Mdina and have a look around." "Ah, yes. The Silent City." "Have you been there?" "Not this trip." Helen hesitated; but only briefly. "Would you like to accompany me?" "What about your husband?" "I'm a golf widow today." "I think it would be a great shame for you to be all by yourself and I'd love to go with you. Anywhere you want." Was there a double meaning in that last sentence? A suggestion of... "Don't be silly," Helen chided herself as she went into the room. As before they met in the corridor. There was an awkward silence in the lift as it smoothly descended. "Do you want to go ahead?" Ian asked as the doors opened. "You mean...? "Perhaps you prefer not to be seen leaving the hotel together." "I hadn't thought about that. It doesn't matter really." "All right." As they walked past a small shop neither of them noticed a stand with newspapers. The headline on one said: BOMB IN IRAQ. NO DEATHS. They walked along the Triq Marina, popularly known as The Strand, to the bus stops, being accosted every few yards by agents trying to sell round-the-harbours cruises and a wide variety of other trips. "We want the number 65," Helen informed Ian. "It goes straight to Mdina - no changes." There were two or three of the distinctive yellow buses with a band of orange standing at the bus stops and they quickened their pace. "This is it," said Ian, after checking the number on the front. "I'll get the fare." The bus was one of the oldest, ex-British army and dating from the 1950s. It was narrow, open-doored and the engine cowling was inside next to the driver. There was little leg room between the seats, which were hardly wide enough to hold two people. Ian had difficulty fitting himself into the space and he had one leg out in the aisle. Helen was very aware of the other pressing against her thigh. Ian smiled at her. "These buses weren't made for big people." "No.." "And I'm not even all that big." They both laughed. The ice was broken and they chatted on as the bus bumped, jerked, growled, protested and swayed along the road and round corners. Eventually it pulled up outside the main gate of Mdina, a walled city almost in the centre of Malta. With a population of only 400, most of whom stayed indoors, there were few people walking the streets except tourists. "And no cars!" Ian exclaimed. "The guide book says they're banned. Except for any owned by a resident." "Where shall we go first?" "The Mdina Experience is probably a good starting point. An audio-visual display telling the history of the town." "Sounds about right." It seemed natural, as they walked along, that he should take her hand. So natural that it took a while for Helen to realise. As a married woman her immediate reaction should have been to pull away, but she had no wish to separate her fingers from his; it felt right. Brian never held her hand and he would have been supremely bored at the very thought of the Mdina Experience. Afterwards they went for a light lunch in an open courtyard with tables set amongst trees and plants. "Was there any trouble last night?" Ian asked. "Trouble?" "With your husband. Was he annoyed about you dancing with me?" "Oh...no. I didn't tell him. He wasn't there and...and I didn't think it was necessary to say anything. After all, it was just a dance and we wouldn't be seeing each other again." "Or so you thought." "Or so I thought." She idly turned the salt-cellar. "I've been remiss." "In what way?" "I haven't told you how pretty you look this morning." Helen blushed. Ian put his hand on hers. "Your husband neglects you far too much. If it was possible for us to be together, I wouldn't make the same mistake." Helen pulled away her hand and stood in some confusion. He was going too far; she knew that. She had to put a stop to it or....or....what? What would happen? She dared hardly think, but she was certain that she wanted something to happen. She was married. Married. To Brian. "We'd better continue our tour," she said, with a slight tremor in her voice. "Of course." He paid the bill and they walked out into the street. "The cathedral next." "Right." There was a silence between them. An old man was slowly approaching them. He was barely able to put one foot in front of the other, despite using two sticks. As he came abreast of them he suddenly stopped, stared at Ian and spoke to him. Although Helen was unable to understand she could tell he was asking a question by the intonation of his voice. Ian smiled, shook his head and gently spoke to the old man at the same time laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The old man slowly proceeded on his way and they resumed their walk. "You spoke Maltese," said Helen in some surprise. "Best to know the local lingo in my business." "What did he want?" Ian shrugged. "He was confused. Asked if I had come for him. I told him not today." "What did he mean?" "I told you. He was confused. Thought I was someone else." He took hold of her arm and stopped walking. "I upset you back there. I apologise. I shouldn't have said anything about your marital relations." Helen hesitated before replying. "I'm not sure what's happening. I hardly know you, yet I feel..." "What?" "An attraction." "Unfortunately I'm attracted too." Helen raised her eyebrows. "Unfortunately?" "It's an impossible relationship." "Because I'm married? There's always divorce." She said it lightly; it was a quip casually tossed away, yet Helen knew that she was being more serious than she sounded. But how could that be? Was it possible for her to be prepared to change her life completely for a man she had known for less than twenty-four hours? It was crazy. Was it love or merely lust? Brian was a brute who took what he wanted and left her, not just unfulfilled, but alienated. Despite the shortness of their acquaintance, she was convinced that Ian would be a tender and thoughtful lover and she longed to be in his arms. "Yes," Ian agreed. "There's always divorce. But not on my account." They entered the cathedral. The interior was most impressive, full of gilded carvings, ornamental side chapels and paintings. The floor was a beautiful patchwork of inlaid multicoloured marble slabs, whilst the dome, also highly decorated, rose to a dizzying height. They stood close together in silent awe drinking in the grandeur that surrounded them. Helen slipped her hand into his. "I often think the church spends far too much money on all this splendour and ostentation. A bit of simplicity would go a long way and they could put the money to better use." "I think most believers want to see ornamentation. It makes them feel they're in the presence of real power." "It keeps them subdued, you mean. And poor." "Besides, without all this finery there would be nothing for tourists to admire." "That's hardly the point, is it?" "It sounds like we're having our first argument." Helen laughed and squeezed his hand. "I wouldn't dream of arguing. I'm having far too good a time." "I'm glad." When they returned to the hotel there was no sign of Brian. "But he left a message for me," Helen informed Ian across the balcony divider. "He intends to be out all evening with his new friends." "So you'll be alone." "Yes." "Not what you expect when you come on holiday with your husband." "I'm afraid it's exactly what I expect." Ian hesitated only briefly. "Of course, you don't have to be alone. I'd be honoured to keep you company all night if you wish." Helen raised her eyebrows simulating shock and surprise. "All night, Mr Grainger?" "If you wish." Helen smiled. "I wish," she said softly. "But I'm a married woman. I think my husband might have something to say if he returned and found his wife absent. Especially if she stayed out all night." "I'll settle for an evening with you. It's the last one of my little holiday." "Then I'll make it as pleasant for you as I can. Give me fifteen minutes to smarten myself." "I think I can spare you for fifteen minutes." They both laughed and Helen went into the room. She felt light headed and excited. Perhaps there was a touch of guilt about what she was planning to do, but only a touch. After all, what was she planning to do? Spend an evening in the company of a man other than her husband, that was all. Brian could hardly complain. If he chose to be away from her with his new friends, then that was his decision and he could live with the consequences. The dress she chose was loose, light and low-cut. Brian would be very pleased to think that every male eye was drawn to her. He could be very jealous and yet longed for his wife to be an exhibitionist. He would be sorry he wasn't here to see her now. "I've ordered a taxi," Ian informed her. "Oh? Where are we going?" "To a restaurant in the Portomaso Marina in St. Julian's." "Sounds delightful." And it was. It was a warm night and darkness was beginning to envelop the island. Lights twinkled on the water in the marina which was fringed by hotels, all brightly lit. They chose a table outside, providing them with a view of the harbour. The environment was exotic and the food delicious. Helen sighed. "A penny for them." "Um? Oh, I was just thinking that I'd like this to go on forever. I love Malta. I'd like to live here." "Really?" "I think I could be happy here." "You're not happy now?" She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "I think you know the answer to that." "Would you consider leaving your husband?" "I frequently have, but I've always lacked the courage before." "And now?" "Now I've met you," Helen said simply. Ian idly fiddled with the coffee cup in front of him. "You hardly know me." "I know all I want to know." When Strangers Meet "But not all you need to know." Ian sounded grave. Helen laughed. "What big dark secret can you possibly have?" "Darker than you could imagine." "You're a murderer." "Not exactly." "What does 'not exactly' mean?" "They say there are two things in this life that are certain, do they not? Death and taxes. I know nothing of the latter, but I'm intimately acquainted with the former." "You're making me nervous." "Am I? I'm sorry." He took hold of Helen's hand across the table. "Let's not talk about this now. Perhaps later - when we're back in the hotel." "No; now. I'm really getting frightened. If you want me to stay you have to explain." "Not a good idea in public." "Please." Ian hesitated then nodded his head. "Very well. Hold both my hands. Very tightly. As tight as you can." Helen could feel herself trembling. "What you have to say must be really awful." "You'll very probably think so. But please don't be afraid. There's no need. Now look straight into my eyes and hold my gaze." If Helen had wanted to look away she found herself unable to do so. Ian was like a hypnotist. His steady gaze held her firm and made her feel as if she was floating somewhere above the world. In his eyes she saw pictures, almost as if she was watching a television screen. They were images of death; in bed, on the battlefield, on the road, in the sea. Peaceful and violent, relaxed and frantic. Death in all its forms. And in her head she heard a voice. "Old men go to death; death comes to the young men." She could hear herself screaming. "There is a Reaper whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grains at a breath, And the flowers that grow between." It was a whispering voice deep inside her. She wanted it to stop, but there was no way to turn it off. She knew. She knew the awful truth. Impossible. But true. She was still screaming. Suddenly she was back on earth, sitting in a romantic restaurant with a man.....no....not a man....with Death. She thought she had screamed, but looking around everything was as before. Nobody had noticed anything. People were eating, drinking, laughing and talking. Realising she was still gripping Ian's hands, Helen relaxed, but kept her hands in his. He had told her - no, shown her - who he really was. It was too incredible to believe, but she knew it was true. She also knew that she loved him. No matter who or what he was; she loved him. "Please take me back to the hotel," Helen said quietly. "Of course." They returned in almost total silence, neither one knowing quite what to say or what would happen next. He left her at the door of her room with only the slightest touch of her hand. A few minutes later there was a soft knock on his door. Helen was standing outside. "My husband left another message. He's gone with his friends to a 'Gentlemen's Club.' I know what that means. He'll be away most of the night. I'd like to stay with you if you're willing." "But what if he returns?" "I'm past caring." "You'd better come inside." He closed the door behind her. "I want to be with you." "But who am I? Not Ian Grainger. In the morning a maid will become curious, ignore the 'Do Not Disturb' sign and enter the room. She'll discover his body lying there." He pointed towards the desk. "A medical examination will reveal that he's been dead for two days." "I want to be with you, not Ian Grainger. I don't know him." "But I'm everything and nothing." "At this moment you have substance and I want you inside me." There was a short silence as he thought. "I decided to take a holiday to experience all human emotions. Love is the strongest of them all. It would be a pity to ignore it." "I offer you all my love. And myself." She kissed him long and deep and he wholeheartedly responded. Within a minute they were both naked and in bed. Death, in his human form, knew exactly what to do and when he penetrated Helen she cried out with joy. He was a tender and gentle, thoughtful and caring lover; everything that she had missed for so long. He came inside her and she welcomed his seed, clinging tightly to him moaning with the pleasure he was giving her. They made love three times and on each occasion it was perfect. It was almost daylight when Helen returned to her room, accompanied by Ian. "I'll just be here, discreetly out of sight, but handy," he told her. "In case Brian beats me up?" He smiled. "Something like that." But they needn't have worried. Brian was still absent. "My little affair will remain my secret," she said. "No need for awkward explanations." "It's probably best." "Yes. Will I see you again?" "Of course. Everyone sees me sooner or later." "Will I recognise you?" "Do you mean, is this how I'll look?" "Yes." "I'll look however you want me to look. By then you may want me to be somebody else." "I don't think so," Helen whispered. "It's a long time hence. Many things will have happened to you by then. There'll be more people in your life. You may wish me to look like one of them." "But you'll still be you." "I'll still be me. You've shown me what love can be like, Helen. I had no idea. I can see it's a strong reason for clinging onto life as long as possible. You've brought me an understanding of what it's like to be human." He took her into his arms. "I'll never forget you." When he kissed her a warm and gentle breeze caressed her lips and the sound of waves lapping against a beach echoed through her head. She was completely entranced and barely noticed that he had gone, leaving her with the feeling of strong arms still wrapped around her. ***** It was a room-maid who found Ian Grainger stretched out on the floor. Naturally it was a shock, but she didn't scream, her reaction being nothing more than a sharp intake of breath. A doctor was called, but nothing could be done. "Been dead for some time, I would say. Yesterday sometime. I can't be sure without a proper examination, but I imagine it was a heart attack." The television was switched on. There was no sound, but the pictures on the rolling 24 hour news told their own story. Another bomb atrocity in Iraq; 16 dead. A train crash in Italy; 2 dead and 21 injured. A murder in London. Brian had returned just in time for breakfast, but offered no explanation. He looked suitably smug and Helen knew, without asking, that he had enjoyed the company of one of the girls from the 'Gentlemen's Club'. She was unsurprised and unconcerned. After all, she could hardly complain. After breakfast Brian went down to the pool to sunbathe and swim. When he returned to their room he was surprised to see Helen standing with her hand on a trolley-bag. It had obviously been packed. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked. "I'm leaving." "Malta?" Helen shook her head. "You." "What!" "I think I've repaid the debt." Brian looked puzzled. "What debt?" "You know very well. Nothing comes for nothing, isn't that so? You paid off my creditors and it was only right that you should get something in return. I've provided you with sex on demand for ten years. I think that's quite long enough, don't you?" She started for the door, but Brian blocked her way. "Where do you think you're going?" "Far away from you. To a new life. Please get out of my way." "Helen..." Brian adopted a conciliatory attitude. "It's no use. I've had enough. I've experienced real love and I want more." "What have you been up to?" Helen smiled. "You'd never believe it if I told you. Goodbye, Brian." There was a lot of activity in the corridor around the door of the adjacent room. Helen took no notice. She knew the reason. (NOTE: The proverb that is used is from the 16th century and the verse of the poem comes from 'The Reaper and the Flowers' by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.)