The Mermaid Garden(141)

“All right, if you insist.”

“Then that’s settled. Now, let’s open the champagne.”


Mr. Atwood pulled the tights over his head. They were thick enough to mask his face, but thin enough for him to see through. He wore black trousers, a black polo neck, and black shoes, soft soled so as not to make any noise when he crept into the house. He tiptoed round the building where a ladder had been placed in the garden against the back wall. It was dark enough for him to blend in with the night, but the neighbor’s window threw a shaft of light onto the lawn, which he was careful to avoid. He felt like a cat, treading softly over the dew.

Slowly, he mounted the ladder. One rung at a time. It wouldn’t do to fall and hurt himself—his wife thought he was out at a business dinner. Being driven to hospital in a burglar’s outfit might give the game away. He grinned with satisfaction, pleased that he was able to keep so many different strands of his life together. It was entertaining to assume diverse personalities. He was a father, a husband, a businessman, a lover—and now a robber. He reached the window, which had been left ajar, and slid his fingers through the crack. Quietly, he lifted the bar and pulled it open wide enough for him to climb through.

As he rather clumsily scrambled in, not quite the cat burglar he was trying so hard to emulate, he heard a sharp intake of breath and an excited squeak. His heart pounded with anticipation, for there, lying naked and spread-eagled on the bed, was Jennifer. Her arms and legs were tied to the four posts, her pale skin, sporran of golden pubic hair, and round breasts loomed out of the darkness, and she shivered expectantly.

“What do I see here?” he said in his coldest voice.

“Don’t hurt me,” she wailed.

“Hurt you? I’m going to pleasure you to death.”

“Ooooooh, no!”

“Yes, I’m going to have fun, my little plaything.”

“Please, leave me be!”

“And you’re all tied up and ready for me.”

She pulled her arms and tried to wriggle her legs, but to no avail. She was well and truly bound. He stood beside her and ran a gloved finger down her neck, over the mound of her breast, around her nipple, which grew hard with desire, down her stomach, through the sporran and between her legs, where it lingered.

So great was their focus on their game that they didn’t hear the rustle in the garden below or the loud whispers of the police, who now surrounded the house. The neighbor watched enthralled from her bathroom window. Hastily, an officer climbed the ladder. When he reached the window, he peered in to see the burglar about to descend onto his victim with a very large erection.

With the swift, nimble movements of the cat that Mr. Atwood could never be, the officer leaped into the room and wrestled him to the floor. Before Mr. Atwood knew what was happening he was cuffed and helpless on the ground, the tights ripped off his head with such force they bruised his nose. The lights were turned on, and the room filled with the familiar faces of the Dawcomb-Devlish police force, gawping at them in astonishment. They looked from Mr. Atwood to Jennifer, bound and displayed like a pig at the butcher’s, but only one or two had the decency to avert their eyes. At last one of the officers threw a towel over her exposed body and set about untying the ropes.

“This is a terrible mistake,” gasped Mr. Atwood.

“… Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

“I’m not robbing the house, I’m role-playing with my mistress. For God’s sake, this is ludicrous.”

“Come on!” said PC Dillon, lifting him to his feet.

Mr. Atwood looked down to see his once proud erection shriveled like a little pink worm. “Well, if you insist I come with you, can you please do up my trousers!”


The following morning word had got out and Dawcomb-Devlish could talk of nothing else.

Mr. Atwood did not come into the office, which was just as well, for a group of photographers had gathered outside with the nation’s press. The crowd of onlookers grew until PC Dillon had to put up barricades to keep the traffic moving.

“They thought they’d caught Baffles,” said Sylvia, her eyes brimming with mirth. “Can you imagine, Mr. Atwood of all people!”

“It’s beyond the powers of my imagination,” agreed Clementine, watching the heaving throng outside the window.

“Fancy him dressing up and pretending to break into your receptionist’s house.”

“I knew he was having an affair with her. The silly fool took me with him to buy her a bracelet. Didn’t it occur to him that I’d recognize it on her wrist and put two and two together?”

“Perhaps he doesn’t think you’re very good at maths!”