If you're looking for just sex, you've come to the wrong place. if you're looking for a story and sex, you've come to the right place.
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In my town there is a house on a hill that lay derelict for years. It actually isn't in the town, so much as just on the town border, but it had the melodramatic air of an early horror film as it loomed over us. You could almost smell the dust and rot when you looked at it, and it even seemed to have bleached itself to black and white over the years. Then one day, with no warning at all, a rumble was heard throughout the village. It was a convoy of trucks trundling up the gravel road to the hill estate. Work began. And we watched the slow progress. Scaffolding was put up on every side of the house, and then men clambered all over it. They scurried over the sloping gables, replacing roof tiles and blasting off the ancient moss. A team of painters slapped the mouldings with a vibrant new coat of paint.
Much work must have gone on inside too, though we never saw what it was. All we saw was a parade of shiny things entering and a train of junk leaving it; rotting wood, broken chairs, that sort of thing. The place was humming with electricians and plumbers and plasterers and all sorts. Landscapers eventually arrived, the savagely overgrown yard was completely dug up, and a lavish, verdant garden grew quickly in its place, overhanging the fences and giving it a far more inviting atmosphere. Eventually came what the town had been expecting for months, the removalists, who carted furnishing after furnishing after box after box into the house, to create some environment that not a one of us in the town had seen.
They were accompanied by two flamboyant men, identified easily as interior decorators, who flounced inside one day and out the next. Rumours abounded about famous people moving in, although I never bought it. Then there was suggestion that it was becoming a museum, which I also flatly rejected, as not even an idiot would put a museum in our dinky village, let alone at the edge of it. Besides, I thought I saw a flatscreen television go in. No, the rumour I believed to be true was that it was a recluse of some kind, who had moved from a larger, more brazen city to our quiet little hamlet. I knew how unlikely and romantic the notion was, but I couldn't bring myself to believe anything else.
To my surprise, my notion was confirmed by Alvin, of course. Alvin was one of the only local taxi drivers, a big-gutted bloke with a hearty bellow of a laugh that was completely overpowering, but a good man nonetheless. He knew all the comings and goings of our town and three others nearby.
"You're not going to believe it," he said jovially as he leaned on the counter in my cafe, tearing a Danish, "But a real person's finally moving in to that big house, you know?"
"Really?" I replied, "Did you drive them?"
"No," Alvin replied, "Davy drove them this morning, said it was a sullen sod, Didn't say very much at all. All dour and flat, like."
"I suppose I was right then," I said confidently, "It is a recluse we'll be having."
"I suppose so," Alvin said with a guffaw.
"Alvin," creaked Mrs Simm, who had been sitting in the window all decade for all I knew, "Do you think I might trouble you for a lift home?"
"Of course Mrs Simm," Alvin said gently and unpatronising, in a way that made me love him, "Let me help you to the car. I'll be seeing you," he said, nodding to me. I nodded back and then called after him, "Oy, Alvin, did Davy get a name?"
"Err, I think he said it was Haverbrack." He yelled back as he led Mrs Simm to his taxi.
I leaned on the counter and rested my head on my hand as I fantasised about a Beethoven-esque character rumbling out a sonata on the big grand piano I had earlier seen put in. The wind chimes by the open window jingled mockingly in the breeze.
The town buzzed for the next week with the arrival of this mysterious new inhabitant, Haverbrack. Only Davy had actually seen him, and Davy hadn't been in town, so we all tittered childishly with speculation. When would he come down to town? What would he look like? Would he be a nice bloke? Would he be a high and mighty prick? Was he good for us or was he bad for us? It was all terribly amusing, to hear every single person in town, from the priest to the plumber, having out their opinion on the matter. Of course, nothing came of it. But, with some supreme sense of timing, just as intrigue was turning to annoyance, the mysterious Haverbrack descended from the house on the hill.
I was probably the first to see the tall figure striding down toward the village, as my shop has a corridor from front to back with a window looking right up the hill. I always kept that door open to admire the view. And today I couldn't suppress or deny the little peak of excitement that quivered in me at this view. I supposed the image must have tapped into some Brontean fantasy I had invented; this dark stranger now traversing the moor. But my excitement was soon joined by a chorus of others who happened to be in my cafe, all staring up the corridor with wide eyes. But all our eyes grew wider, because as the figure grew closer, we realised that Haverbrack was not a man, as we had assumed. Haverbrack was a woman.
She stepped onto the cobblestone lane that wound round my shop and out of sight, and our eyes all flew to the front window that looked onto the main street. In moments she appeared there, her coat fluttering wildly with her hair. Despite her very short honey-coloured crop, intense blue eyes and richly tanned skin, she had an air of darkness about her. Perhaps it was the way she held her face in a scowl. She had a striking face, and I was shocked when I realised she reminded me of Beethoven. She didn't actually look like Beethoven at all, but she had the same menacing stare. She maintained her purposeful stride and stepped through my door. But when she saw every face was turned to her, her scowl seemed to deepen, not with anger, but with frustration, I thought. Or perhaps fear. I realised it must have been fear, for when she next made a move, her shoulders were hunched, she had made herself seem half the size, and when she arrived at the counter she did not bring her eyes to mine.
"I wonder," she murmured with a pristine accent, "If I make an order, could you bring it up to the house tonight?"
"Depends what you order," I said, with some dissatisfaction at her failing to introduce herself. She tucked a trembling hand into a pocket and withdrew a slightly wrinkled piece of paper. She was apparently very daunted by the prospect of my refusal. To make her food.
"Is this possible?" She asked, handing it to me, still not meeting my searching eyes. I looked it over. All pretty ordinary stuff, most of it I made on a regular basis, and nothing that would require much extra trouble, just that a lot of things said "without this," or "without that".
"Seems alright," I replied with a nod. "What time?"
"Six o'clock, if possible." She mumbled, and I only just caught it.
"Alright then, six o'clock it is."
"Thankyou," she said, and she looked into my eyes. I nearly fell over as a flash of something streamed through me. I barely knew what had happened. But by the time I'd recovered my composure, she was gone. And now everyone was looking at me.
My panel van pulled into the gravel courtyard a minute before six, just when the last remnants of sunlight were fading. I withdrew a large crate with the order inside, and readily proceeded up the stairs and rang the doorbell. It was an electrical system, but it was clearly rigged to the original, ancient bell that tolled cheerfully. The house wasn't nearly as foreboding as it once had seemed.
I heard Haverbrack (though I was now uncertain that this was her name) barrelling down the corridor and saw a shadow of her in the frosted glass window of the door. It trembled, and then opened, and there she stood, flushed with activity, and yet still scowling. A huge black wolfhound scuttled up behind her and butted its head through the space between Haverbrack and the door. I was never one to be afraid of a dog, but as this beast's head bobbed comfortably at Haverbrack's hip, I wondered how tall it was on its hind legs.
"Come in," she said, already turned from me.
As I followed Morse and the enormous hound, I was torn between indignation at being refused an introduction a second time, and wonder at seeing this beautiful house. It had certainly been restored to its former Georgian glory. Despite its prior gloom, the whole house was light and rich. It had been revived with great love, and it sang with some kind of luxuriant homeliness. Room after room of it. I even glimpsed the grand piano through a half-open door.
She led me to the kitchen which was expectably downstairs, and in the original rustic style of stucco walls and wooden bench tops and saucepans hanging from the ceiling. It was glorious.
"Very grateful." She said inelegantly as I put the crate down, "I mean, thankyou for coming... thankyou for going out of your way."
"It's not a problem." I said. The massive dog loped toward me and poked his nose at my hand, snuffling at it. Then, rather strangely, it sat by my side and stared at Haverbrack. And after an expectant moment, I extended a hand, and said, "I'm Lenore."
She seemed to stare blankly at my hand for a moment, then at me, and I felt that rush again. And then she rushed to take my hand.
"I'm Morse, I'm so sorry, I didn't introduce myself, did I?" she said wincing, "I'm Morse. Morse Haverbrack. I'm sorry."
I smiled at her fumbling. "That's alright. No harm done. And... the dog?"
"That is Lev."
"Hello, Lev," I said sweetly, lightly patting his head. Lev moved a little closer to me.
