A Memory

Seven-thirty. Before the store opened, before the stampeding hordes. Before everyone wanted something. Stephen's cart was loaded with cleaning supplies, stock to be brought up to the departments, all the what-not needed to get the busy workday started. He had to get it there before the regular staff arrived; the items would be waiting for them. He remembered all those times scolding Mr. Mash and later Mr. Harman for coming on the floor during working hours. He tried to not be visible to the customers or the staff; he never could abide the remarks and snipes from the department staff or worse yet, the floorwalker. They knew he had done that job in another life and believed that he had been sacked. He knew otherwise, but the staff would never believe he had given up his floorwalker status to haul rubbish, sweep floors, scrub toilets, and deliver goods to the rest of the store.

As he got into the service lift, he caught a glimpse of someone he thought he knew. From long ago. From a life far away. Edna McGillicutty. Eddie. Suddenly he was transported forty years back in time.

That dreary November. He was fourteen, gangly and awkward. Back in his home in Rose Street. Eddie was an around the way girl. Her father worked in the gasworks. Her mother took in other people's washing. Eddie would run the washing to and from her mother's kitchen where Mrs. McGillicutty would boil, hand-wash, hang-dry, and iron other people's clothing, undergarments, and bed linens. The pay wasn't great, but it was steady work.

She saw him that first time. He was sweeping the yard; it was November. Coldish and bleak, the smoke from chimneys and factories hung heavy and thick in the air. He could see his breath. She stopped at the end of the drive watching him. He was tall and lanky, sweeping cinders and leaves. She stood there, one hand on her hip, akimbo, wistful smile, dirty knees, worn too-big tweed coat, fur hat, hands tucked into a muff of imitation fur. He stopped sweeping and looked straight at her.

"What do you want?" he finally said.

"Nothin'. Just lookin'." She stared, riveting her eyes to his. She had piercing blue eyes, light auburn ringlets peeked out from her hat.

He went back to sweeping, but could feel her eyes on him. He stopped abruptly.

"Can I help you?" he narrowed his eyes; he knew her reputation.

"Maybe I can help you," she said coyly, arching an eyebrow.

"I doubt that," he said, an air of arrogance, trying to sound more mature than his fourteen years.

"Oh, I think I can," she flirted, her words coiling around him. He tried to shake the words from him, but he was curious; fourteen and naïve, girls rarely paid him any attention.

"What are you suggesting?" he ventured.

"I've seen you," she said, "Coming and going to school. Your name is Stephen, isn't it?"

Reluctantly he answered, "Yes. I've seen you as well. Carrying the laundry to and from people's houses. Your mum's a laundress."

"She is," she said, "I pick up and deliver the washing. She gives me a few farthings so I can buy candy or so she thinks. I put it aside, along with other money I get, for fags."

"You smoke?" he asked incredulously. Stephen was at the age where he sneaked a cigarette here and there, smoking the last dregs off a discarded butt in his father's ashtray. But he'd never thought about girls his age smoking. He had much to learn.

"Sometimes. Sometimes the boys give me fags in exchange for things," she said smugly.
"What kind of things?"

"Different things. Things they like that I do. I could show you some of the things they like and maybe you'll be interested," she gave him a come-hither glance.

She sauntered up the drive toward him; he watched her legs, splashed with filth, the beat-up boys' boots she wore. She stood right in front of him, the straw broom separating them, a dividing line. A hedge of protection as it were.

"We could go behind your father's garage," she offered, giving him a wry smile, which unnerved him.

"What for? I've got my chores to do. Be off with you," he huffed, trying to retain his composure.

"What do you think?" she cooed, "Maybe there's something you like."

"I doubt there's anything I'd like behind the garage. How old are you?" he asked.

"How old do you think I am?" she countered.

"I don't know. Twelve? Thirteen?" he speculated.

"I'm old enough to make you feel real good," she spoke slowly and her voice dripped off her lips like syrup. She pointed to his male region, "I could make you sing like a canary and make that jump for joy!"

She smiled, her lips curled over her crooked teeth; her tongue glided over her lips. He could feel himself involuntarily reacting to her seduction; he was naïve. His eyes darted furtively from side to side, scouring the street for anyone who may have spotted him talking to her. She piqued his interest.

"Come on," he relented, turning on his heels and heading for the back of the garage. He set the broom against the house. They walked on and slipped in behind the single-car detached building. Dirty and narrow, just enough room for a bicycle and a few rubbish bins, the garage backed up to a wooden fence about as tall as him. The back of the garage was patched with tar paper and gritty shingles. She followed him closely; they squeezed in just past the bins, the view of their bodies obscured slightly. They stood in the mud, their breath hung in little clouds.
"Now what?" he asked, heart thumping in his throat; he'd never been with a girl before.

"Let's play a game," she chirped.

"I didn't come back here for games!" he snapped, "My mother is expecting me to finish my work."

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," she smiled, hiking her skirt up a little, teasing him.

Show me your what?" He really was wet behind the ears!

"I'll show you what's between me legs if you show me your willy," she sighed impatiently,"You ever see a girl's cunt before? I mean besides a dirty magazine?"

He shook his head. He'd never been propositioned by any girl before; he'd had his face slapped hard on the play yard at school for trying to kiss Charlotte Burns, so he was gun-shy about approaching girls after that.

"Alright," he said, trying not to sound too eager. He leaned expectantly against the cool wall.

She pulled her skirt up slowly, sliding it up past her pale thighs that were streaked with muck. His eyes went wide, his mouth agape, as she revealed that she was not wearing knickers and that her privates were covered in a thin layer of wispy hair. He gasped.

"Where're your knickers?" he asked, eyes wide.

"Who has time to fiddle about with knickers! In and out, fastly. Nowhere to put knickers when you're doing it standing up."

"Doing it? Doing what?" he asked, unable to keep from ogling her patch of hair.

"Doing it. Fucking." She became very aware that his eyes were glued to the V where her thighs and her snatch met.

"Have you never seen a girl's quim before?" she smiled, not belittlingly. She liked him.

He shook his head, "No. Never."

"Well, then get'cha a good butcher's." She spread her legs slightly, hiking her skirt up over her hips, leaning back against the fence, offering him a better view. Her thighs were smudged, her fingernails stubby and dirty. She smelled of urine, rotting food, and cigarette smoke. He tried not to make a face.
He stooped a little, staring at her undercarriage, mesmerized.

His eyes wide, he looked up at her shocked. He had no idea what to do, this was unchartered territory. He stood up straight, his maleness pressing hard against the inside of his trousers. He swallowed hard; he'd never gotten this far with a girl before.

"You could lick it if you want," she murmured, low and breathy, "Some boys like to lick it. It makes it easier for them to fuck me because they get it all wet and juicy. Sometimes the French letters are dry and it hurts when they fuck me. But if they lick it, it slips in and out nicely. I like when they lick it. A boy that licks it can have anything he likes," she pursed her lips, "It's clean. I washed this morning and I haven't been with any boys yet. You'll be the first today." She smiled provocatively.

He shook his head no, "I don't want to lick it. Not now." But hSe did want to lick it; he wanted to do all those things she was describing. He was so naïve and introverted and self-conscious; she had gaggles more experience and he didn't want to embarrass himself. His breath hitched and his heart pounded in his ears. He was so hard and the imagery was driving him mad.

"Your loss. You wanna touch it then? You can, you know. I like it when boys touch it." She gently licked her chapped lips.

"Very well. I'll touch it then. Just this once," he whispered, looking around nervously. He couldn't believe it! He was actually going to touch a girl's naughty bits; she was going to let him. He reached meekly, not wanting to appear so inept. He looked down at her snatch and up into her face and back down again. How does one go about it? he thought. Do you just reach out and stroke it like a kitten?

"'Ere, gimme your hand. I'll show you how," she took his hand and he timidly allowed her to guide him to her. His fingers were stiff and straight as she led them to where she wanted him to feel her. He gasped as his hand touched her warm, moist flesh. He was really feeling a girl for the first time!

"Your hands are warm; I like that. This is the bean or the button," she said as she positioned his fingers, "this makes me feel good. You use the first two fingers to work that." He hesitantly rubbed her with his thumb and forefinger and she sighed. Her arm snaked around his waist for support, her feet rolled out to the sides, her knees bowing slightly, and spreading her thighs wider.

"Now slide your long finger further back. You'll feel a 'ole; put your finger in there and your thumb stays on the bean. When we fuck, the 'ole is where your willy goes in, then we'll both feel good. But you can only fuck me if you have a French letter. Do you 'ave a French letter?"

"A what?" he breathed. Boy, was he getting schooled today!

"A French letter. You put it on your willy so you don't put a baby in a girl," she said matter-of-factly, "Now put your finger in me." She sighed long and low.

This was all new to him. How did she know all of this? He gasped again as he slipped his finger inside. It was wet and very warm. How far in does it go? And what to do once it's inside; do you just stand there with your finger plunged into her, all wet and warm? He should have actually read those magazines under his father's bed instead of sneaking to the loo and wanking to the pictures.

"You're really green, aren't you?" she smirked, "You push your finger in and out. It's called finger-fuckin'. People do it in the cinema and on the bus; you drape a mac over your hand so no one can see. I even heard boys do it to girls at school, under the desks."

"Give over!" he exclaimed, "You're taking the Mickey on me!"
"I'm not! The boys tell me that they finger fuck the girls and then they don't wash their hands so they can sniff and suck their fingers!"

Stephen felt as if he'd been left out of a whole world going on around him.

"Oh, get on with it!" she growled, "Time is money, which you're costing me just standin' there!"

He did as he was instructed and she fell back against the wooden fence. After a moment, she clamped her grimy thighs around his hand, grinding, panting and whimpering; her breath came in little puffy clouds. Startled, he jerked his hand away.
"Oy! What're you playing at? Wha'ju do that for?" she griped.

"Are you alright? You sounded like I was hurting you," he said.
"Yes, you daft turnip! I was coming; you've ruined it! Oh!" she whinged. She snatched her skirt down sharply, "Your turn!"

"What?"

"I showed you mine. Now you show me yours," she demanded, "A deal's a deal."

"Very well," he conceded, not sure what to expect, but aroused all the same.

He fumbled with the buttons of his woolen overcoat, looking around like a scared rabbit, and then unbuttoned his trousers. He fished himself out through the fly; it stood straight out about three inches, exposed to the cold air.

"I can't see shit!" she sneered, "You'll need to pull them down."

"Forget it!" his jaw set hard and he frowned.

"How am I supposed to see how long it is if it's still in your trousers?" she asked, eyebrows arched.

"You don't need to see how long it is," he maintained.

"I do if I'm to decide if I want to take this further."

"Take what further?" he asked.

"Things."

"Well, you'll just have to decide based on what you see," he stated firmly.

"I don't think I want any of that little tiny thing," she jeered, narrowing her eyes, "It's probably all of it right there. I'd much prefer your finger."

"You can't see it?" he pouted.

"No, it's barely peeping out. It's all tucked inside like a frightened turtle," she exclaimed.

"Keep your voice down!" he growled, looking around.

"Well, come on, then. Get on with it. Show me yours!" she demanded.

He unbuttoned his braces and lowered his trousers mid-thigh, spreading his legs to keep the whole lot from falling to the wet ground. She took it in her cool hand and he winced, arching his back and pulling himself away.

"It's okay, love; I'm not going to hurt you," she soothed, "I'm going to make you feel real good, you'll see."

Tightening her grip she gently caressed him. He balanced against the garage wall as she gently and deftly stroked him. He looked about nervously .

"Kiss me," she said softly. He pursed his lips tightly and nervously, eyes closed, and bent forward. His breath hitched as their lips touched. She pulled back.
"Not like that!" she whispered, "Open your mouth a little." He did as he was instructed and leaned in toward her. One arm around his neck, she pulled his face to hers and slipped her tongue in his mouth. Her breath was hot and tasted like bad cheese. He pulled back sharply and made a face.

"What are you doing?" his eyes wide with horror.

"That's French kissing," she cooed, "You'll like it better the more you do it." He was utterly disgusted by it and her foul breath and rough, chapped lips.

"French letters. French kissing. We're British, you know," he asserted.

"Shhh…I'm working!"

She stroked him harder and faster, her hand wet with pre-come. His face screwed up as her hand slid up and down the length of him, his breath jagged and gasping.

"Do you 'ave any money?" she looked up.

"Huh? Money? For what?" he through gulping breaths, his stiffy firmly in her hand.

"Do you wanna fuck me or not?" she asked, giving him a seductive squeeze, "I didn't come all the way back here to hold your knob."

"I-I-I-I-I don't know," he stammered, dropping the word "how" from the end of his sentence.

"If you have money, I'll let you fuck me. I'll let you do it for a shilling, how 'bout that? First timer's discount," she said, "You'll also have to have a French letter. That's the rule."

Rule? Who made that rule? he thought. Where does one get a French letter? What does a French letter look like?

"I don't have a French letter and I don't have a shilling," he said quietly.

"I guess you don't get to fuck me, do you?" she teased, "That's too bad; your bell-end's much bigger than I gave you credit for. I'd love to feel it in me, but you probably don't know how to fuck anyway, do you? You'd probably squirt me all over with premature ejaculation!"
"I wish you'd stop saying that word. It's vulgar," he chastised her, his face pinched in disgust. And what was she talking about premature ejaculation?

"What word? Fuck? Well, that's what it is, isn't it? You're not going to make love to me, are you? No. You're going to stick it in me, hump and sweat and grunt and then jump up and go. That's what it is. It's fucking. Like dogs in the street. They knot up and run off."

"I never call it that." He made a face like the word had a bad taste.

"Well, you wouldn't, now, would you? You're a friggin' cherry boy! You probably call it making love, even if you're just having it off on top of a bunch of rubbish bins behind a garage!" she scoffed.

He locked his jaws; sure, he was a virgin, but he didn't like being called out on it. He was only fourteen.
He fished in his pocket and found the silver coin given to him by his father for sweeping the yard. It was warm from being in his pocket. He took it out, turned his hand over, and looked at it.

"All I have is a tanner," he announced, offering it to her, "What do I get for that?"

"I can nosh off for a tanner," she bargained. His heart raced with apprehension as he held his hand out for her to take it. She grabbed it in her grimy hand and shoved it quickly into her coat pocket. The coin jingled against a few other coins.

She slid to the ground, dragging her fingertips down the backs of his thighs, kneeling in the cold wet dirt. He quickly looked side to side. She was concealed behind the rubbish bins. His eyes slammed shut and he bit his lower lip hard as her warm mouth closed around him and she gently cupped his family jewels. Ragged breath, he rested his hands on her shoulders. He opened his eyes cautiously, peering between the slats of the fence and focusing on a bare tree in the neighbour's back garden. She took both his bum cheeks in her cool hands and held fast. She got her rhythm and it didn't take long before his knees were buckling and his face collapsed in on itself, biting his lower lip so as not to cry out. He felt as if he were floating; his toes curled within his shoes.

Oh, God! his brain screamed. He had never known a sensation as delectable as this; he heard the older boys talk about it at school, but he had no idea how incredible and wonderful it could possibly be. His heart beat wildly in his chest and he felt like it would burst out through his skin. She sucked harder, her mouth working him until he grabbed the back of her head and instinctively humped. Her teeth scraped him slightly as he felt himself release, warm, sticky, wonderful. His head was spinning, his chest heaving, his cock throbbed and pulsed; sweat ran down the center of his back. And just like that it was over. Pandora's box had been opened.

"STEPHEN!" his father shrieked, his face crimson. Stephen's head swung to the left, eyes goggling, meeting his father's hot glare. His heart dropped to his feet and his face went into paroxysms; he was caught and unable to speak. Mr. Peacock was a tall, foreboding man. Square jaw, piercing grey eyes, large hands. Impeccably attired and clean-shaven. Bowler hat and long black wool overcoat. Black wing-tip shoes. He was a highly respected barrister; insubordination and sexual immorality with the neighbourhood slag was unacceptable. The potential damage to his reputation, not to mention his career, was unthinkable.

Stephen could feel himself instantly go flaccid. Eddie stood and spat Stephen's load onto the ground, "Costs extra for me to swallow that!" she chuckled. She smiled and arched an eyebrow coyly at Stephen as she turned and walked past the senior Peacock.

"Get out of here, strumpet!" Mr. Peacock sneered, pushing her with his foot, his spit-polished shoe the only clean thing in the yard. She stumbled forward, catching herself, as she hurried down the drive, her oversized laceless boots clomping.

"You can fuck me for a shilling, Mr. Peacock! Family discount! Maybe we can do a two fer one special, eh!" she cajoled over her shoulder, her indecent laughter wafting as she skittered to the street.

"I'd probably get rabies!" he muttered and quickly shook off the thought.

Stephen's father turned back to him, eyes blazing and narrowed, "Fix yourself, Stephen. Then get into the house and hold yourself in readiness," he snarled.

Stephen hurriedly pulled his trousers up and fastened his braces, buttoning the fly shut. He knew not to keep his father waiting. His breath was still raspy as he closed his wool overcoat. He gave one last glimpse at the small milky puddle, the evidence of his first dirty encounter.

Once inside, he stood at the kitchen table, hands gripping the edge, bent slightly forward. He savoured the memory of what had just happened and allowed himself a small, tight smile. He knew what was to come once his father entered the kitchen. His father seemed to be taking longer than what Stephen considered a reasonable amount of time. He hoped his father would get it over with quickly.

The kitchen was filled with the aroma of supper cooking, roast chicken and potatoes. Stephen closed his eyes and slowly inhaled, imbibing the scent of his mother's cooking, trying to focus on the sumptuous meal instead of the harsh consequences for giving in to the sins of the flesh.

Where was he? He wondered if his father had gone to Eddie's house to confront her parents. Did she have parents? He stood in that slightly-hunched position for what seemed like an hour, the backs of his thighs cramped and his stomach knotted. Finally, the back door slammed and his father stomped in.

"I told you to hold yourself in readiness, boy!" he father stormed and slapped the back of Stephen's head sharply. Stephen did not flinch. He dared not cry protest. He knew better. It was the small act of defiance he allowed himself.

Stephen stood in position dumbfounded. He had been standing there waiting and anticipating his punishment. His father flew up behind him and jerked his trousers down, popping the buttons on his braces. Then the senior Peacock went to the kitchen door and closed it, revealing the battered piece of skirting board he kept for disciplining his son. Stephen fixed his eyes on it for a split second then braced himself for what was to come. The wood made a swooshing sound as it whipped through the air, landing squarely on Stephen's bare arse with a loud crack. He fought the urge to cry out, gritting his teeth, his cheeks smarting and throbbing. That was one. Stephen's eyes remained clamped shut tightly and his breath hitched. Anger burned within him. He held a white-knuckle grip on the edge of the table, digging his fingernails into the underside of it. He took a quick gulp of air before another harsh blow, wood against skin. Whack! His arse was on fire. An angry tear slid down his cheek. Two. He suppressed a whimper. No showing pain or fear. He allowed himself to be comforted by Eddie's ministrations; the vivid memory of their illicit tryst behind the garage. Her hot mouth sucking hard and working his untouched flesh. Her softness and her invite for him to touch her there. He was rattled out of it by a third hard wallop. How many more? What was a bit of naughty worth? His father drew back and crashed the board against him a fourth time. He could hear the sound of footsteps on the woodblock, approaching fast and frantic. His mother.

The kitchen door swung open and Mrs. Peacock stood gob-smacked in the doorway.

"What is going on here, Allistair?" she demanded, her face ashen, mouth gaping like a fish. Stephen's face flushed with embarrassment and he tried to move so his mother would not see his nakedness.

"This has nothing to do with you, Judith," his father said sternly.

"You're flogging our son. What's he done?" she demanded.

"It has nothing to do with you, woman!" he spat, "Now, get out of here!"

She stole one more glance at her son. Stephen's face was stony and fixed, his nostril flared, fire burned in his eyes; he steadied himself. Mrs. Peacock retreated from the kitchen. The door closed softly and her sobs trailed behind her. And one final excruciating blow. The air hung with the loud crack as Stephen's knees buckled sharply and he caught himself on the edge of the table, trembling. His father calmly returned the board to the corner and then turned to his son who was half-crumpled on the floor, trousers bunched up around his ankles.

"I never want to catch you with that girl ever again," his father hissed, "Go and wash yourself for dinner."

This was the first but would not be the last beating Stephen would endure for his rebellion and disobedience. His appetite for forbidden sex had been piqued. He was obsessed with the burning in his thighs, the surge of electricity and waves of exhilaration that overtook him when he was with Eddie. He would collect empty drink bottles and redeem them for the deposit so he would have the money to give Eddie for services rendered. Other boys would redeem the bottles for a day at the cinema or some sweets. Stephen's sweets were his times with Eddie. As for the cinema, it would be years before Stephen would indulge himself at the Blue Cinema, watching on-screen the acts which he and Eddie had performed.

His father would count his condoms and knew when Stephen had stolen one; Stephen would receive five lashings for stealing. It was a small price to pay for the excruciatingly delicious fornication he engaged in.

"Why would your father have French letters if he and your mother are married?" Eddie asked when Stephen told her he had gotten a beating for stealing one, "Do married people not want babies? Or maybe your father is doing it on the sly just like you are."

Stephen had never thought ill of his father and could not fathom the idea of his father going to a common trollop for sex when he had his own wife. That thought would haunt Stephen and he would often find himself staring at his father, wondering what he was really doing when he would call home to say he was working late. It would be years before Stephen learned the truth of his father's dalliances; that the senior Peacock didn't fancy adulterous affairs with women.

Stephen and Eddie had taken to sneaking into neighbours' garages and garden sheds and allotment sheds, although it was riskier going to someone else's allotment to shag. Stephen knew she had other boys, but he didn't care. Eddie favoured him, often forsaking their offers in order to be with him. They had become complacent in their trysting, sometimes to the point of being careless.

Once when Stephen and Eddie had sneaked into his vacationing neighbour's garden shed, the neighbour had come home early to discover the shed door ajar. Expecting to find the shed ransacked and burgled, the neighbour was aghast at what he did discover. Stephen and Eddie were atop a pile of dusty burlap sacks, going at it like a freight train, panting and moaning, Stephen's skinny white ass bouncing up and down, grunting with every push, Eddie's legs quivering. The neighbour stood there, silently watching them, holding his breath, anger simmering, and his stomach roiling.

"I like you, Stephen," she sighed, "You lick it and make it so it doesn't hurt. You don't hit me like the other boys. You're nice to me." Stephen's throat tightened.

The neighbour was disgusted and he slipped out as silently as he'd entered. And waited. When they'd finished, Eddie left first, then Stephen. Mr. Bretherton stepped forward, grabbed Stephen by the arm with his gnarled old hand, and blocked his exit. Stephen looked like a trapped rabbit, eyes wide and terrified. His eyes flitted across the garden, scouring for an escape. None. He was caught.

"Like a bit of the old in-out, eh?" the old man snarled, "Well, not in my shed!"

Stephen about wet himself, "I-I-I-I-'m sorry, Mr. Bretherton!" he stuttered.

He snorted, "Yes," he drawled, "The father's got all kinds of money and his son's putting it to the local slut for pennies!" Mr. Bretherton balled his weathered hand into a fist and punched Stephen in the stomach as hard as he could. Stephen doubled over, gasping and retching.

"You take her to your own house! Let your mum catch you in the act; she could probably do with a few pointers!" he screamed as Stephen scurried out the back gate.

He never forgot his dirty little secret, the girl who was his first, not even when he left for the Army and the war. She gave him a good send off, not even charging him. He took her to the local second-hand charity shop and bought her a pretty dress and some shoes. He took her to a nice hotel, bought her a nice dinner, and let her have a hot bath.

"You treat me so nice, Stephen. No one ever buys me anything; I feel like a princess!" she murmured as he held her in the afterglow of their lovemaking, "Is this what they mean when they say making love instead of fucking?"

He smiled and nodded, "Yes. I think so."

"This is much better; it doesn't feel so dirty when you do it in a nice 'otel room in clean sheets. It doesn't feel dirty at all when you do it to me," she sighed and fell asleep ensconced in his arms.

It was during the war, while somewhere in Egypt, that he'd received a letter from his mother. Edna McGillicutty had been found strangled in a back alley near the factory. He remembered that sinking feeling as he held the letter in his hands. His heart ached for his "first love", even though she was everyone's love in that old neighbourhood. His eyes burned with tears for her, lying on the cold ground, killed senselessly, needlessly. He remembered sobbing, knowing that her last words that night at the Butcher's Arms were the last words he'd ever hear from her. She was the proverbial "girl back home" waiting for him after the war. He knew she didn't love him; he knew there were others, he wasn't her one and only lover. But she had been his. She'd promised him a big homecoming, a special night just for him. He'd sent her a few small things from overseas: an embroidered handkerchief, real silk stockings, an Egyptian cotton nightgown, sweets from Turkey. He liked to think he was the only one who'd sent her anything, who thought of her as anything besides a whore. He was.

The memory faded like a fragile wisp of smoke. He sighed heavily as the lift doors shut and the lift whirred down to the basement, down to his lair, the underworld of Woodward & Lothrop.