Author's notes:
1. This is a work of fiction. The activities and practices described in this story are not necessarily either condoned or recommended. If you choose to do anything described in real life with real people you do so at your own risk.
2. All characters are fictional and any likeness to any living person is purely coincidental. The story is purely imaginary and, to the author's knowledge, bears no relationship to any factual occurrence.
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Nobody knew exactly when she arrived in the village. One day she was just there, strutting down High St into the center of Braelsford as bold as brass. Seamus, the publican, even left his bar to gaze at her after she passed his door, licking his lips and unconsciously wishing he was thirty years younger.
Brigida, the local town gossip, noted her well; her diminutive figure probably less than five feet tall, her confident gait and stance as she walked, not hurried but also conservative of time, and most particularly the way that she met the gaze of anyone she chanced to meet. Here was a girl who knew her strengths, had confidence in herself and was not to be outdone by anyone, she thought. Having a nose for a good story, whether true or fictitious, she also thought she perceived a girl with history, with something to hide, and determined to get to the bottom of this no matter what. Meantime, she thought, spreading the story that the newcomer was the ex-mole of a drug baron who had recently been put away, causing her to seek refuge in this isolated location, would be a suitable rumor to put all the local women on their guard.
At first nobody knew where the girl in the tiny black dress was staying. It was obviously out of town, as she would arrive on the outskirts of town in her battered Ford pickup every day. It took a few days before her whereabouts in the evenings was tracked down to a small unpretentious cottage, owned by an absentee landlord, about four miles out of town. It was only luck that Pat O'Shaughnessy happened to be passing the track leading to the cottage as she was emerging from it, because once she passed him on the way to town there was no way in the world that he could keep up with her pickup, especially at the breakneck pace that she drove. One thing was for sure, she knew how to drive well and fast.
Brigida's rumor quickly spread and was elaborated upon many times. Within a few days the girl in the tiny black dress was not just the ex-mole of a drug lord, but a prostitute, hooker, call girl, stripper, owner of several castles in France and Spain, owner of a large yacht, wanted by the law and out to seduce any male with two legs within a 50 mile radius. These rumors were fueled by the fact that whenever she appeared in town she always wore the same tiny black dress, the top cut so low that it bared the tops of her breasts, the back bare, indicating, to the disgust of the local women, that she wore no bra, and the hem about half an inch decent. The whole affair could have covered no more than eighteen inches of her almost five foot height, leaving little to the imagination.
The local men filled in the imagined details that were to be discovered by the man lucky or brave enough to attract her to his bed. Each night after work they would gather at the Hoof and Bell and discuss such matters as men must while drinking Seamus' best stout. There was much speculation as to the best method to both get the girl in the tiny black dress into their beds, or themselves into hers, preferably without arousing the suspicions of their wives or any other women in the village. Several men admitted they had tried, but had been unable to even receive a reply when they had asked her name, much less have her stop to chat with them for a few moments. They agreed that they were probably a little less attractive to her than the supposed high society men with whom she was used to mixing, and loving they surmised, but that didn't make them less worthy, they convinced themselves.
"I'd like to see her sugar daddies catch and shoe a horse or till an acre of land," commented Seamus after one heated discussion on the relative merits of the possible males available in the village.
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She carefully unlocked her door, noting that the hair she had placed in the door jamb was still there, but bracing herself to attack anyone inside, out of habit. She had lived in a war zone for too long to drop her guard now and once again wished she had her trusty Beretta PX4 Storm that had seen her through many battles in the past. There was, of course, nobody inside, but as her father had taught her during all those years of hiding and fighting, once you become complacent you're as good as dead. She went out to her pickup, collected the few things she had purchased during the day and placed them in the almost bare cupboards in the kitchen. She then went to her bedroom, carefully removed her one and only dress, a present from a past boyfriend, killed in their last big firefight, and hung it up in the alcove that served as a wardrobe, rubbing her hand gently over the fabric as she remembered, with tear filled eyes, Olaf and the way in which he had given his life to save hers. She pulled on a brief pair of shorts and a top then returned to the kitchen.
She put the kettle on the stove and while she waited for it to boil she poured herself a small glass of kirsch, then sat in the evening sunshine by the western window. She thought back to how she had come to be in this situation, remembering the gunfight, how her rebels had held their own for so long before being overwhelmed, how she had escaped by hiding in a tiny crevice then, after the troops had left, convinced everyone was dead, she had crept out in the darkness of the night, found and taken the hidden diamonds from under the floorboards, then, wearing only the tiny black dress from Olaf, walked to a fishing village, stowed away on a boat and eventually arrived in Bristol after many weeks, many boats and surviving many searches.
The kettle whistled and she made her tea, taking a sip of kirsch, the taste bringing back memories of better times and Olaf. What was she to do? She'd cashed in some of the diamonds, bought the pickup and found this small village where she could hide away and let the world go by, she had thought. However, she had reckoned without the local villagers. She obviously did not fit in. Far too ostentatious, her tiny black dress calling instant attention to her even if her truck fitted in well with the local vehicles. She should have spent more money on homely clothes before she arrived, she berated herself. Oh well, maybe I'll have to move on, she thought. In the meantime she would have to put up with being hit on by the local guys, both married and single, and shunned by their womenfolk. She wished she had a better understanding of the English language, although even that may not suffice judging by the broad Irish dialect spoken in the village. She nibbled on a cracker as she drank her tea and kirsch while watching the final rays of the sun as it sank below the horizon. Tomorrow will be another day, she told herself resignedly.
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Corey was a loner. He also was an outsider who had come to the village several years ago, the son of his mother's sister who had died in a car crash in Leeds. His aunt Keira had taken care of him until he was old enough to find work at the local garage and move into his own house. Why he'd stayed in the village he had no idea but he did know how the girl in the tiny black dress would feel being so isolated and he alone, of all the men in the village, was concerned for her in a more paternal than sexual manner. He had tried to have a conversation with her but, like everyone else, had failed. Unlike everyone else, he had surmised this was due to her inability with the language rather than an hypothesized disdain. He resolved to try again, as many times as necessary, to help her in what he perceived was her loneliness and despair.
The opportunity for a more personal meeting was not long in coming. Two days later Corey drove his van around a bend in the road to find a pickup in the ditch by the side of the road and the girl in the tiny black dress standing alongside it. He slowed and stopped, noting the girl's apprehension at his approach. It was obvious to Corey that the pickup had a blown tire, which had put it off the road, so she would need help.
"Good mornin'," greeted Corey as he slowly approached the nervous girl. "Looks like you could use some help."
The girl looked downwards, then back at him defiantly, as though challenging him to do anything to harm her.
"Mornin'," she replied, her speech coming with a strong eastern European accent, "Yes, you can help me, no?"
"Yes, I can help you," reassured Corey, keeping a discreet distance so as not to appear threatening. He knew from experience how threatened a person could feel when approached too close by a stranger.
Corey took the jack, a few blocks of wood and some tools from his van, removed the spare wheel from the pickup, and quickly chocked the pickup's wheels and jacked up the corner with the flat tire, all the time being closely watched by the silent girl.
"It's lucky it's a nice fine day and not rainin'," commented Corey, "What's your name anyway?"
The girl looked puzzled but understood the last part well enough to reply, "Nina. What you name?"
"Hi Nina, I'm Corey."
"Hi Corey. Dekuji."
Although Corey didn't understand the last word, the look of thanks in her eyes confirmed what she was trying to say. He quickly had the wheel off, the spare on and nuts tightened, then let the truck down. He indicated the flat tire.
"I take to work to fix, ok?" he asked, reverting to more simplified English in the hope she would understand better.
"Ano, yes, ok. Dekuji, dank you."
