SSC (2001) The Dog Catcher Read Free Page A

because they know there are a lot of
us British here and they think we’ll look after them.’
    ‘Will
we?’
    ‘I’m
not sure, I think everybody’s fully dogged up at the moment, but we’ll see.’
    Through
the week Sue began to look out for The Dog and became quite friendly with it,
feeding it her unwanted tapas when the owners of Noche Azul weren’t watching
and scratching it behind the ear as it lay asleep on the stone steps of the
church.
    It
turned out to be a week for making new friends as her horoscope in the
international edition of the Daily Express that somebody had left in the
bar had told her it was going to be. For on the Friday of that week the Mayor,
Don Paco, a man of at least seventy, wearing the strongest spectacles she’d
ever seen, consisting of what appeared to be a pair of zoom lenses held in a
thick black plastic frame on his head, came to see her in Noche Azul where she
was having her morning coffee. He asked her to accompany him to the terrace of
the villagers’ bar, which as far as she could tell didn’t have a name or indeed
any furniture, being a big empty tiled room; its only decoration was a big photo
display provided by the manufacturer of all the various ice creams that the bar
didn’t stock.
    Sue and
Don Paco sat outside under a fig tree, on faded orange plastic stacking chairs
placed at a wonky old green-baize card table. The local guy who ran the bar
brought them coffees and for the Mayor a giant brandy in a fish bowl. She
recalled what Laurence said about the cost of booze in these parts: ‘At these
prices you can’t afford not to be drunk!’ Except the Spanish never ever seemed
to get drunk, not in the fighting, spewing, brawling, boasting British way that
she was used to from Saturday nights in Bolton and every night on the costa.
    Don
Paco obviously had something serious to say. ‘Here it comes,’ she thought. ‘Run
out of town on a rail.’
    But
instead he spoke to her most formally. ‘Senorita Sue, I have heard from Antonio
the truck driver that you did a little favour for him in return for a ride up
here. I was wondering whether it would be possible, if you could perhaps do
something similar for me. What it is, if I could put … mi pajaro, between
your breasts which are coated with soap and you could squeeze them together,
until well, you know what follows on from that. Perhaps once a week might be
suitable? I would provide my own soap.
    ‘Hmm
…’ She thought about it. ‘Weekly soapy tit wank. That’ll cost you, Mr Mayor.’
    ‘So be
it, nothing is free in this life, we must pay in the end for everything. I had
some little money set aside to buy an electric corn husker this autumn, but a
soapy tit wank sounds like it would be better value.’
    A few
days later another old farmer called Ramon asked her to sit under the fig tree
with him. ‘Senorita Sue, I have a little money, it was intended for my wife’s
operation but you know she will die soon anyway, so…’
    So that
was a bi-weekly, non-penetrative butt fuck that he was after. Then there was an
armpit wank for the bank manager, another soapy tit wank for the baker, hand
jobs for innumerable old campasinos and ten thousand pesetas from the priest to
let him watch her taking a piss in the orange groves.
    Pretty
soon she had quite a business going. The average age of her clients was
seventy-two and all of them were old Spanish men from the village or the
surrounding campo. Laurence told her that the younger men in the village either
had girlfriends who let them have sex with them (though it was understood that
this also meant marriage) or they visited the something like thirty brothels
that lined the main roads between the village and the big city of Granada.
These brothels were shabby breezeblock, tin-roofed buildings, always seemingly
with a single dusty car parked outside, their neon signs hung dead in the
daylight spelling out ‘Club Paradiso’ and ‘Club Splendido’. They were staffed,
so it was