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his trousers round his ankles, striking endless matches and threatening to set
the pile carpet on fire, before he finally found them.
She told him not to bother with one, even tried to roll it off him when she
got really randy but he was adamant. Damn him! That was why it hadn't been
such a good screw, that and the fact that he couldn't keep his hard-on.
So later, her appetite already whetted, Sylvia had gone in search of another
screw, and stumbling about in the darkened house that now resembled a Soho
brothel she had found Eric. Good old Ek!
He had confessed years later that a bird had gone cold on him and he was off
to find a nice quiet place to jerk off and sod the birds! Sylvia had taken him
upstairs and on the way they had passed a still-drunk Roy who had dropped
something else and was striking matches again.
Eric had thought his luck was in when she told him not to bother using
anything, didn't even ask if the time of the month was OK. God, he'd really
pounded her that night, managed it twice, and it had been four in the morning
when she'd got home. Her mother was up waiting for her. Girls who stop out
till this time end up pregnant before very long! Not with Roy Patterson
though. His name threw a better light on the scene; she didn't mention Eric.
Roy had stood by her but the baby had been adopted so it was really academic.
She didn't want to go out with him again, just biding her time to produce Eric
out of the conjurer's hat. Come back Eric, I need you.
Those early days had been really good. They could have kept them going if they
had both worked at it. She could see his face now as clearly as though it was
only yesterday, that cheeky smile, a quip when you expected a lazy draw!. A
good lover, the best she had ever had. Jon Quinn didn't amount to much, he
fucked when he was in the mood but mostly he was too tired at nights to do
anything other than fall fast asleep the moment he got into bed. Oh, Eric, I
wish you were here, we missed out on such a lot. We were damned fools, both of
us.
She saw his face again; she had to look hard to make sure it really was him
because he'd grown a beard, his hair was long and matted and his features were
much more squat. But it was Eric all right, the old flame of desire lighting
up his eyes the way they used to. She closed her eyes. Opened them again.
He was stilt there, head and squat shoulders framed in the window like a 3-D
painting, nose flattened against the glass. That was when she screamed and
almost fainted, recoiled against the table, knocked over a jar of beetroot so
that it ran blood-red across the scrubbed pine.
Her mind boomeranged, came back and hit her with stunning force. Realisation,
so wonderful and yet so awful. Staring back at an empty window, only
half-praying that it had been a trick of the mind; hearing the door click
open, thud back against the wall.
Eric, I need you, but God I'm scared to hell!
He was in the kitchen. She could hear his stertorous breathing, smell him, a
kind of indoor canine odour like a dog that has been curled up on its mat for
most of the day. She closed her eyes, wanted to remember him as he had been
that night of the Jamiesons' twenty-first party. You don't need to use
anything, Eric, I'll be OK. Maybe we could invite Alan round again one
evening. Or perhaps we could go look up the Joneses again.
She felt her eyes opening, couldn't stop them. It wasn't a shock because she
knew what to expect, braced herself for it. He was kneeling over her, his face
only inches from hers so that she smelled his breath. Spring onions, you've
been pinching from Jon's garden at night, haven't you? Oh Christ, that's
really funny. You always loved onions, Ek, even when we were courting. If I
close my eyes I can go right back there only I can't get them shut.
She read a lot in his eyes, things that his brain was incapable of
transmitting into words. Half-memories, recognition. He was struggling with it
all but it was too much for him so he had to resort to a language he knew.
Fingers explored her clothing, unfamiliar with how a blouse and skirt came
off.
I'll help you, Ek. She fumbled, her fingers shaking so much that the buttons
twisted in their holes and she tore at them in her frustration. You don't have
to use anything, I'll be OK. If anything goes wrong we'll blame Roy Patter-son
again, OK?
He couldn't wait, was helping her to tear off her remaining garments, grunting
his delight as he fingered her, hurt her, but she did not cry out. Oh God, it
was too wonderful to be true. You've been searching for me all these months,
Eric. How did you find me here . . .?
Guilt; he'd known all along, guessed where she went to get screwed whilst he
was away peddling his wares. She dropped her gaze, spread her legs wide, edged
back on the hard quarries of the kitchen floor but they had the softness of a
French quilt. I didn't want to come here, Eric, please believe me. Can't
things be as they once were between us?
He wanted her from behind, lifted her bodily, turned her over, pulled her up
into a kneeling position. His thrust took her by surprise, threw her forward
so that she hit her head hard on the table leg. Blackness and pain, then he
was in her, shuddering her whole body with the lust of weeks of waiting.
Mind-blowing, an erotic dream, soaring her to unbelievable heights and then
leaving her writhing on the floor. Her strength was gone, her groping arms
dropping back down. Don't leave me, Eric, I need you. Take me with you
wherever you're going. Don't leave me!
And in those few moments of silence they both heard the sound of approaching
footsteps, studded working boots on the yard outside scraping on pebbles. And
in that moment Eric Atkinson was a beast of the wild again, primitive man
obeying the strongest instinct of all - survival.
One bound took him to the open door. Sylvia glimpsed him from the rear,
unfamiliar now, the hairy flesh rippling with muscle, short legs bracing him
for the rush to freedom.
'Eric . . . don't leave me, please.'
He ran, low and fast, a direct course for the gap in the straggling hawthorn
hedge. Aware of the man he had watched for so long from the hills above, the
pale hairless features and strange colourful clothing, the stick he carried
that made loud bangs and dropped birds dead in flight.
For a second, maybe two, Jon Quinn's reflexes froze, a snippet of time that
meant the difference between life and death for Eric Atkinson. Seeing but not
wholly believing, the terrible fear of what he might find back in the cottage.
Anger climbing into fury, remembering his gun and what it could do. He threw
it to his shoulder, pulled twice, cursed because there was no more than a
faint futile click from each trigger. The safety-catch was on! Valuable
seconds consumed as he half-lowered the weapon, forced the serrated sliding
catch forward; back to his shoulder, searching for his target.
The other was already in the hedge, scrambling through like a dog-fox to whom
its escape route was second nature; screened from view. Right or left? He
hedged his bets, fired 6ne barrel a yard to the right of the gap, the other a
yard to the left. No answering cry of pain. He could have killed the bastard
stone dead. Or he could have missed.
Running, still carrying the smoking shotgun, in through the door. Oh my God!
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