James Follett Trojan

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Carl hobbled to the belt of shingle and sat down. 'The only worthwhile thing
about this ridiculous jogging lark is that I get to see you in that
disgustingly sexy running gear. Apart from that boost to my animal craving for
you, it's destroying my health, my reason, and my stamina. I refuse to run
another step.'
Beverley laughed and sat beside him. She grabbed hold of his hand and held it
tightly. 'You're good for me, Carl.'
'Which is a damn sight more than you are for me,' Carl grumbled. He stole a
surreptitious sideways glance at Beverley. Her face was alive, animated. The
old Beverley was back. The vibrant ready-to-take-on-the-world Beverley that he
loved and which he thought had gone forever.
'I think better when I'm running.'
Carl tugged a handkerchief from his shorts and mopped his forehead. It was a
sultry, overcast afternoon. The beach and sea were deserted apart from a few
novice windsurfers struggling to maintain their balance in the scant breeze.
'Well I can't think at all. As always, you manage to perplex and frighten me
and make me love you all at the same time.'
'Why should I frighten you, Carl?'
'Because I think you know something.'
'I know that I was right,' said Beverley lightly.
'You mean someone is sabotaging the Kronos?'
'Yes.'
'Who?'
Beverley watched a pair of herring gulls squabbling over a dead fish. 'He's
ruthless. Utterly and completely ruthless, through to the core. Take my word
for it. He had Theo Draggon killed.'
'Yes. But who?'
Silence.
'Now listen, Bev, if you've found something out, then you have a duty to go to
the police, or at least tell me.'
Beverley saw the suppressed anger in Carl's eyes. For a moment it looked as if
she was about to say something but she changed her mind and jumped to her
feet. 'Come on,' she said lightly. 'Race you back to the bungalow.' To add
weight to the challenge, she hauled a protesting Carl to his feet and set off
at a brisk pace, switching on her Laine Runner when Carl drew level with her.
'So who is it?' Carl demanded.
For an answer Beverley swerved through a sand pool and splattered Carl's legs.
'You're a bitch, Miss Laine!'
Beverley laughed and increased her pace. Carl grimly maintained his position a
couple of metres behind her. He misjudged the breakwater, caught his foot on
the board and went sprawling in the wet sand.
'Beverley!'
She ignored him. Carl staggered gamely after her and got his rhythm back,
'Beverley!' he yelled. 'Severe punishment awaits you for this!'
She maintained a moderate pace so that Carl could catch up with her.
'What sort of punishment, kind sire?'
'I'm considering . . .' Carl puffed, 'a thrashing . . . across my knee . . .
But you might enjoy that ... So something more drastic ... is called for. For
Christ's sake, Bev, you're killing me!'
Beverley stepped up her pace in response to the urging of the tiny electric
shocks from her belt. Were they sharper than usual or was she imagining it?
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'Oh, for Christ's sake,' Carl puffed. 'This is supposed to make me fit, not
kill me!'
'It will if you can keep it up!' Beverley yelled over her shoulder. 'And
you're younger than me, remember!'
The pin pricks became faster, spurring her on. Suddenly Carl was forgotten as
the adrenalin coursed into her bloodstream. The drug stimulated and sharpened
her sense: the splat of her feet on the wet sand; the satisfying crunch
beneath her trainers when she crossed a belt of shingle.
Faster, body!
'Beverley!'
The voice was an insignificant intrusion almost obliterated by the pounding
blood in her ears. The shocks from her belt increased in intensity, driving
her on. She cleared a breakwater effortlessly.
'Beverley!'
Much fainter.
Good! Good! Get away from him! Faster, body! Faster!
The heady, sexual release of alkaloids. The vicious stabbing of the electric
shocks reached a level of such engulfing intensity that it was no longer
possible to tell where they were coming from. Her whole body was imprisoned in
a terrible, delicious ecstasy.
Passing her bungalow now, but she no longer knew or cared.
Come on, stupid body! Faster! Faster!
Suddenly the euphoria was total. She was no longer aware of the
hydraulically-damped impact of her trainers on the sand; she could no longer
hear the crash of surf, the cries of scavenging seagulls, or the relentless
pumping of blood from a heart being driven to the point of failure. The
intoxicating sensation of multiple orgasms that swept through her tortured
body was like the sudden opening of sluice gates that had been holding back a
flood.
Carl saw Beverley collapse on the sand. He started running.
28
'Jogging maniacs,' grumbled Beverley's doctor, emerging from her bedroom.
'She's fit as a flea but she won't admit that she's past the age when she
could go galloping off in all directions without her body yelling foul.'
'Have you called an ambulance?' Carl asked, trying to look past the doctor
into the bedroom.
'Not necessary. Glucose and a knockout sedative, that's all she needs and
that's what I've given her. What you can give her when she wakes up is some
strong advice to give up this crazy jogging thing. She's never listened to me.
I've even chased her along the beach, would you believe. Anyway, she'll sleep
for about ten hours. Make her take it easy for at least a day when she wakes
up. Call me if there are any problems.'
'So it wasn't a heart attack?'
'Good heavens, no. She fainted. Her brain's got more sense than she knows how
to use. It saw what was coming and shut everything down. Defence mechanism.
Good day to you.'
As soon as the doctor's car had reversed out of the drive, Carl cautiously
opened Beverley's bedroom door and peeped in. Seeing her relaxed face, her
ringlets spread out on the pillow, was a relief he couldn't even begin to
measure. Staggering four hundred metres along the beach while holding her
dead, seemingly lifeless weight in his arms had been an agony he would never
forget.
Carl sat in the living room and watched the setting sun breaking through the
cloud. There was something irresistibly soothing about watching the changing
light on the sea. For the first time he could understand why Beverley was so
in love with the place. Once it was dark he watched television for a while
with the sound turned down for fear of disturbing her. There was nothing worth
watching so he turned his attention to her crowded bookcase with its many
framed photographs of her son, Paul: Paul when he was about two; school
pictures of Paul; Paul in scout uniform; not one of Paul when he got married.
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That was odd.
His eyes went down to the shelves. Strange that in the years he had known
Beverley, he had never had the chance to look at her books. There were a
number of tomes on business management, several on British seabirds, a few
coffee-table books, and a large collection of modern paperback novels. None of
which interested him.
At 10 p.m. he made himself a coffee and looked in on Beverley. She was still
sleeping soundly. Her Laine Runner belt was lying on the floor where he had
dumped it after carrying her into the bedroom. He picked it up and turned it
over in his hands, wondering if it was in any way connected with her [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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