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ANCIENT BETRAYALS
CRASHING OUT
INVENTING EMILY
WICKED!
FLYING FORBIDDEN FLAGS
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CRASHING OUT
CHAPTER 1
Supple arms were around his neck. A young girl's voice in his ear. Soft words breathing against his cheek.
Do you love me, Tony? But of course he did! - who wouldn't at a moment such as this?
He could smell her perfume. Feel their limbs entwine. Hear her giggling. Oh, Tony! I haven't done that before!
Then the voice was fading, the girl in the bed slipping from his grasp. Tony could hear his own voice calling out. Sally! You can't go yet!
But she had. His marvellous dream had gone. He was waking up, there was no Sally in his arms, no tender words against his cheek - the only words Tony could hear were those of his wife Jane.
'For God's sake, Tony! Do you know what time it is? What was all that shouting about? And who did you think you were talking too, may I ask!'
Tony shrank down under the duvet. What on earth was he going to say to Jane? Just a dream, my dear. Nobody that you knew...
Birdsong could be heard outside the bedroom window. The dawn chorus had begun. Good grief! - it wasn't even morning yet! He could have dreamed about Sally for another hour! So what gave Jane the right to invade his dreams? She could dream some of her own! Bloody hell! - even in his dreams Jane was trying to tell him what to do!
But suddenly all Tony's courage had fled - damp pyjamas were like a clammy hand clutching at his legs. So how was he going to explain that to Jane? What smartarsed deity had invented wet dreams?
Perhaps if he slipped his pyjamas off while he was still in bed... He could always say they had come off during the night. Or perhaps he could say he had forgotten to put them on?
Surreptitiously Tony glanced towards his wife.
Perhaps if he were very careful...
And then Tony was completely awake. He stared at the pillow where Jane's head should have been.
Oh shit! What a stupid dream!
At five o'clock on a Friday morning Anthony George Richardson was sitting up in bed in a muck sweat. He fumbled for his cigarettes. To hell with cutting down! Who wouldn't need a fag after a dream like that?
The tip of his cigrette glowed like a neon light in the darkened bedroom. How could he have forgotten? He had been divorced for over a year. Jane had gone, he was fifty-five years old, alone in an empty house, and Sally was a memory from long ago.
He could smell her perfume. Feel their limbs entwine. Hear her giggling. Oh, Tony! I haven't done that before!
Then the voice was fading, the girl in the bed slipping from his grasp. Tony could hear his own voice calling out. Sally! You can't go yet!
But she had. His marvellous dream had gone. He was waking up, there was no Sally in his arms, no tender words against his cheek - the only words Tony could hear were those of his wife Jane.
'For God's sake, Tony! Do you know what time it is? What was all that shouting about? And who did you think you were talking too, may I ask!'
Tony shrank down under the duvet. What on earth was he going to say to Jane? Just a dream, my dear. Nobody that you knew...
Birdsong could be heard outside the bedroom window. The dawn chorus had begun. Good grief! - it wasn't even morning yet! He could have dreamed about Sally for another hour! So what gave Jane the right to invade his dreams? She could dream some of her own! Bloody hell! - even in his dreams Jane was trying to tell him what to do!
But suddenly all Tony's courage had fled - damp pyjamas were like a clammy hand clutching at his legs. So how was he going to explain that to Jane? What smartarsed deity had invented wet dreams?
Perhaps if he slipped his pyjamas off while he was still in bed... He could always say they had come off during the night. Or perhaps he could say he had forgotten to put them on?
Surreptitiously Tony glanced towards his wife.
Perhaps if he were very careful...
And then Tony was completely awake. He stared at the pillow where Jane's head should have been.
Oh shit! What a stupid dream!
At five o'clock on a Friday morning Anthony George Richardson was sitting up in bed in a muck sweat. He fumbled for his cigarettes. To hell with cutting down! Who wouldn't need a fag after a dream like that?
The tip of his cigrette glowed like a neon light in the darkened bedroom. How could he have forgotten? He had been divorced for over a year. Jane had gone, he was fifty-five years old, alone in an empty house, and Sally was a memory from long ago.
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