'I still think we're playing this wrong. We should tell the police.'
'I told you . . . I'm handling this. We don't tell the police.'
He stared at her, then raised his hands helplessly. He knew he was being weak . . . stupid . . . but all this money. . .
'Well, all right.'
'Let's get it in the bedroom.'
They dragged the carton into their bedroom and pushed it against the wall. Sheila took the eiderdown off the bed and draped it over the carton.
'You get off. You'd better bring something in for supper.' Tom felt a sudden overpowering desire for her.
'If we are going through with this together,' he said, his voice shaking and husky, 'then we'd better go the whole way.'
She recognised the despairing desire in his eyes and she once again recognised her complete power over him.
'Oh, well . . . if you must.'
She slid down her slacks and stripped off her panties. Then she dropped back flat across the bed. When he thrust into her with desperate urgency, she clutched hold of him, making a response to please and control him. As he shuddered, clinging to her, she stared up at the fly-blown ceiling, so bored with him she could scream.
When he had gone, she took a shower. Then walking, naked, into the bedroom, she took the eiderdown off the carton and squatting on her heels, she spent a long time fondling the money.
Here, she thought, was power . . . the key to unlock the door that would lead into the world she had always dreamed about. Her first buy would be a mink coat, then a diamond necklace, and then every other jewel that caught her eye. She thought of a six-bedroom house with a bathroom to every bedroom, a vast lounge, a big garden, immaculately kept by Chinese labour. Then a maroon-coloured Bentley car and a Japanese chauffeur in a maroon-coloured uniform. There would be a motor-boat, of course: possibly a yacht. She wasn't sure about this as she had never been on the sea. She had it all planned: it was a dream she had had ever since she could remember. Well, now it was within reach.
She stood up, running her long fingers over her body, lifting her breasts, and sighing. Then she began to dress.
Somewhere along the line, Tom would have to go. He didn't fit in the picture. He was too small-time . . . too narrow . . . too scared. She had in mind a dark, tall, well-built man who would know how to handle money, who would have the respect of head waiters, and who would know how to take care of a girl. Yes, some time in the future, she must lose Tom, but the time hadn't come yet.
Unable to resist the temptation, she took three five-hundreddollar bills from the carton, then she closed the lid and replaced the eiderdown. She slid the folded bills down the top of one of her stockings. It was exciting to feel so much money pressing against her skin.
She went to her wardrobe and regarded the contents with contempt. God! What a collection of ghastly rags! She put on a pleated grey skirt and a cream-coloured sweater.
Having done her face and hair, she walked into the sitting-room. She looked at her cheap wristwatch. It was a few minutes after eleven-thirty. Tom wouldn't be back until six. Usually, she went out, but now she found herself chained to the bungalow. There was nothing to read in the house. She frowned, suddenly realising that from now on until they left the bungalow for good she would be a prisoner here. With all that money to spend . . . what a waste of time!
She felt hungry and realised there was nothing to eat in the house. She hesitated, then getting up she called the Sandwich Bar at the end of the street. She ordered two chicken sandwiches and a bottle of milk. The man said he would send her order over right away.
She turned on the TV set, but at this hour the programme was so dull, she immediately turned it off. A boy arrived a quarter of an hour later with the food. She paid him, noting she had only three dollars and a few cents in her purse.
She ate the sandwiches while moving around the lounge. She was restless and kept thinking of all that money in the bedroom. She kept thinking what a waste of time it was to have to wait when she could now start a spending spree.
As she finished the last of the sandwiches, the front-door bell rang. The sound made her jump and she stood motionless, her heart hammering. Then, when the bell rang again, she went to the front door.
Harry Dylan was standing on the doorstep.
'I guess you forgot our little date,' he said and waved a bottle of Old Roses at her. 'The wife's gone shopping. I thought I'd look in.'
She eyed him, hesitated, then decided he was better than boredom.
'Well . . . come in.'
'Mr. Whiteside's gone to work, hasn't he?' Dylan was eyeing her figure. The tip of his tongue moistened his lips.
'Yes . . . he's gone to work.'
She led the way into the sitting-room.
'Here are the receipts and the parcel.'
She looked at the electricity and gas bills and tossed them on the table.
'My husband will settle with these.' She stared at Dylan. 'He never leaves me any money.'
'I guess most husbands are like that,' Dylan said and laughed nervously. He couldn't keep his eyes to
