Talbot watched impassively, the whiskey tumbler still in his hand.
‘Still nothing?’ she said, scathingly. ‘Does this help?’
He watched as she slid both hands down to her softly curled pubic hair, the index finger of her left hand tracing featherlight patterns across the mound.
She moved one leg so that it was dangling over the arm of the chair, and simultaneously she pushed her right middle finger into her mouth, drawing it glistening from that warm refuge. Using the slippery digit, she drew the gleaming saliva over her cleft, rotating it gently.
Talbot took another step towards her, looking down at her, at that finger.
‘Do you just want to watch me tonight?’ she purred.
Talbot stooped, picked up the robe and dropped it on her. ‘Put it on,’ he said, turning his back on her.
She pulled on the robe, fastening it haphazardly.
‘If you don’t want that, what the hell do you want?’
He sat down opposite her, head bowed. ‘I just wanted to talk,’ he said, wearily.
‘Talk about what?’ Gina snapped. ‘Talk dirty? Is that what you want tonight?’ She dropped to the floor, crawled across to him and placed one hand on his thigh, looking up into his face. ‘I’ll talk dirty for you, baby. I’ll get you hard, I’ll make you feel so good. I’ll make you come.
It’ll feel great. My mouth on your cock, so soft. Sucking. Licking. Until you come in my …’
He grabbed her hand, pulled her upright so that her face was inches from his.
‘I just want to talk to somebody,’ he snarled, pushing her away.
His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Just talk’ he murmured, and when he looked at her she saw there were tears in his eyes.
He put down his glass and got to his feet.
She saw that he was heading for the door.
‘Talbot, wait’ she called.
He was already turning the door handle.
‘Thanks for the drink’ he said quietly, then stepped out, shutting the door behind him.
She heard his footfalls on the stairs. Receding.
‘Fucking idiot’ she hissed.
She heard the front door slam.
He was gone.
Forty-four
The relative silence of the classroom was broken by a muffled yelp of pain.
It was followed by several muted giggles.
Frank Reed looked up from the book he was reading and surveyed the faces before him, or rather the tops of heads. Most of the classroom occupants were hunched over sheets of paper, hurriedly scribbling down the passage in one of their text books which he’d instructed them to copy.
He looked in the direction of the yelp and the giggles but saw nothing to alert him. Hiding a smile, he paused a moment to run an appraising gaze over his wards before continuing with his own reading.
Paul O’Brian was seated at the back of the room again, head bent so low over his desk it looked as if his forehead was resting on the wooden top.
Reed watched him for a few minutes before returning his attention to his book.
There was a loud snapping sound.
Another yelp.
More giggling.
Reed caught the slightest hint of movement out of his eye corner.
He saw one of the boys towards the back of the class turn around, saw another flick a rubber band at him.
‘Right, that’s enough,’ the teacher said, jabbing a finger towards the culprits. ‘If you want to indulge in target practice, don’t do it in my time’
he told the lad with the rubber band.
‘Sorry, Mr Reed,’ the lad said, humbly, returning to his book.
Other eyes turned in his direction. More giggles.
‘All right,’ Reed told the class. ‘The cabaret is over, get back to work.’
He noticed that Paul O’Brian hadn’t taken much interest in the disturbance. In fact, the boy hadn’t even raised his head.
And yet, he didn’t seem to be writing.
His head was still bent low over his desk, the pen still gripped in his hand.
His forehead was on the desktop.
It took Reed a second or two to realise that O’Brian wasn’t moving at all.
The teacher hurried from behind his desk and towards the back of the classroom, other eyes turning to watch.
Reed’s only concern was O’Brian.
As he drew closer he could see how pale the boy’s skin was.
His eyes were closed.
‘Paul,’ Reed said, gripping the boy’s shoulder.
He didn’t stir.
Reed squeezed harder, sucking in a deep breath as O’Brian slid to one side.
Reed managed to catch him before he slid off the chair, scooping him up into his arms, holding him as if he were some kind of lifeless doll.
The rest of the class had turned their attention fully to the scene at the back of the room now. They looked on as Reed held the boy, looking down at his milk-white face.
There were scratches on his neck. They stood out vividly against the whiteness of his skin.
‘Gary, Mark’ Reed snapped, nodding towards two boys near the front of the class. ‘Run along to Mrs Trencher now, tell her that Paul’s ill and that I’m bringing him along immediately. Go on.’
The two boys didn’t need to be told twice, both scooting to their feet and hurtling out of the door. Reed heard their footsteps pounding away up the corridor as he advanced through the rows of desks, carrying his limp cargo.
Is he dead?’ a voice called.
Reed looked down at Paul O’Brian’s gaunt face.
And the scratches.
‘No, he’s not dead,’ Reed replied, reaching the door. ‘You all just get on with your work until I get back.’
He headed out into the corridor, carrying the frail form of the boy with little difficulty. So little that he found he could run.
The school nurse’s office was about a hundred yards away but Reed sprinted along with his unconscious cargo.
O’Brian hadn’t stirred.
Reed ran a little faster.
Speed suddenly seemed important.
Forty-five
‘What happened to him?’ asked Amy Trencher, removing the cuff of the sphygmomanometer from Paul O’Brian’s arm with a sound resembling ripping fabric.
‘I haven’t got a clue’ Reed told her, looking down at the boy who was semi-conscious now, his eyes flickering open every few seconds. ‘He passed out. Blacked out. I don’t know.’
‘His blood pressure is low,’ the nurse told Reed. ‘I’d better listen to his heart.’
Reed watched as she began to undo the buttons of the boy’s shirt, gradually easing back the material on both
