30 DAYS IN JUNE
Chris Westlake
Copyright © 2019 by Chris Westlake
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
First published in Great Britain in 2019
Any reference to real names and places are purely fictional and are constructs of the author. Any offence the references produce is unintentional and in no way reflects the reality of any locations or people involved.
A copy of this book is available through the British Library.
ISBN 9781712581353
Cover design by Elizabeth Ponting, LP Designs & Art
Editorial services provided by Mirador Publishing
www.chriswestlakeauthor.co.uk
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DAY ONE 1ST JUNE 1988
DAY ONE 1ST JUNE 2018
DAY TWO 2ND JUNE 2018
DAY THREE 3RD JUNE 1988
DAY FOUR 4TH JUNE 2018
DAY FIVE 5TH JUNE 2018
DAY SIX 6TH JUNE 1988
DAY SEVEN 7TH JUNE 2018
DAY EIGHT 8TH JUNE 1988
DAY NINE 9TH JUNE 2018
DAY TEN 10TH JUNE 2018
DAY ELEVEN 11TH JUNE 2018
DAY TWELVE 12TH JUNE 2018
DAY THIRTEEN 13TH JUNE 2018
DAY FOURTEEN 14TH JUNE 2018
DAY FIFTEEN 15TH JUNE 2018
DAY SIXTEEN 16TH JUNE 1988
DAY SEVENTEEN 17TH JUNE 2018
DAY EIGHTEEN 18TH JUNE 2018
DAY NINETEEN 19TH JUNE 2018
DAY TWENTY 20TH JUNE 2018
DAY TWENTY-ONE 21ST JUNE 2018
DAY TWENTY-TWO 22ND JUNE 2018
DAY TWENTY-THREE 23RD JUNE 1988
DAY TWENTY-FOUR 24TH JUNE 2018
DAY TWENTY-FIVE 25TH JUNE 2018
DAY TWENTY-SIX 26TH JUNE 2018
DAY TWENTY-SEVEN 27TH JUNE 2018
DAY TWENTY-EIGHT 28TH JUNE 2018
DAY TWENTY-NINE 29TH JUNE 2018
DAY TWENTY-NINE 29TH JUNE 1988
DAY THIRTY 30TH JUNE 2018
About the Author
DAY ONE 1ST JUNE 1988
Removing his foot from the pedal, John Watts flicks the full beams of his Austin Allegro so that the figure up ahead - the only figure - illuminates like an actor in the spotlight.
Red-brick buildings cast a shadow on the road. Black smoke spouted from the chimneys a decade or so ago, but now the factories are shut, the buildings abandoned. Moss fills the cracks, and wood fills the square windows. This is a forgotten street. No light. No life.
Squinting at the clock on the dashboard, John inhales the early morning breeze blowing through the open window. The car edges closer. He can hear the heels clicking on the bumpy tarmac. His eyes follow the zip running the length of the black leather boots, stopping just north of the knee. Closer. A glimpse of pale white flesh separates the boots from the pencil skirt, clinging to the thighs. Thrusting his head out of the window, John recalls the intoxicating perfume he inhaled when he brushed close to the figure in the club, just hours earlier.
The head outside remains high, eyes focussed on the monotonous, unchanging road ahead, seemingly oblivious to the car, now just feet away. The fake eyelashes do not blink. There is no sideways glance. Could be on the catwalk. The narrow hips swish from side to side. A black handbag dangles from the right shoulder.
John beeps the horn. Like a click of his finger; the figure is awakened from the trance. Long fingers on hips. Swivels to face the car. The lips remain a full, red line. No cracks in the painted face.
Plumping his cheeks, John keeps his lips pressed tight together; a thirty-a-day habit has left his teeth yellow and rotting. "Don't want to be out here on your own at this time of the morning," he says. "Never know who might be lurking with bad intentions now, do you?"
His face burns as the almond eyes unblinkingly evaluate him. The long legs bend at the knee as the pelvis is thrust forward. John's upper lip quivers as silence fills the air. His jaw drops as the scent of the perfume grows more alluring. Click of the heels. The door is pulled open and then pushed shut. Bloodshot eyes glance in the mirror, as the legs unfold and then part to allow enough room in the back seat. John blows air from his puffed cheeks.
Not usually this easy.
Pushing his fingers inside the pocket of his jeans, John digs out an oval mint; it disappears inside his waiting mouth. Only has a few left and so he decides against offering one. Taps the steering wheel. His rapid thoughts rebound off each other like a pinball. Important to get the balance right, he thinks. Important to be interesting and interested, but not appear too keen, too eager.
"Gets cold this time of morning, doesn't it?" he says. "And it's been such a hot day, too. Difficult to know what to wear when you go out, don't you think?"
His eyes flicker in the mirror, notices the rise of the skirt, that it barely covers the curve of the buttocks. Forces his eyes to rise. Needs to get the balance. Catches the shrug of the shoulders. They are lean and broad: swimmer's shoulders. The head turns, stares at the blank canvas out of the window. John seizes the opportunity. Eyes narrow into slits as they scan every muscle and contour of the beautiful body in the back of the car. In the back of his car. The thighs are slightly parted. His eyes focus on the straight line that divides the leather boots from cold, naked flesh. His eyes are ready to continue their journey, keep moving higher, keep continuing all the way to the top, but the head turns away from the window and catches him looking. John is sure he saw the briefest of smiles. He strains against his jeans, digs into the hardness of the steering wheel.
John turns to his wife in the passenger seat. Forgot she was there. He idly wonders what she makes of this sudden -
