Soft drizzle and a bitter wind seemed to follow Peter wherever he went, complementing his mood and confirming just how bad life could be. It had been over three weeks since his wife had vanished – not, according to Claire, into thin air, but into the arms of a young lothario.
Not only that, but his young, demure wife, had telephoned her sister in the middle of lovemaking to say what she had done? Oh no! It didn't ring true!
Peter had searched through her belongings and found nothing missing, no shoes, no skirts, no underwear, everything was as it should be. Admittedly she only had one suspender belt, the one Claire had bought for her with matching briefs and bra, but that was in her undies drawer along with her usual cotton panties.
If a woman was about to run off for a passionate affair she would certainly take along clean knickers if not the only daring set of underwear she owned. Unless, of course, she was going to spend most of her time minus them. He couldn't bare the thought of that, she wasn't that sort of girl. Then he'd tortured himself by thinking that maybe she was? Perhaps the age difference mattered after all?
Since starting his search he had taken to hanging out at the service station where Susan was last seen. He'd spoken to the woman who'd seen her that night but she could only repeat what she'd told the police. 'He was a big man, a trucker, and they were holding hands.' Since that time Peter had gone back most evenings, hoping they would pass through again.
Few people cared to talk, especially when he started asking questions about the truckers. He found the best way to gain the confidence of the lorry men was to leave his tidy clothes at home. The sight of a tie had copper stamped all over it, and a jacket and trousers was like garlic to a vampire. He took to wearing dirty jeans and an oily tee shirt and found the men much more convivial.
Tonight he'd gone one further and borrowed a friend's Ford Cargo truck which still had some engineering parts loaded on the back. Inside he was involved in conversation within minutes.
Including Peter there were four of them sitting around the table shovelling beans and egg down their throats and cracking filthy jokes.
"What about that blonde hiker Jack passed over? Fucking cracking or what? I would have kept her, me."
The other two men turned quickly towards Peter, uncertainty and concern clearly evident on their face.
"She's a bleeding housewife though, don't know what the daft bastard was thinking of."
"Shut up, man!" shouted the Geordie. Nodding his head towards Peter. "What do you think you're playing at?"
Dan seemed unperturbed by his friends reproval.
"He's alright," he quipped. "Ain't you mate? Got a truck in the park, like the rest of us."
Peter gave a nonchalant shake of his head which belied the churning inside his stomach. He dare not show any sign of interest or their suspicions would be aroused. His best chance of gleaning more information was to remain indifferent to the conversation. Given the turmoil of emotions he was experiencing, it wasn't easy.
"Anyway," continued Dan. "She's with Lincoln, he's working the east coast."
Peter was living on his wits.
"Lincoln? Does the Grimsby and Hull runs?"
Dan laughed. "You know Lincoln? Always wears green, like Robin fucking Hood. Owns his own firm. The Fe -"
"Dan!" There was no mistaking the tone of the Geordie. "It's time we were off."
The words panicked Peter, desperate for more information.
"Is Lincoln doing a run now?" he asked.
The Geordie grabbed hold of his mate's arm, then turned to Peter.
"We've got to be on our way, see." He looked at the other man still sitting at the table. "Don't you think you'd better make a move as well?"
The man next to Peter swilled the last of his tea, nodded his agreement and left with the others.
It was important not to get too carried away. After all, no names had been mentioned, just that some one called Jack had picked up a married hiker and now 'Lincoln' had her. Blonde! But there were hundreds of hitch hikers out there, perhaps thousands. What were the chances of that one being Susan? It was no good.
No matter how calm he tried to be, something told him he was at last on her trail.
Almost a month passed before Peter got the break he so desperately needed.
She was a woman in her mid thirties, clearly down on her luck, although she was quite good looking. Even her body was in remarkable shape considering the amount of cider she was obviously used to getting through.
"You the law?" she asked. "You gonna nail Lincoln or something?"
"I'm just looking for him, that's all."
"Well you can't be a mate," she said, "or you wouldn't be calling him Lincoln. He hates that name. The other drivers call him that to wind him up." She pulled a long drag on her cigarette, sucking in her cheeks until the glowing tobacco gave way to spent ash that broke and fell away from the rest.
"You still ain't said why you're looking for him?"
"You a friend of Lincoln's then?" Peter asked in reply.
She gave a laconic grunt, belched a cloud of apple scented fumes and landed the cider bottle down heavily on the bar.
"I know Lincoln alright." Her voice trailed off as her gaze fixed itself on her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. In the space of a few moments her blank expression changed to anger and then to solid fear. She picked up the bottle and moved a safe distance away from Peter.
"Here," she muttered. "You're not a Driver, are you?"
He drew a five pound note from his pocket and motioned to the barmaid for the same again.
"Printer," said Peter. "Office stationery, that sort of thing."
She took the bottle from him with a tentative hand while her eyes scanned him. His jeans and lumber shirt were just a bit too new and tidy to be real working clothes.
"I believe you," she said. "Your stomach is smaller than your shoulders."
Peter gave her a grin in recognition of her humour before asking if Lincoln used the pub. The woman made a mock gesture of choking on her drink.
"You got to be joking," she laughed. "Do you think I'd be in here if he did? I never want to see that bastard or his brother again. I wouldn't piss on them if they were on fire."
"So you know where he lives then?"
She gave a drunken shake of her head.
"Used to, but not any more. He moved. He's an entrepe-fucking-neur now, got four artics and his own depot you know? Gone up in the world since his Transit van. Thinks he's bastard Rockefeller."
"Where is it, his depot?"
The days drink was beginning to tell on her.
"I knew him when he had bugger all. He was always a bighead mind, always thought he was bleeding chocolate. He was the same in school. My own fault I suppose, I knew what the get was like".
"What about the depot?" he asked again. "Where is it?"
For a split second she seemed to regain all her faculties as she stopped talking and studied his face.
"Why?" she asked. "Why are you so bleeding interested?"
Peter decided to take a gamble.
"I don't like him either," he said, "and I think you should get back at him."
"For what?" she asked. "You don't know nothing about me."
"Let's sit down and have a talk."
She lit another cigarette then leant towards him to whisper in his ear.
"You get us a couple more bottles and we can go back to my place. Safer there."
On the way to her flat above a betting shop Peter discovered her name was Melanie, the rest of the time he'd spent keeping her upright and out of the gutter. At the door they were met by a half eaten chicken fried rice and a pool of vomit left, by the look of it, from the night before.
"Dirty bastards some people," Peter said.
"Yeah," she answered, unperturbed. "I tried to get inside before I chucked, but I couldn't get the key in the door. I'll clean it up in the morning."
He stepped over the mess and helped her up the flight of stairs to her flat, where she slumped down on the settee.
"Give us one of those bottles."
"You've had enough for now!"
That seemed to sober her up a little because she opened her eyes to look at him before getting up and taking the bottle out of his hand.
"Don't you worry 'bout me," she warned him. "You want to worry about yourself if you're going to mess with Lincoln and his mates."
She tapped the old ash from a joint into an empty lager can then held out the smouldering cone and motioned for him to take it. Peter ignored her actions, went across, moved away some magazines and sat on an old dry stain of a long forgotten drink. Once again she offered the cannabis cone and this time he took it. The smell of the burning weed was not unfamiliar. He'd taken more than the odd tote during his college days though he had long since given up tobacco. The dry vapour almost fetched a cough much to Melanie's delight. Peter's next pull was more pleasant and he experienced the same relaxed feelings which had so often accompanied the evenings spent with old college friends.
Satisfied, he returned the joint to her.
"You know, you don't look like the type of man who would mix with the likes of Lincoln." Her voice was soft, almost concerned. "What do you really want with him?"
Peter reached for a bottle off the stub burned coffee table.
"He's got something of mine. I want it back."
She took a tote, rubbed smoke from her eye and handed him the joint. On the record player, the distant sound of crashing waves and the splatter of rain signalled the start of Riders On The Storm.
"It's your woman, isn't it?"
Peter took a mouthful of cider and nodded.
"Yes, I believe she's with him"
Melanie took the bottle from him.
"How long?" she asked.
"Two months. She phoned her sister to say she'd run off with some bloke but I heard he'd left her with this man, Lincoln"
Jim Morrison's lyrics floated across. 'Into this house we're born. Into this world we're thrown.'
"I just want her back with me," said Peter tearfully. "With me! Back with me!"
'There's a killer on the road,' continued Jim. 'His brain is squirming like a toad.'
"They won't let her back," Melanie whispered.
Peter looked down at the girl who was now resting her head in his lap.
"What do you mean?"
She held up her arms. Around both her wrists were two thick red scars, like crimson bracelets.
"That's what I mean."
'If you give this man a ride,' sung Jim. 'Sweet memory will die. Killer on the road'
A look of horror swept across Peter's face.
"Lincoln? He did that to you?"
She picked up the smouldering joint from the top of the empty can, then went and sat on the threadbare carpet in front of the fire to stare at the flames.
"Him and his brother." Her voice was detached and calm, as if she was trying to put distance between her and the memory of the events. "I haven't always lived like this. I was a good girl, happy. Had a tidy place near town. Away from the docks."
Her voice fell silent as she recalled memories of a more respectable existence, the job she once held in Woolworths and the dreams of blissful domesticity. Peter said nothing to disturb her, waiting until she had regained herself.
"He took it all from me, everything. Him and his sodding brother."
Feeling uncomfortable, and desperate to do something, Peter carried across another bottle and joined her on the floor. He gave her the drink then reached over to the coffee table and the other reefer, lighting it himself before handing it to her as a replacement for the one just finished.
"How did you get those marks?"
"He'd just bought his first big truck, I don't know what sort but it had lots of room in it. Room for a bunk and space for tools and other stuff. I'd met Neil, that's Lincoln, in a club, we knew each other from school and started seeing each other occasionally. Nothing serious like, just on and off. Then he told me he'd bought this wagon and asked if I wanted to go on the first run with him. I thought it would be fun."
She took a fortifying gulp of cider.
"He didn't have any offices then so he had to come and pick me up. I remember feeling so excited when this huge lorry pulled up in the street. Everyone came out on the doorstep to see what was going on. Then I climbed in the cab and his brother Colin was there which put me on a bit of a downer, but I went anyway. We'd made the first drop and I was feeling really good up there in the air looking down on all the other cars and things. Then I felt Colin's hand."
She paused and swallowed hard.
"Can you pass me a tissue?"
Peter found the box empty except for a few crumpled dried up sheets.
"Use this," he said.
She took his handkerchief to wrap around her knuckles, then supported her head with her hand, the cloth ready in case she needed it later.
"At first I thought he'd just brushed my leg by accident. But he got more persistent and daring. I didn't know what to do. We were miles from home and I was jammed between the two of them. If I said anything I'd make a scene and if I didn't I'd be egging him on. It was getting late by now and I asked when we would be setting back for home.
"Didn't I say? Lincoln laughed. We'll be on the road for a few days.
"When I looked at their faces they were looking at me and grinning their heads off, and I knew then they had planned it all. You didn't have to be a rocket scientist to work out what they had in mind, but I told them I was having none of it. Not with the two of them. I mean, I'm not that green that I didn't think me and Lincoln would probably end up doing it, that's why I was disappointed to see his brother. But I told them, I said, I'm not like that.
"They took no notice. I like it here, Colin said, and Lincoln agreed. What about me? I said. I don't fancy sleeping in a lorry."
She rubbed her eyes for the first time as her voice began to crack and Peter reached out a reassuring hand, placing it gently on her shoulder.
"There's no need to say any more."
Melanie's gaze remained firmly on the fire.
"I want to," she said. "I need to show you the type of people you're dealing with." There was a pause as she searched for the right words and phrases, those sentences which would convey the terror of her ordeal yet allow her some dignity and respect.
"Lincoln just pointed to the bunk and told me to get in there. Don't worry about Colin, he can kip down on the front seats. Tons of room on them, ain't there Col? Then he bundled me on to the bunk and got on next to me, pulling a sleeping bag over us. I thought perhaps it would be alright, covered up and everything, but he started touching me, my breasts and down below. At first I didn't mind because it was quite dark, then he told me to take my jeans down. When I said no, he told me to get them off or he would do it for me, and he meant it."
Melanie pulled desperately on the root of the joint until the smoke that swirled between her lips dimmed the memories. Without its calming effect she would be unable to recount the details.
"Did you do it?" asked Peter.
She nodded her head.
"I took them off. What else could I do? I was alone and frightened."
"Come on," eased Peter. "Don't say any more, don't torture yourself." But Melanie felt the relief of a heavy load unburdened, the urgency of a sinner in need of atonement.
"I took them off, under the quilt. And your knickers, he ordered, you can get them down as well. After I pulled them off he made a big play of unbuckling his trousers while I tried to keep the covers over me. I saw Colin looking. He wasn't saying anything, just looking and smirking, then Lincoln fell across me and I felt him nudging his way inside, pushing and fumbling until he was all the way up. While he was banging away on me he shoved my top up to get at my tits. It was so sordid, I just lay there looking at the roof of the cab with his brother grinning. A few strokes later he shot his load and climbed off to let Colin have a go. I said no but Lincoln was adamant. There was nothing I could do, I couldn't have stopped one of them let alone the two. Lincoln made me suck him off while his brother had me, then he did it again, only this time he told me what they were going to do to me. He said they were going to use me as the company pump, a slapper to pump full of spunk whenever they wanted.
"When they were finished, he said, they would pass me on to some other drivers who knew how to treat a bitch like me. Then they fucked me a few more times and made me have them in my mouth until they were finished."
She stopped there and held out both her arms to study the scars, rubbing her hands around the worn red groove. When she had finished with them she rubbed her ankles and Peter saw that they too, bore the same marks.
"After that," she said quietly, "they took some rope and tied my hands and feet together then hung me like a hammock in the back of the lorry, driving me up and down the motorways, naked, swinging away while the ropes burnt into my skin, taking me down only when they wanted to empty their balls."
She finally needed the handkerchief, burying her head in its protective folds to shut out the shame.
"They kept me like that for over a week, using me for all sorts of dirty practices, pushing the handles of tools up me, or making me masturbate on the gearstick while they watched. If I refused to do anything they would strap me with a hauliers belt, that's a favourite of all the Drivers. A few strokes from one of them and you'd fuck the Household cavalry if they told you to. But they got careless. Lincoln had gone to see some bloke about passing me on in return for a young hiker he'd picked up near Coventry. While he was gone Colin had taken me down and had me suck his dick, ready to fuck me. When it was hard he told me to get on my knees and spread them. He was actually up me when Lincoln came back and told him to get his prick out of there and come and take a look at the tight young split in the other rig.
"There was a group of Drivers all taking it in turns with the young girl on the other side of the car park. He was so anxious to get in on it he forgot to check the knots."
"The police?"
She shook her head.
"No?"
Melanie laughed, a slow scornful laugh.
"Oh, I told them alright, but all I got was I must be incredibly naive to go off with two drivers on such a long trip, or else I felt so guilty about having it off with the two of them I was out to make trouble."
She saw the hurt he was suffering and felt guilty for telling him everything, maybe she should have left some of the more sordid details out… Melanie did the only thing she knew.
"Come here," she murmured, and with an outstretched hand pulled his head down to hers. It had been a long time since Peter felt the comforting touch of a woman's lips. Even with the taste of alcohol and tobacco on her mouth, he sensed in her a kindness denied by her lifestyle, a life ruined by the excesses of two men. But it was wrong, Susan was out there somewhere, perhaps hanging in a cab, stripped and used. Guilt flooded his mind and he withdrew.
"No," he told her. "I can't".
She smiled at him. Even when she had made her intentions obvious, he had thought of his wife.
"You know," she said to him. "You certainly make a change from most of the men that come here. I'm usually arse up over the settee in two minutes, but you, you're something else." She reached out and brought his hand to rest on her breasts. They were larger than Susan's, fuller and heavier, and the sight of them brought strong feelings to his groin. He was a man after all, with natural needs and desires.
The bedroom felt damp and smelled of too many nights of sex and not enough open windows.
"Follow me," she whispered, taking up his hand.
On the mattress the red nylon sheets lay in a crumpled mess while the pillows had disappeared between the wall and the headboardless bed. Melanie made a cursory attempt to tidy the sheets then dropped the kimono from her body to stand for his inspection.
Without her tarty clothes she had a fine body. Only the poorly bleached hair and the tattoo of a skull in a biker's helmet between her navel and the top of her pubic triangle hinted at what she had endured.
Peter woke to the sight of Melanie's bottom wobbling in time to the stroke of her arm as she cleaned her teeth. The bathroom door was open and the naked woman was up and about her business without any apparent affects from the previous night's activities. She took a glass of water to rinse her mouth then spat the excess paste into the sink and squatted on the loo.
"Good morning," she said, seeing he was awake. "I didn't mean to disturb you. You looked so peaceful." She tore a piece of tissue from the roll, lifted one leg and dabbed herself dry. "Do you want some breakfast?"
Peter climbed from the well worn rut in the centre of the bed and searched the floor as Melanie made her way through to the kitchen, the faded kimono once more wrapped about her. "Thanks," he said. "You haven't seen my trousers have you?"
Through the spit of the frying bacon he heard her shout "behind the chair, where you threw them last night."
He remembered now, how quickly he was out of his clothes once the guilt had been overcome. How he'd hopped about the room trying to release his stubborn foot from a trouser leg before joining her on the bed to feast in the pleasures of her body. He'd revelled in the tasting of the familiar oily slick that would allow his cock free and easy passage between silky slats and the wet velvety tube beyond.
Her response had not been the usual cold tolerance she gave to the faceless men who humped away at her nightly, leaving her to tug up her knickers after half a dozen strokes of an alcohol soaked semi erect penis. She had been hungry and eager, wanting pleasure and to please, to comfort and to be comforted, and throughout they had done just that, more like long time lovers than the relative strangers they were.
"There you go," she said cheerfully. "Bacon and eggs. It's been a long time since I made a bloke breakfast! I've made plenty of suppers, but not many breakfasts."
After breakfast and the walk back to the pub to pick up the car, Melanie kept her promise to show Peter the way to Lincoln's depot. It was a couple of miles away and Melanie made it quite clear on the drive over that she would not go anywhere near the entrance. Peter agreed and brought the car to a halt several units away from the Felix Ferry yard, collecting his camera from the boot before setting off towards an area that overlooked the depot.
Melanie followed tentatively behind, unaware that Peter had no idea what to do next.
The pair of would-be investigators crouched and waited behind a rubbish skip, peering as best they could the hundred yards or so into the Felix lorry depot. Occasionally Peter lifted the heavy camera to his eye, focusing the telephoto lens onto the large foreboding DAF waiting in gleaming, polished splendour, outside the tin sheeted warehouse.
"Well?" he asked. "What do you reckon?"
"That's Lincoln's truck alright. He always drives the latest model they've got." She pointed to a car parked a short distance away. "And that's his car."
Then he came, the devil in a fork lift.
A girl was walking, half naked and bound with hauliers straps so tight and encompassing she was forced to hobble to prevent herself falling over. Confirmation enough! Peter raised his camera and fired off several quick shots while Melanie cowered beside him.
"What's he doing?" he asked her.
"Once they get their claws into someone they don't let go. She's going to be his bunk warmer until he's finished with her."
The powerful camera lens rested on Lincoln, bringing him into sharp focus. He was non descript, plain and unassuming, as such people often are. But he was very powerful. Peter would have no chance against him.
The camera lens along the strap to the young girl bound at its end. She was an Oriental, perhaps Chinese, small and neat and very young, perfect little breasts beneath the thin white jersey she wore. On her tiny feet white plimsolls completed the only clothes she had left, or she was naked from the waist down, revealing perfectly formed and exotically tinted legs that were perfectly formed.
When the fork lift reached the wagon Lincoln released the girl and laughed as he chased her around the waggon. She soon stumbled and fell to the ground in a pathetic heap, struggling franticly to get to her feet, squirming away from him like a snake, but Lincoln swept her up into his arms and kissed her piggishly on the lips, a hand active at her crotch, totally ignoring her struggles. She was crying, thin wailing noises that went straight to the heart, but there was nobody else around to hear and Lincoln knew it.
At the wagon, he pushed her up none too gently and as intrusively as he could. It was like a sacrifice entering the mouth of a distant monster. Unlike fair Andromeda however, there was to be no Perseus with gleaming sword, and no Pegasus upon which her escape could be made.
Peter was distraught. He wanted to save the girl, but he knew he was no match for Lincoln in a one-to-one encounter. He set off for his vehicle as the hiss of released air brakes was followed by the low growl of a large lorry pulling away.
Peter swung open the driver's door of his car and fired up the engine. Around the corner the gleaming DAF was making its way through the gates of the Felix freight yard, the driver's only concern the strict timetable he had agreed for the trip.
And that his stamina would allow him to make full use of the tight young Chink he'd caught specially for this job!
The moment he saw her in that sports gear, taut thighs glowing with the sheen of perspiration as she jogged along, he had known he just had to have her. Orientals turned him on, brought out the beast in him, and this one was perfectly formed, a right little gem.
It was her misfortune.
On a new refinement behind him, she was suspended from a pole attached to either side of the cab wall, like the prized bag of a big game hunter on its way to the trophy room, swaying gently back and forth in time with the movements of the truck.
Melanie heard the growing rumble of the DAF's engine then saw the black cab and long articulated load travel out from behind a warehouse and pull up at the junction. Between her and the lorry was Peter in his own vehicle, a man dispossessed of his wife, angry and bemused and determined to mete out justice.
She held her breath as Lincoln's wagon turned on to the road and Peter's car crossed the central line to meet it.
The two vehicles were on a collision course. Only one man, Peter Warburton, knew why. He was going to stop that wagon no matter what the cost. He was going to prevent another woman falling into the hands of the Drivers. There would be no more Susans, no more Melanies.
In the wagon Lincoln's senses were slow to respond. He had seen the estate lurch into his path and was angry when the driver hadn't corrected his mistake, but the DAF was so much bigger the idiot would surely get out of his way.
But the estate kept coming, just a hundred, perhaps a hundred and fifty yards away.
Less than three hundred feet separated the two vehicles.
Two hundred feet. The wagon sounded its horn.
One hundred feet.
"Jesus fucking Christ!" Lincoln pulled violently on the steering wheel in a desperate attempt to miss the speeding car while the watching Melanie could only scream. Her voice was drowned by the sound of steel scraping steel, flying sparks reflected orange and yellow and were hot in her eyes, forcing her to turn her head away, while the crash of exploding, splintering glass resounded in her ears.
At the sound of the wagon's horn she turned as the careering lorry bore down on her, its load seemingly detached from the engine, juggling this way and that behind, as if trying to get past and speed off from the scene.
There seemed no escape from the lurching mass of steel and canvas bearing through the smoke of a dozen screeching tyres, but miraculously the machine slowed and came to an even keel.
However, it did not stop. It could not stop, for the driver could not explain away his human cargo. He could only slow down to survey the devastation left in his wake and as he passed by Melanie's stomach lurched groundwards as the cold, knowing glare of Lincoln fell upon her for an instant.
With a roar of horse power the engine sped away, leaving her numbed and dazed at the roadside, unable to turn and look for fear of what she might see.
The trailer disappeared from sight, seemingly undamaged. All the glass and flying metal must have come from Peter's car. She was sick and weak at the knees, feeling only the need to sit at the kerb side and vomit. But there was to be no time for that because Peter's car came to a squealing halt at the end of four black lines of molten rubber.
"Get in!" he shouted. "In!"
Melanie ran round to the passenger seat, passing the caved in driver's side. Even before her door shut, Peter pulled off in pursuit, sending tiny squares of broken glass spilling from the dashboard to land on his shattered camera in the footwell. Some glass fell onto his lap and made their way beneath his legs but Peter chose to ignore the pain. At least until he made the corner and saw the DAF was nowhere to be seen.
At that point the road hit a roundabout and the lorry could have chosen any of the several routes. He tried the first turn off, but it was soon clear that he'd made a bad choice. All he could do now was make his way back to Melanie's flat and hope that the police might take an interest. Everything seemed lost until suddenly the CB barked,
"One four for a copy. Felix the Cat calling Shaggy. You out there Shag?"
Melanie reached out for the volume control. "That's Lincoln calling his brother!"
"Felix calling Shaggy. Come back little brother." A moment later the radio crackled with the voice of Lincoln's brother.
"What's up? You only just started and you're already calling me up. Don't you know what to do with a Chinky slit?"
Melanie couldn't help but shudder at the sound of their voices, especially Colin's, who was always sarcastic and smug.
When they had had her in their clutches, he was the one who liked to tie her up in the back of the container and hang her from the roof. Colin got his kicks from sheer cruelty. He would whip her bottom with the canvas straps or use his thick leather belt to raise burning welts upon her skin. Very often he would leave her up there and they would carry on their journey with her dangling in the back of the lorry, passing cars and vans whose drivers had no inkling of the tortured cargo.
Now his mocking voice crackled out again.
"Remember to have a sixty nine for me. And I don't mean a crispy duck with noodles. Perhaps a Chinky fuck, hey!"
His brother was not amused. "Shut up man, for fuck's sake. Something weird just happened. Some twat in a car tried to hit me off the road outside the yard, and there's something else -
"Do you want me to come out?" Colin cut in impatiently.
Lincoln gave a thoughtful sigh. "I'm alright," he replied. "But I'd better get rid of Suzy Wong. Just in case."
"What you going to do?" Colin asked. "You can't just dump her."
"I've got a few drops to make then I'm off up to Wettle. The Paddies are over for the horse fair so I'll flog her off then. Keep your eyes open. I think someone's onto us."
"Give her one for me before she goes," said Colin, then as an after thought added. "You know, I knew it was bad luck when you had that married bint off the Candy Man. Bad news, she was. Even Bingo had to dump her, up in Whitby. He only had her a couple of weeks and the law were after him for nicking some gear."
"Well she's long gone now," Lincoln put in. "See you at the horse fair."
With a pleasant 'plink', another shard of glass was added to the small pile of blood spattered slivers in the ash tray.
"You know?" said Melanie, pulling another piece from Peter's backside. "You were lucky none of this went in your face, you could have been blinded." She took the remnants of the car window to the dustbin and returned with a bottle of antiseptic while Peter remained half bent across the chair, his backside looking like an explosion in a butchers shop.
"I'm supposed to say this won't hurt," she said. "But I'd be lying."
His arse cheeks clenched tight in a brave effort to avoid the stinging solution, but she applied it liberally wherever there was a cut, which was everywhere.
"You know what?" Peter said through gritted teeth. "I just can't believe the law are not interested. How on earth can they say they don't like to get involved in traffic accidents? What is their job if they don't get involved with anything?" He followed her out to the kitchen where she was putting the kettle on. "And that poor girl," he added, then with a sarcastic tone he mimicked the voice of the officer he had told. "If we arrested every lorry driver with a young girl in his cab, sir, we wouldn't have any lorries left on the road. Now would we?"
He took the tea Melanie offered and drank it standing up, while she enjoyed the ubiquitous cigarette with hers.
"What are you going to do now?" she asked.
"I'll have to try and track down this Bingo. He's obviously the next link."
She stubbed out the cigarette only to light another straight away and take her first luxurious drag. "But she's not with him any more. That's what Lincoln's brother said."
"I know," answered Peter. "But I've got to do something. If I can track him down I'll be able to find out who he hangs out with. At least now I know she's somewhere near Whitby. I'll just have to take it from there."
"When will you leave?"
"Now, tonight."
There was no mistaking the disappointment Melanie felt at his announced departure. Putting a brave face on it she declared she was going to cook him a meal before he left.
"You don't want to be doing that now," said Peter. "Why don't I grab us something from the Chinese?"
"Get some wine as well. Get the white, something fizzy, nothing too strong though, if you've got to drive later".
"And no wacky backy either," Peter called back, closing the door quickly.
He was gone less than an hour, but in that short space of time Melanie had all but transformed the flat into something resembling respectability. Two table lamps, one on top of the TV and the other on the floor in the corner of the room bestowed a warm ambience, while an incense burner on the coffee table did much to disperse the musty smell of neglect.
She pushed the settee and coffee table against the wall to lay a table cloth on the floor around which she had scattered cushions. Her best cutlery, stamped with the logo of 'The Little Chef,' lay alongside crockery of various shapes and designs.
"Great!" said Peter.
"It's not quite the Dragon Palace."
A while later she said: "I'll be sorry to see you leave."
Peter was licking the juice from his fingers. "And I'll be sorry to go." He handed her his card. "If you ever fancy moving up north, there's a job for you with me."
She took a moment to read the details before flicking the card across the room.
"My life's down here," she sighed. "But you never know. Maybe one day." She reached forward and planted a light kiss on his forehead. When he made to reciprocate, his plate tipped from his hand sending sauce all over her fresh, clean top. Grabbing a tissue he tried desperately to dab away the juice, apologising madly as he did so.
"It's no problem," Melanie assured him. "It'll come out in the wash." She pulled the top over her head and threw it towards the kitchen door. As the garment landed a strange atmosphere descended, quite electrifying.
"There's some sauce on you," Peter stammered. "Shall I…"
Melanie pushed out her tits, allowing Peter to rub the tissue against the white satiny material until most of it was off. He licked the tissue again saying how nice it tasted, but instead of wiping her with it this time, he ran his finger down her breast, feeling the nipple rise when his nail scraped across it.
"It tastes even better off you."
Melanie smiled and reached for the dish containing the prawns and oyster sauce, raising it to her neck she slowly tipped the contents over her breasts, the juice running down her cleavage while the prawns and vegetables splattered over her skin.
Peter waited until the dish was empty before he began the slow task of licking the food off her body. When his mouth fell over her nipple, sucking it hard through the wet material of her bra, Melanie lowered herself down onto the table cloth, crushing the food beneath her. As his tongue licked and flickered its way between nipple and navel and back again, his hands dropped down to pull her skirt up to her waist.
No problem. The signals were at go!
Slowly Peter removed his own clothes, then, standing over her, he poured the wine onto her body, watching the sparkling liquid drench her hair and soak into her knickers. When the bottle was empty he dropped between her legs and sucked at her cunt through the sopping wet cotton, while Melanie writhed and bucked, grinding the meal into the cloth, her body stained with various juices and her hair entangled with bean sprouts, rice and bamboo shoots.
Sensing she was near the edge Peter pulled aside her knickers and eased a thick, hot, greasy spare rib up inside her, the barbecue sauce smearing her lips and matting her hair. The heat between her lips forced a yelp for release from the bucking girl, an urgent desire to reach the top of human feelings so that she could throw herself down in one long orgasmic free falling leap. His mouth joined the bone at the entrance to her slippery tube, licking and sucking at her swollen button until the tell tale signs of clenched thighs and a back arched almost to a croquet hoop signalled the rush of an unstoppable overwhelming orgasm, announced further by great cries of release and moans of delight.
Peter removed the spare rib from Melanie's greasy juice-drenched hole, sitting back to eat it while she writhed slowly on the cloth, enjoying the ebb and flow of her subsiding heat, her body and clothes covered with food.
Eventually, when she had regained some composure she sat up, her arse marinading in a silver tray of black bean sauce. For a while she didn't say anything and Peter noticed tiny spasms in her legs, as if her orgasm had returned in a soft fading echo. When the last ripple of pleasure left she opened her eyes to see Peter's straining erection flat against his belly. She crawled across and kissed its tip, then with an impish grin she picked up a couple of onion rings and forced them down, along the length of his cock.
"Anyone for hoop-La?" she laughed, before reaching down and nibbling at the onions. While her head bobbed along his prick Peter reached over her back and rubbed the spare rib between her legs, forcing the wet cotton into the vee of her arse.
"Turn around!"
She did as he said, presenting him with her sticky pantied bottom covered with wine and the juice from the many different dishes. Peter pulled her knickers down far enough to expose her barbecue basted crevice, then poured the contents of a carton of sweet and sour sauce over her bum, watching as the sticky liquid scored a direct hit on the tightly pursed muscle of her arsehole. The gooey molten liquor trickled along the pleat of her vagina before dripping down onto his bloated cock.
When he had collected enough of the glutinous gel, he lifted his prick level to her entrance and pushed it home, mashing the onion rings between his thighs and her bottom. Once inside her he remained perfectly still, enjoying the sensation of the blended juices encasing his tool.
The different jellies provided the perfect marriage between solid male cock and soft female inner flesh, making it difficult to distinguish where his body stopped and hers began.
Peter started to move, slowly at first, allowing the sweet and sour sauce to lubricate her fully, adding its liquid to that already released by her aroused sheath. When the sensations grew in intensity so did his thrusts. Out, to the very sweet stained tip of his glans, then back, until the onion ring cushioned his stabbing loins against her. Beneath their coupled thighs grew a pool of Chinese dressings that dripped from Peter's heavy balls, the juice flavoured and scented not only with herbs of the mystic East, but now with Melanie's salacious oil.
Peter plunged deeper inside the slippery tube, jabbing harder and faster, seeking the ultimate sensation, craving its ecstatic release, thirsting for the snap of pleasure that only his striving straining spunk spitting cock could give. Wrapping his arms around her waist he embedded his swollen arrow firmly in her quiver, plugging her hole completely, ensuring no escape for the squirting gush of seed he pumped inside her.
Unable to withstand the onslaught, Melanie collapsed forward onto the cloth, spilling any food careless enough to have remained in its container. They stayed that way until Peter's greasy cock flopped from her vagina, sated and content.
He propped himself up on an elbow covered with bamboo shoots and water chestnuts and looked at his deflated prick. It still wore the onion rings for a necklace, although they were obviously the worse for the wear. Melanie rolled over and saw what he was looking at. With a naughty smile she dipped down her head and a grateful tongue flicked out to lick away his batter. When that was gone she ate the quite differently flavoured batter covering the onions.
Lying alone in the darkness after he had gone, Melanie smoked one cigarette after another, gradually filling up the old tin ash tray she'd stolen from the pub. The original Fosters design was no longer visible, having long since faded and decayed from a thousand stubbed out Marlboro's.
Occasionally, between cigarettes, she drifted into a light sleep, where her waking thoughts became dreams, confusing the twilight world of somnolence with reality. This veil of dormancy made it easy to ignore the heavy persistent thumping in her ears. But the knocks became more insistent, nagging and continuous, demanding attention and eventually getting it.
"What the fuck?" she exclaimed, climbing from the bed and reaching for the clock. It said 3:30 AM. By the time she reached the top of the stairs her senses had almost come round, but she still felt it necessary to grip the hand rail as she made her way down to the front passage.
"Didn't get very far did you?" she shouted through the door. "Just couldn't stay away, eh?"
She was ecstatic as she pulled back the catch, but the man at the door was not Peter.