She was pissed off, in pain, bored, still on light duties.
He lived out on the Downs.
With a thick finger he cut the call.
Four weeks, four days now and she still hadn't been running.
She went down to the canteen for drinks.
She was as tall as him and as slim as he was underweight.
They got into his Scorpio.
She rounded the bungalow, slowing, faintly limping.
A garden shed, spades, garden forks, watering cans.
He was adamant. "I am not giving you the fucking choice."
That was Tuesday. This was Thursday.
This time she was going somewhere, not leaving, just going somewhere.
As she sat down she said, "Prozac?"
The flight to Arecife might have been called uneventful, except
She woke next day about seven.
A sweat raised, but only just.
They met in the Green Bar for a drink.
She had missed the discovery of King's body.
The day had been sunny and peculiar.
In the aftermath of adrenalin comes its antagonist.
A four-wheel drive Suzuki.
They drifted North. No they didn't they drove North, very deliberately, very specifically.
A little Spaniard in an orange jacket.
He was happy to hump the cases.
She was in a bath pink with Matey.
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