Feelings of Fear by Graham Masterton Page B

him and curled herself into him in a way that no girl had ever done to him before, almost as if she wanted to be part of him. “Eager … that wasn’t the reason I wanted to do it.”
    â€œSo, what reason?”
    â€œPlease, Eager. Don’t ask me. I don’t want either of us ever to find out.”
    They stood so close together by the window, and outside the huge white cumulus clouds sailed through the morning air, fully-rigged to cross the North Sea to Holland, and to Germany, and even beyond. Cliff watched them and couldn’t bear to think that he and Anne were going to be parted, and that he might never touch her again, not even once. During the night, their intimacy had become complete, as if they had crawled through each other’s bodies like potholers down some dark, wet sluice. They had done almost everything that two lovers are capable of doing, and more.
    Eventually, however, Anne touched his lips with her fingertips and said, “I have to go. There’s a train from Royston at nine fifteen.”
    â€œDo you have time for breakfast?” Cliff asked her. “When he can get the bacon, Tom does a great bacon and eggs – and when he can get the eggs.”
    She shook her head. “Honestly, I’ll be late.”
    â€œThen do you mind if I do?”
    He picked her up in his arms and carried her back to the bed. He laid her on the twisted sheets and opened her legs. Then he licked her, very slowly and sensually, all around her clitoris. He probed the tip of his tongue into her urethra and finally plunged it as deeply as he could into her vagina. She lay motionless while he did it, one hand resting very lightly on his shoulder, staring at the ceiling.
    They parted outside the pub. Although the day was bright there was a stiff wind blowing, and her scarf flapped.
    â€œCheerio then,” she said.
    â€œCheerio.”
    She took hold of his hand and momentarily covered it with hers. When she took it away again, he found that he was holding the silver medallion that she had worn around her neck. On the other side of the road, a gaggle of geese were honking loudly as a postwoman cycled past. “What’s this for?” asked Cliff.
    â€œWell,” she shrugged, “keepsake.”
    He held it up and it flashed in the sunlight. “What is it?”
    â€œSt Catherine. She’s my guardian saint.”
    â€œWasn’t she broken on a wheel or something?”
    â€œThat’s right. But no matter how much she suffered, she never denied her faith. She was a heroine.”
    A bus appeared in the distance, a toytown bus, cream and white. It came closer and closer across the wide, flat countryside, and all the time Anne said nothing, but smiled as if she were going into Royston for an hour or two to do some shopping, instead of disappearing out of Cliff’s life for ever.
    It was only after she had boarded the bus, and he saw her sitting at the back, with her hand half-covering her mouth, that he realized that tears were streaming down her face.
    *      *      *
    For the remaining four days of the rest and recuperation period that had followed Blitz Week, Cliff immersed himself in planning, organizing, and flying practise. He worked almost as hard as he had when the Eighth Air Force had been bombing deep into Germany every single day. His ground crew took to calling him Cliff Hanger, because he was always hanging around the hangars.
    He was doing everything he could to keep himself busy, and not to think about Anne. But he couldn’t get her out of his mind: the way she had felt when she was lying in his arms, the way she tasted, the way she laughed. What haunted him most of all her was the way in which she had been so demanding and yet so lacking in guile. She had only been going to Torquay, to nurse a whole lot of old folk, and surely there were plenty of men in Torquay. Why had she acted as if she had wanted to live through