"Guy N. Smith - Night Of The Crabs 2 - Crabs Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

which even remotely resembled Keith Baxter. What the hell had happened to him?

Panic first; the kids back at the Blue Ocean Holiday Camp. Rodney and Louise
would be wondering where she had got to. She was supposed to collect them at
6.30. Then anger; damn Keith Baxter. He had brought her out here for one
reason only. She winced at the thought, the way the crudity leaped to her
mind. To fuck her.

Well, for some inexplicable reason he'd gone off naked and with an erection,
and hadn't come back. Maybe he'd come across a party of tarts sunning
themselves in the dunes! She laughed to herself at the thought.

But there was no getting away from one thing. Keith had brought her here and
it was his responsibility to get her safely back again. And if he wasn't
prepared to do that then she knew just how she was travelling home. She had
watched him hide the car-key under the front wheel. Furthermore, she could
drive.

In less than five minutes she was sitting behind the steering wheel of Keith
Baxter's car listening to the engine ticking over. One last look around,
scanning the dunes in front of her, and then she was slowly reversing back to
the tarmac road.

Sod Mr Keith Baxter. And that lunatic Bartholomew with his fantasy about giant
crabs. For all she cared the two of them could spend the night together on
Shell Island and she didn't give a damn if those bloody crabs ate them!

Irey Wall let in the clutch and the car shot forward down the road. She hoped
this day would fade quickly from her memory for it was bordering on the
nightmarish. All she wanted right now was to be back at the Blue Ocean Holiday
Camp.
Chapter Three

Saturday-Shell Island



SATURDAY DAWNED with the same cloudless blue skies and blazing sunshine. Ian
Wright and Julie Coles were grateful for the coolness of the open 1949 red MG
as it glided along the narrow coast roads. For half an hour they were held up
by the congested traffic in Barmouth, then they were clear, almost euphoric as
they took the Harlech road along the cliff tops.

Twenty minutes later they were approaching the small village of Llanbedr, a
signpost off to the left reading 'Mochras'.

That's Welsh for Shell Island,' Ian yelled above the roar of the engine, at
the same time swinging the sports car over to the left, down a narrow twisting
lane. A little further on the tarmac gave way to rough shale, and they could
see the tide lapping at the edges of the causeway.