"Smith, Guy N - Crabs 05 - Crabs' Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

'Or cheaper.'

'Maybe,' she blushed faintly under her heat flush. 'Or rather, my husband decided. He's paid the bill, you see. I didn't think it was worth arguing about.

One camp's much the same as another when you're stuck there for a week with the kids. All they think about are funfairs and amusements. I wouldn't've thought a holiday camp was your style, Keith, More like the Costa-something-or-other for you where you can take your pick of the dark-skinned bathing beauties.'

'Not for me,' he let the clutch in again and the car rolled forward another few yards. 'I thought maybe I could lose myself in a camp, better even than a hotel or guest house, with every single thing laid on for you. And, anyway, I was curious about this set-up after what I'd read about it. You got to hand it to this guy, Miles Manning, having the nerve to set up a place tike this when every other form of UK holiday entertainment is reporting bookings down each year. I guess it was a kind of challenge, an opportunity for an eccentric multi-millionaire to take on the might of the other two established camps. And there's no getting away from it, the Blue Ocean is fully booked. Yesterday afternoon they even had to close it to day-trippers.'

'And what do you think of the camp, Keith?'

'It's good, no two ways about that,' the car came to a halt again and he pulled the handbrake on. They've got the edge on their competitors at the moment because everything's new. The paint's all fresh and gaudy, it isn't the same old amusement arcade which you got bored in last year. It's a novelty which will reap its reward.'

The traffic began to move yet again, a jerky snaking line that disappeared over the brow of the next hill and you wished you could see further. You wouldn't be satisfied until you were up there yourself and saw at first hand the state of the congestion. Irey felt sleepy. It was a good job she hadn't got the children with her. They would have been bored and squabbling by now.

And it would be the first thing they would tell Alan as soon as they got home. Which started her feeling guilty again. She wasn't cut out for affairs.

Irey Wall woke with a start, almost clawed her way panic-stricken out of that hot sticky slumber, gasped with pain as the hairs on the back of her neck, which had become stuck to the upholstery, were suddenly wrenched free. Guilt and fear, clutching Keith's hand because it still happened to be resting on her bare leg, possibly an inch or two higher than it had been when she had last been aware of it.

They were bumping their way across a type of rough causeway and way to her left were stretches of ominous steel mesh fencing topped with barbed wire. Beyond that were a series of squat buildings with tiny windows. Some planes, small ones, stood on a short tarmac runway.

'Where . . . where are we?' She glanced about her, fearful for one terrible second that her eyes might rest upon the familiar outline of her own husband, his finger pointing accusingly at her. Oh, for Christ's sake, Alan, just keep out of this will you. Go catch yourself a big fish.

'Shell Island.' Keith Baxter sounded weary. 'As I said, the milling millions didn't have it in mind to come here today. Apart from those half-dozen cars in front of us they've all gone on down the road to Barmouth to pay homage to their honey-voiced DJ. There'll be a few campers on the island, doubtless, but I reckon we'll have all the peace we need. And it isn't midday yet.'

Irey automatically turned her head away when a youth selling tickets approached them as they drove into the farmyard with its campers' shop and toilets. God, just suppose she saw somebody she knew! A thousand-to-one chance but you never knew.

Keith swung the car off to the left, followed the tarmac track up a steep bank to where it levelled out. From here they had a view of the island itself, acres of rough grass with surprisingly little litter in spite of the number of gaily coloured tents which dotted the scene. The grass was already turning brown after a month of prolonged sunshine, the snaking narrow tarmacadam creating its own mirages.

'We'll go ...' an escalating whine reached a deafening peak and Irey clutched at her companion in sudden terror. A diving plane, almost as though it was bent on attacking them Kamikazi-style, suddenly turned off at the last moment, arcing its way towards that sinister compound with its shimmering runway which they had passed earlier. They followed its trail of smoke, saw it wheel, check, then land with unerring precision. A smoking silent steel bird that had hunted the skies and now returned to its eyrie.

'That pilot must have been crazy,' she whispered hoarsely. 'He was deliberately trying to scare us. He might have misjudged and killed us and himself.'

'I doubt there's a pilot in there,' he replied. That place you see there is a top ministry research base, guarded day and night. Nobody really knows what they're up to except that they're experimenting with low-flying fighter aircraft to go in under enemy radar. That's the one fly in the ointment here, aircraft back and forth all day long, but eventually you get so used to them that you don't even notice them. I was saying, before we were so rudely interrupted, that if we go to the other end of the island we can find ourselves a nice little place in the dunes. We can bathe, swim, or just get a nice tan.'

'You've been here before, then?'

'I used to come camping here a lot in my younger days. Sometimes it's nice to go over old ground again, remember places as they were when life was fresh and exciting.'

He turned the car off the track, let it bump its way gently across the uneven grass, took a left-hand sweep to avoid some tents. An orange van and a Land Rover were parked side by side a little further on and he eased up alongside them, switched the engine off. Above them, all along the skyline, screening them from Cardigan Bay, was an uneven line of sand-dunes, tall spiky grass growing lushly in spite of the dry weather.

'Well, we're here.' Keith Baxter turned to his companion, his gaze taking in her shapely figure beneath the sweat-stained red T-shirt and the crumpled pleated skirt. Short dark hair and wide blue eyes, a distinctive Welsh characteristic.

'I should've brought a picnic of some sort with us,' she struggled up into a sitting position, smoothing her clothing as she did so. 'I don't know why I never thought of it. This heat addles the brain.'

'I intended taking you for a meal later, anyway,' he got out, walked round the car and opened the door for her. 'For a couple of hours or so let's not be the conventional British holidaymaker with his packaged food. Let's enjoy life. We'll do just anything we feel like doing.'

It was a steep climb up to the summit of the dunes, Keith leading the way, pulling Irey up behind him. Then they were standing surveying the deep blue sea with scarcely a ripple in sight, wide golden sands that led on right up to the rocky north end of the island, maybe thirty people in sight the whole way.

'See,' he laughed, 'we've virtually got the island to ourselves. All the silly buggers have trekked off to see the Radio Roadshow. Let's find ourselves a nice little shady spot somewhere in these dunes.'