"Every Man For Anne" - читать интересную книгу автора (Peters Staci)

Chapter 4

"This is the day," said Anne, as she poured a second cup of coffee and lit yet another Pall Mall.

"I've never seen you smoke more than one cigarette after lunch," Silke commented. "Nervous?"

"Not at all." Anne sounded taken aback. "Well, maybe just a little. Actually I'm rather excited, aren't you?"

Silke nodded.

"You do think he's going to be there, don't you?"

"That's the third time you've asked me, Anne. All I remember is that Carol once told me that he often drops by the Corner Bar for a beer before he goes home," Silke shrugged. "So if he doesn't show today, maybe he'll be there tomorrow."

"Let's just hope that John Martin is a creature of habit. Tomorrow's Friday, the last day of term… Oh Lord, I do hope he's feeling thirsty tonight."

"Is everything ready? Let's check over it again."

"The padlock," Anne exclaimed. "I must fit the padlock. Go and fetch the collar, will you please?" Silke ran downstairs and brought back the heavy dog collar. Anne had gone out to the work shed and returned with a leather punch.

"Mom did some evening classes in leatherwork last year." She punched a hole through the end of the collar strap and right through the second layer underneath. "Now I'll just do this up… the two holes are aligned… and I can slip this padlock hinge right through."

Anne clicked together the clasp of the small brass padlock. She tugged at it a couple of times: "Seems quite solid."

"For goodness sake, don't lose the key," warned Silke.

Anne undid the padlock and, with a theatrical flourish, dropped the key into her purse. "Don't worry so. We may as well leave it all together downstairs."

The girls went and checked everything in Silke's apartment.

"That'll hold a horse," said Anne as she tugged on the chain strung between the two walls and hanging in a slight curve over Silke's bed.

"I don't think John Martin's that much of a stallion," chuckled Silke. "Lots of food and drink. And you can reach the bathroom O.K.."

Anne raised an eyebrow.

"I checked it out this morning before you got up," Silke confessed. "Just wanted to make sure everything worked according to plan."

"Do you doubt my organizing ability?" Anne queried with mock indignation. "Are all the accessories to hand?"

"Aye, aye, Sir!" Silke opened and shut the top drawer of the dresser. "And the picture's back in place ready for the little surprise to be revealed whenever we like."

"And plenty of reading material so he won't get bored."

"I think he's going to be anything but bored."

"What do you think of the decorations?"

"Very stimulating," assured Silke. "That is, if he's not a raving queer."

"Maybe that's why he hated our… " Anne pursed her lips. "No, it couldn't be."

Silke laughed at her friend's sudden doubts.

"Don't be silly. He's as red-blooded as the next guy, I'm sure. He just has to be reminded of what it's all about."

"It would be hard to resist getting turned on by that," commented Anne, peering closely at a photo they'd tacked to the cork wall behind the bed.

"Let me see that," said Silke.

The picture showed a girl with long black hair flowing down over her shoulders. She was kneeling at the side of a bed with her weight supported on her elbows. She had her rear to the camera. As she was slightly twisted to the left, the deep curve of her generous breast was revealed. All she was wearing were a pair of black nylons, a wet-look satin garter belt to match, and a pair of spiked-heel silver shoes. Her knees were quite some distance apart which spread her cheeks to display the tiny darkish hole above, with its puckered ring of brownish-mauve flesh, and below that the bulging fronds of her pussy lips. Curling around, reaching from the front, was a. mass of silky black ringlets.

"How would you like that for lunch?" Anne nudged the German girl in the ribs.

She smacked her lips together with a slurping sound, "Only if I could have you for seconds."

"Let's hope it has the same effect on him," said Anne. "Don't forget your baby-dolls. We may as well take them upstairs now."

"O.K. But will I need them?" said Sue. "Can't I cuddle you if it gets chilly in the night?"

"We'll see about that. Let's go up and mix the magic potion."

Silke folded her see-through baby-dolls and placed them on Anne's bed cover, then went to find her friend in her, parents' bedroom. Anne came out of the private adjoining bathroom carrying a plastic pill bottle.

"Here we are," said Anne. "Mother's little helpers! Actually, I think she only takes them from time to time."

"How strong are they?"

"Pretty powerful. I tried them once or twice and they just knocked me out. Slept like a log."

Anne twisted off the child-proof cap and shook out two of the bright orange capsules. Then she extracted one more, "No harm in being sure."

"What are you going to carry them in?"

"Here," said Anne, pulling a package of cigarette papers from her pocket. "No dope, but I've still got some papers."

She pulled one out and smoothed it down on the glass top of her mother's bedside table. Next, Anne pried open each of the sleeping capsules and deposited their powdery contents onto the cigarette paper. Finally, she twisted it up and held it in front of Silke.

"One Mickey Finn coming up. Here, let's flush these down the toilet," she said, gathering up the halves of the plastic capsules. "I'll just put this bottle back on the shelf and we're all set to go."

They heard a whistling outside as they went back downstairs, followed by the rusty creak of the mailbox lid. Anne opened the front door.

"Nothing for you, I'm afraid," she told Silke.

"Oops, I'm sorry. This is addressed to both of us."

She was holding a garishly colored postcard of a cruise ship sailing into a semi-tropical sunset.

"Dear Anne and Silke," she read out. "Had a fine flight over and an interesting stay here in Las Palmas. Joining our cruise ship this afternoon. Still very excited. Take care, both of you, and don't get in to any mischief. Love Mom and Dad. P.S. Hope you do well with your final grades."

"If only she knew," said Silke.

"You mean about the grades?"

"No… about the mischief."

"Hark at you," teased Anne. "Who's the worrier now?"

"Let's get going," said Silke. "I can hardly wait."

"Neither can I," agreed Anne. "So let's keep our rendezvous at the Corner Bar."

Right then, John Martin was thinking about a drink too. He finished marking the essay in front of him and tossed it onto the pile with all the others. Thank God that lot's done, he thought to himself; sometimes it felt as if he'd never reach the end of term. Why on earth did he let himself get stuck with freshman English? Next time there was a department meeting on course allotment, he'd pull a little rank; after all, surely he'd been there long enough to pick and choose his own courses. There were at least three people who'd joined the English Department after him. Why shouldn't they look after it?

What a term it had been. And now, finally, it had come to an end. Damn, he cursed inwardly, I've still got that last Creative Writing class tomorrow. He looked around his office for inspiration and his attention settled on a red leather-bound edition of the Tales and Poems of Edgar Allen Poe. That's it. I'll read them "The Pit and the Pendulum," tell, them that's the kind of vivid imagery to aim for, and then dismiss them with a blessing for the summer.

He picked up the University Bulletin and glanced down at the list of faculty publications. His own name was followed by the details of a book review he'd written for Modem British Fiction, an academic quarterly to which only he and Professor Kendall subscribed, At least; as far as he knew they were the only ones with sufficient interest in the new novels. Martin never quite got over seeing his name in print but it was odd that he'd never gotten around to writing that important novel he knew he carried within him. Oh well, maybe I'll start on it this summer.

His eye caught his name repeated again… no, it was an announcement of faculty activities that said his wife, Professor Joannah Martin of the Psychology Department, was off to a three-thy conference. She'd been in very good spirits when he'd said goodbye to her at lunchtime and wished her a safe journey. Why didn't she seem that enthusiastic when they had an ordinary weekend to spend at home together? The car, he suddenly thought Of course, she's taken the car, so I'll have to walk home. No matter. I'll stop off at College Corner and have a beer. I don't even need to get home for supper.

Martin walked down the corridor to the Department's washroom. As he rinsed his hands, he inspected himself in the mirror. Teaching takes it out of one… I do look tired. Still, going on forty soon, and not a fleck of grey. He ran a comb back through his mop of dark brown hair. A few years younger and I'd grow it longer at the back, but it always looks so silly when a college professor tries to ape his students. He had a square face, rather striking hazel eyes, and full, almost sensual lips. He looked at his reflection rather distantly; it never occurred to him that his female students might occasionally find him quite attractive.

Sally Rossiter had visited his office earlier that week to make a -great display of the obvious charms of her budding figure. But then that wasn't out of any attraction to John Martin, he realized. Rather ft emphasized her desperate need to get at least one. B grade this term. There's always one of them that'll try it on, thought Martin, but why pick on me? I'd be foolish to succumb to such a trick. News would soon get around the department and what a buzz that would make. Anyway, she's much too young. And the same went for those two foolish girls who had submitted some rather second-rate attempts at erotic fiction for their Creative Writing papers. Erica Jong might have the experience and talent to get away with it, although he never had got to the end of Fear of Flying, but Anne Weston and her young German friend shouldn't have tried to write about things they could obviously have no first-hand knowledge of… Really, what a silly put-on.

Martin stacked the freshman papers on the secretary's desk and walked down the stairs and out into the late-afternoon sunshine. He returned the greetings of two of the better students in his Dickens seminar as he cut across the rolling grass lawn in front of the main University building. A strip of bare earth had been beaten by the march of countless feet to and from the corner bus stop. Martin ambled along this track, enjoying the warm glow on his skin. He loosened his collar as he went.

A beer at the College Corner Bar, he thought with anticipation, no, two beers, and then he'd stroll down the hill and stop by at the variety store and look through the magazine rack. Maybe there'd be some good short fiction or an interesting interview in this month's Playboy. His own self-deception never really occurred to Martin. After all, when he did buy Playboy he rarely got around to reading the articles, although he'd inspect the photo layouts with aroused enthusiasm. Sometimes, late in the evening, he'd stop behind in the front room while Joannah got ready for bed and look, through the back issues at the girls. When it felt good and hard he'd follow her to the bedroom and make his usual overtures. Joannah rarely refused him. I'm lucky that way, he thought Once or twice she's claimed to be just too tired to please me, but she's never been so corny as to plead a headache. Still, it would be nice if she'd take the initiative occasionally.

"Hello, John," a voice interrupted his speculations. "Well, we're nearly at the end."

It was Richard Nash, one of his colleagues, walking in the opposite direction.

"Hi, Richard," he replied. "Going back for another round?"

"Just some last-minute marking. I'd like to get shut of it and leave the weekend clear."

"I finished mine this afternoon." John pulled a face.

"Lucky you," said Richard. "See you later, John."

Richard moved off and John stood at the curb patiently obeying the wait sign although the nearest car was fully a hundred yards away. The lights changed, John crossed over, and there was almost a spring in his walk as he approached the college tavern. He pushed through the door and it took a few moment for his eyes to adjust to the smoky gloom. Damn, it was the end of term; he should have realized the place would be packed.

"If it isn't John Martin," a student greeted him with a pronounced slur in his voice. "Hello there, Professor."

"George," be nodded. "Looks as if you've done some celebrating already."

"Right on, Prof. Come and join us for a drink."

"Well, really I… "

George clutched at his arm with one hand while using the other to sweep the crush of people aside.

"Make way, make way. I've got a thirsty man here."

They were almost at the bar when John felt someone else tugging at his other sleeve.

"Professor. Martin, why don't you join us. We've got a table in the corner."

It was Anne Weston. Thank goodness there was someone to rescue him from George Weber and his hard-drinking locker-mom pals.

"Steady on there, George. I've come to have a drink with Anne and her friends."

"You don't want to drink with us?"

"It's not that at all… "

"George, we did invite Professor Martin for an end of term drink with us," Anne cut in quite sharply. The young man released his grip.

"Thank you, George," John said in a conciliatory tone. "Maybe I can join you later?"

"Sure, Prof later. Anytime you want a drink, there's room for you at the bar."

John gave him an appropriate smile of appreciation. George turned and was swallowed up in the crowd milling around the bar counter.

"Thank you so much," John said to Anne, as she led him over to the table they had secured in the darkest corner of the room. "You couldn't have arrived at a better moment: you've rescued me from the suffocating embrace of the football squad."

"Hello, Professor," Silke beamed up at him. "Sit down here."

She gathered up their purses which had reserved the third chair at their table. "Can we order you a beer?"

"Yes… please."

Anne caught the waitress' eye as she swept past them and held up a finger.

"Draught?"

"That'd be fine," John called out, "Hello, Silker. And thank you once again, Anne."

Silke didn't correct his pronunciation of her name, but raised an eyebrow at her friend.

"Apparently I was just in time to rescue him from that mob at the bar," Anne explained.

"I don't think I've ever seen it this crowded," John said. "I wouldn't have dropped by for a beer if I'd known."

"I guess everyone wants to let off a bit of steam."

"Can't say I blame them," John admitted. "It's been a long haul this term."

"It's nearly over."

"Yes, thank the Lord. All that's left is our last Creative Writing session tomorrow." Even as he said it, John felt a sickening churn in his stomach as he recalled with a start-that it was Anne and Silke who had submitted those dreadful papers. What if they want to discuss them now? he thought.

I couldn't face that. He smiled at each of them in turn.

"One draught." The waitress set the foaming glass tankard down with a plunk. John reached in his pocket for change.

"Here… this one's on us," Anne restrained him. She tossed some coins on the tray and the girl moved off to answer another call for more drinks.

"Thank you both. It's most kind of you."

He took a long swallow of the Ice-cold lager. Well, if they do say anything, I'll just plead that we're on neutral territory and they can take up any points with me in my office tomorrow.

"What are you planning to do in the summer?" asked Anne. She certainly didn't seem about to launch into an extended discussion of the literary merits, or rather lack of them, in her term paper.

John gave the usual polite explanations, saying how much preparation he'd have to put in for the next round of classes. The conversation drifted amiably through a round of small-talk topics. Inwardly John chuckled cynically at his own misgivings; after all, they were just like the rest of his students and probably never even, glanced at the comments he'd made. It wasn't like that when he was a student, he mistakenly recalled. Actually, these two sure are rather more pleasant company than some of the others, John thought, as the chill beer washed out the sour taste left by all that depressing marking.

Anne spoke of her parents' Mediterranean cruise, which Silke complemented with some of her own observations regarding ‘travel In Europe. John had little to add to talk of foreign travel, so he switched it round to a British series he'd been watching on the public television station. He was pleasantly surprised to find that Anne and Silke had caught a few episodes as well. He was well launched into his lecture on the superior dramatic virtues of the British television series when he drained the bottom of his glass.

"Have another," Silke insisted.

"Really, I must be boring you…"

"Not at all," Anne contradicted him. "This is absolutely fascinating. Most of the Profs here just turn up their noses at the very mention of watching television."

"Yes, do go on… please," Silke said in support.

John relaxed in his chair. It felt good to have an appreciative audience and they were most perceptive to put their finger on his colleagues' reverse snobbism. The waitress answered Anne's beckoning finger.

"This round's on me," John said firmly, as he pulled out the wallet from his corduroy jacket.

"Same again?" the girl with the tray enquired, somewhat impatiently.

John looked at his two young companions.

"The same again is fine with me."

Silke nodded as well.

"Another round of draught lager then, please, and perhaps you'd bring a scotch on the side for me."

The waitress went back to the bar and as John turned his bead he thought he caught Anne exchanging glances with Silke.

"It is the end of term," John said. "Might as well join in the festive spirit. Are you sure you don't want anything a little stronger?"

"Beer's fine for me, thanks," said Anne. "Me too," Silke made a brief waving motion with her hand. "I thought some of the mini-series that the American networks have made were pretty good too."

John, now warmed to his theme, launched into a further discussion of the comparative merits of television shows. The girl returned with their drinks, and he paid her.

"If you'll excuse me for just one moment… " he said, rising from his seat.

"Sure," said Anne. "We'll be waiting for you to continue."

As soon as they saw that John had made his way to the men's washroom and was safely out of sight, Anne opened the flap at the front of her purse.

Silke looked around them: "O.K., go on. No one's watching."

Anne unwrapped the twist of cigarette paper and, with a final glance about the room, she shook out its contents into the whiskey glass. With nothing better to hand, she took out a pencil and swirled the drink around. To cover her movements, she moved the glasses as if rearranging them on the table top.

"He's coming," warned Silke. John was still in the doorway of the washroom, looking about him rather uncertainly. Silke waved and John grinned back.

"Rather lost my bearings there for a moment," he explained as he sat down again. "Here's to a relaxing holiday."

"… relaxing holiday," Anne repeated, tongue in cheek.

"Cheers," said. Silke.

John sipped at the whiskey, pulled a face and then, much to the girls' relief, he threw back the drink in one long swig.

"Always feel like John Wayne when I do that," he laughed.

"While you were gone we were discussing pop music," Anne lied. She remembered once in class he'd gotten really sidetracked with a talk about the Beatles' lyrics. "Do you think much of it can really claim to be poetry?"

John fell for it hook, line, and sinker. A few years ago he'd come across some rather good articles in an obscure British journal and had shamelessly pillaged the arguments as fodder for cocktail chatter at those interminable department parties that had to be attended each Christmas. Anne and Silke listened with rapt attention as he expounded the brilliant symbolism in the movie Yellow Submarine. Twice he stumbled over his words, once he yawned widely without putting his hand over his mouth, and now he felt quite dizzy.

"I say… it's awfully warm in here, isn't it?"

Anne looked at Silke: "No, I feel O.K., don't you? Have some more beer; that'll cool you down."

John's head drooped forward as he fumbled for his glass. He tried to swallow some but slopped it on the front of his jacket. "I don't think I feel too well… "

He started to rise but collapsed back in the chair. "… not too well, at all."

"You do look rather pale," Silke said concernedly.

"Maybe we should help you out?"

"Thank you, yes. I think perhaps I'll need a hand." His head fell forward on his chest.

"Come on, Silke, we'd better steady him to the door." John could hear Anne's voice: she sounded miles away.

"Are you O.K.?" She laid her hand on his shoulder.

John managed to look up at her: "The air just a breath of air… I'm sure I'll feel better."

"My car's parked right outside," Anne spoke to him firmly. "We're going to drive you home."

"Wouldn't hear of it… just some air… " The room swirled as he tried to make it to his feet. Anne draped an arm around his shoulders while Silke held him upright on the other side. Together they steered him along the corridor that ran around the perimeter of the bar room. They had almost reached the front door when George loomed up in front of them.

"One to many, eh?" he leered at them.

"Out of the way, George. He's just feeling a little faint," Anne glowered at him.

George shrugged, grinned stupidly, and turned back to the bar. The girls exhaled with relief.

"Come on, not much further."

They steered John out to the parking lot and propped him against the side of the car while Anne opened the rear door. John sprawled onto the back seat. Silke moved his legs and clambered in after him. "I'd better ride in the back with him."

Anne nodded in agreement and got in behind the wheel. "Everything O.K.?"

Silke's smile was reflected in the rear-view mirror: "He's sleeping like a baby. Phase one completed according to plan."

A few minutes later Anne turned the wagon into the Weston's driveway and swept straight into the garage. She got out, pulled down the door from the inside, and returned to help Silke discharge their unconscious passenger.