Accused by Hank Janson

Author:Hank Janson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Telos Publishing Ltd

I should have been smart, taken a risk and cleared out that same night. There was nothing to stop me except Freidman’s veiled threats.

The next day, it was worse. Because not only did I have the guilty feeling that Freidman was watching me surreptitiously, but the dame herself wasn’t being very clever.

She’d changed in some subtle way. She still looked tired and exhausted. But she had a kinda new vitality, like she could now see some distant horizon and a ray of hope. It wasn’t anything you’d notice easily. You felt it rather than noticed it. But it was there all the time. And she did crazy things, too, deliberately letting her arm brush against me when I passed, catching my eye when Freidman wasn’t looking, watching me, kinda stroking me with her eyes across the room.

The following day was hell for me. Guilt was strong inside me and intensified the feeling that Freidman’s penetrating eyes were watching every move I made. I was convinced he couldn’t fail to notice her subtlety changed manner, and expected every minute that Freidman would show his hand, demand a showdown.

That’s what a guilty conscience does for you.

The second day wasn’t so bad.

The third day, I knew everything was my imagination. Freidman didn’t suspect a thing.

Then, with my fears at rest, my dormant desires began to strengthen.

She was there all the time, day and night, never more than a few yards from me, and I could sense her all the time, knew what she was thinking, knew she wanted me as I needed her. I was remembering the feel of her hot, damp skin, the urgency of her strong, young body thrusting against me, the salty taste of her lips and even the sour scent of her perspiration.

I found I was watching her when Freidman wasn’t looking at me, observing the soft, liquid flow of her body beneath the dress, while desire was spreading and growing bigger and bigger inside me until it was torment.

It got so I couldn’t stop thinking about her, remembering the creamy whiteness of her breasts, the tips of her fingers gouging into my back, the wide belt of discoloured, bruised flesh that made her quiver with delicious pain at the slightest touch, and the strength of her parted thighs.

It got so I couldn’t sleep at nights. I was tormented by mental images of her, by overwhelming desire and the knowledge that all the time she was never more than a few yards away from me. Time couldn’t pass quickly enough.

It seemed the day would never come, and when it did, the morning lasted an eternity. It needed a conscious mental effort to concentrate on my work, avoid mistakes that would focus Freidman’s attention upon me.

And when finally Freidman went to his bedroom, unlocked it, and emerged with the familiar brown attaché case, I was so nervous that my hands were trembly.

From the window, I watched him go around back to the wooden shack that was the garage, watched him edge his car out on to the road and drive off in the direction of Claremont.

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