The Devils Harvest: The End Of All Flesh Part 31

Suddenly her head started to move, slowly turning in his direction. Emergency service people were still milling around the car, but none noticed her movement.

Caleb sat up straighter in his seat. How can she still be alive? he was thinking.

Her eyes started to roll back down in there sockets, and then make eye contact with his. Her mouth stated to move, blood dribbling from the corner, bubbling then popping, straying blood over her face. Caleb couldn't possibly hear her from his location, but he hear her words inside his head, as if she was sat inside his car.

"Tell Peter I'm sorry I was arguing. That I distracted him." Her lips continued to move, a tear rolled down her face, was.h.i.+ng a line through the blood. Her voice still echoing around inside his head. "Tell him Annabel and Oliver are with me. We will wait for him."

The policeman slammed his hand down hard on Caleb's bonnet, catching his attention. Caleb tore his eyes away, to look at the policeman, who was waving him to move along, annoyance radiating off the officer's face.

Caleb twisted back, staring at the woman. She was back in her original, horrific potion as if nothing had happened.

Had it? he questioned.

The policeman now knocked on his window, moving his body to block the view of the accident. "Move along sir," said the policeman's m.u.f.fed voice through the gla.s.s.

Slowly, Caleb inched the car along. Had it been a hallucination? He had never suffered from them before.

Beyond the accident the traffic had thinned out. He didn't jump any more red lights. Soon he was out on the main road, which luckily wasn't too busy. Within two minutes he pulled up outside the restaurant, leaving his keys with the valet, who seemed happy to drive his car.

Caleb shook the images from his thoughts. A saying his mother use to say came to mind: Things seen can never be unseen. Images of that destroyed family would be with him for the rest of his life. But the hallucination of the woman had been so vivid, so utterly real.

He decided not to mention it to his girlfriend. He put his game face on.

Sophie was smoking; legs crossed pointing away from the table, sitting sideways in the chair, a pall of blue smoke hung above her. When she saw him coming she stubbed out her Benson & Hedges, and gave him a long cold glare, while he removed his jacket and slumped down into the chair opposite, then sc.r.a.pping the chair over the teak wood decking. He rubbed his hands over his face, to force away the last of the images and the woman's words.

She flicked her long, straight blond hair over her shoulder, tucking a lose strand behind her ear, being careful not to scratch herself with her long fake French nails. She then flicked open her compact, to replace the lipstick that was removed with the cigarette.

s.h.i.+t, it's freezing outside. They were under a clothe canopy, with large ornate fire pits spattered around the decking. Regardless, it was still cold. But she liked to smoke while eating, and because it was illegal to smoke inside, they had to sit outside on the empty back decking.

Caleb saw her icy look, flicking over the top of the small compact mirror. She hadn't even said h.e.l.lo, so he remained silent. He leaned forward and gave her a peck on her cold hollow cheek. A waiter saved any sarcastic comment. He offered her the menu first, then Caleb, then disappeared to allow them to decide.

s.h.i.+t, she didn't even have a coat or wrap around on. Just as I expected, fridget.

Another waiter appeared from nowhere, much younger than the first, the wine menu in hand. He stood blatantly started straight down Sophie's top. Without looking at the wine list Caleb ordered a Mont 67, which seemed to thaw her out a little. A bottle of four hundred pound wine usually did. The waiter prized his eyes away and wandered off, pulling at his crotch.

"What's the celebration?" she asked, while lighting another cigarette. Then tucked one hand on the other elbow to support the arm with the cigarette, as if it was too heavy for her skeletal thin white arms.

"Being with you is all the reason for celebrating that I need." She didn't even acknowledge the complement, and went straight back to studying the menu, while blowing blue smoke in his general direction, even though she knew he couldn't stand the smell.

After seeing the accident, he needed to feel alive, invigorated. Spending money always gave him that feeling. A celebration for being fit and healthy.

Tell Peter I'm sorry... he heard again. Jesus, am I losing it? he mused.

"I don't know any of this foreign muck," she said after a few moments of silence.

Caleb was putting his jacket back on, in an attempt to warm himself up and distract his thought.

"That's because it's all Indian darling. Try the chicken tikka masala you will like it, it's not too spicy. It's creamy."

"How do you know what it tastes like?" Once again she was biting off icy comments.

Stupid b.i.t.c.h, he thought. Almost everyone has tasted it. It was even cla.s.sed as England's true national dish, supposedly created in London's Soho area in the 1970's. But he didn't mention these facts. He knew she was a true blonde, the only part of her that was real.

"I had a business meal in an Indian restaurant a few days ago, and that was recommended to me." Nothing said about this being the actual restaurant.

"I don't want the s.h.i.+ts."

She looked like a model but had the mouth of trailer trash. As the saying goes: you can take white trash out of the trailer park, but you can't take the trailer park out of the white trash. She always resorted to vulgarity when she was in one of her moods. Which seemed to be all the time lately.

"You will be fine," he said, just as the waiter returned with the wine, and to take their orders. Again, the waiter kept flicking glances at Sophie's silicone chest.

Caleb ordered two tikkas, with plain rice and peshwari naan, before she could make any comment. After the wine was poured and the waiter was gone, silence returned to the small round table. The only sound was her puffing on her cancer stick, while tapping her fake nails on the burgundy tablecloth. She readjusted her bra, pulling out more cleavage, possibly to give the waiter a better show when he returned.

Caleb was freezing, even with his jacket on. He wished he had thought to grab his coat from the boot. But then, he presumed he would be sat in a warm restaurant.

He watched Sophie smoke. She never looked in his direction. She was picking imaginary lint of her Armani dress. She tugged at the strap of her bra, which must have been digging into her pale skin after moving it around.

No s.e.x tonight then, he thought to himself. What did he expect; they hadn't had s.e.x in months. When they first met their lovemaking was wild, angry and imaginative. Now he was lucky to even get a kiss on the cheek when he met her. And when she did stay over at his apartment, all she done was spend hours in the bathroom, then take up over half of the bed and all the sheets. He got nothing in return, except att.i.tude.

"I need a p.i.s.s," he said. This statement received a glare from her. She could swear and say what she liked, but as soon as he did she scolded him. She kept reminding him that one day he will be running the company, and he should practice now how to talk properly. Of course, he hadn't shared his retirement plan with her.

Caleb pushed back his chair with his legs and headed towards the toilet.

Once inside the warm but gaudy coloured bathroom, which made his eyes want to strain and rebel which seemed to be decorated in Victorian Era, meets Jean Paul Gaultier. Caleb sat inside the cubicle, just so he could sit and warm up a little. While he sat on the lowered lid, he removed his phone to check for messages. None.

He also ran the events of the crash over and over. He sat shaking his head while rubbing his face. Now wasn't the time. He would go over it later with a crystal tumbler full of Bombay Sapphire dry gin and tonic on the rocks.

Caleb decided he did need a p.i.s.s. While was.h.i.+ng his hands in the copper basin he noticed a small board behind him, reflected in the mirror. A message board, where people could leave a card. Without thinking he removed his wallet and slid a business card out, pinning it to the cork. Then he scanned the other advertis.e.m.e.nts. Shrinks, an a.s.sortment of other advisors, plumbers, electricians and expensive phone s.e.x chat lines, along with call-girls numbers, with the their small pictures with huge b.r.e.a.s.t.s and painfully thin bodies and bleached hair. Yeah right, he thought, if you looked like that darling, you wouldn't need to advertise in toilets.

A pale orange A4 sheet that was hanging off the bottom of the board caught his attention; a New Age festival, for the mind, body and spirit. Covering everything from palm reading to tarots, psychology, holistic health and parapsychology. Everything spiritual to the metaphysical, all there to offer guidance. It was being held at London's famous Tobacco Docks, starting tomorrow, over a three day period Friday, Sat.u.r.day and Sunday. He stood staring at the sign. He had never been to a fortune reader before, but then, he was never about to invest so much of his own savings. Hadn't the people in the office been talking about this festival? Some went last year.

After a second of pondering he pulled the notice from the board and folded it up, pus.h.i.+ng it into his s.h.i.+rt pocket. Here we go he thought back to the Ice Queen.

About the Author.

Glen Johnson was born in Devon, England in 1973. He lives a stone's throw away from the English Riviera, in a small town that most people don't even realize exists. He loves to travel and has been to twenty-nine different counties, and lived in Mexico City, Mexico for far too long for a pale skinned European. He has also been married twice and still refuses to say where he buried them. At present he works as an Optical Technician.

For information on his latest books you can follow Glen Johnson on Sinuous Minds Books Facebook Page.

Or on www.sinuousmindbooks.com.

Also by Glen Johnson from Sinuous Mind Books.

(Available on Amazon).

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