Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea

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СКАЧАТЬ I say, which is another great non-phrase I use a lot with birds. Roughly translated, it means: “I can’t think of anything to say so I am going to try to kiss you/put my hand up your skirt/both.”

      Mrs. D. offers me her mouth and we chew away hungrily whilst her hands start a reprise of ‘Love’s Old Sweet Song’ on the zip of my fly. The sand is a bit damp and I would normally reckon this as being a knee-tremble job but for what Mrs. D. said about liking to get stretched out for maximum satisfaction. She has pulled open my trousers like the mouth of a flour sack and has got both hands round my hampton while I am easing her knickers down to knee level with a skill any window dresser would envy. It may not be the most elegant sight in the world but it is giving us both a lot of pleasure and I am fast forgetting about the weather. I prod forward a couple of times and Mrs. D. gives a shiver of passion which just might be for real and starts licking my ear.

      “I want to lie down now,” she says, “and then you put it in.”

      Try to stop me, I think, and, perfect gent that I am, I bend down to remove the panties that are flapping pathetically round her ankles.

      In doing this I am hindered by her whole weight suddenly flopping over my shoulders as if she wanted to be given a piggy-back.

      “Hey! Steady on—” I begin, thinking this is some kinky game she likes to play, or a request for a muff job, but when I straighten up she slides down between my legs and I notice there is a swelling on the side of her head which is growing as I look at it. There is also a small white ball nestling beside my foot and it has more pock-marks on it than my Aunt Ethel. Some clumsy berk has bounced a golf ball off her bonce! Just my flaming luck. The bloody game should be banned.

      “Wake up,” I squeal, slapping her cheeks and gazing into her lifeless mug. “Are you all right?” She does not say anything but groans weakly and pulls her hands up to her head. She is not going anywhere in a hurry in the next few minutes and I am prepared to lay bets on it. One possible taker is the prick who clobbered her and I raise my head carefully over the side of the bunker to see if anyone is coming. By the cringe! Two blokes are striding purposefully towards us and I recognise both of them. Minto and Sharp!

      “I don’t know what I’m going to do about my slice,” sings out Minto and I can’t hear what Sharp says. Minto may think he has problems but they are fleabites compared with what is facing me. Caught in a bunker with a senseless, knickerless pupil can’t be good for business. Knickerless! I snatch up Mrs. D.’s panties and shove them into my pocket, dislodging one of her shoes in my frenzy. I force it on again and there she is, looking just like any other thirty-year-old woman you would expect to find lying senseless in a bunker every time you play a round of golf.

      It is then that I act foolishly—well, act foolishly again, if you feel that trying to shaft a bird in a golf bunker in the middle of November is a bit stupid in the first place. I pick up the ball and roll it carefully onto the fairway, hoping that Minto and Sharp will stumble upon it and not the lovely Mrs. D. and myself. No sooner have I done this than my pupil starting groaning like she is auditioning for the ‘Red Barn’ and I spring to her side and try to muffle the noise with my shoulder. In this position I am glad to hear a cry of surprise from the fairway.

      “Good God, is this your ball?”

      “No, I’m on the green,” says the blond streak of piss impatiently, “and you’re in the bunker, so don’t try anything.”

      “I’m not trying anything, you fool.” Minto’s voice is quick to sound irritated. “This is a number four and that’s what I’m playing. It must have hit something and come out.”

      “Or pigs can fly, or it’s somebody else’s ball. We’ll soon find out.”

      Before I can congratulate myself on another great idea, Sharp’s self-satisfied mug appears over the side of the bunker and he pulls back in surprise. Since Mrs. D. and I are kneeling against each other like a couple of out-of-work bookends it is an emotion you can forgive him.

      “Good Gawd!”

      Sharp’s voice usually sounds dead middle-class with pretensions to something better, but now, caught off guard, it slips a couple of notches.

      “What is it?”

      Minto looms up at his elbow and his mouth jumps open when he sees us.

      “What the hell are you doing down there?”

      He is blustering because he is frightened. I don’t blame him. So am I.

      “This lady fell into the bunker and hit her head,” I say. Well, it must happen all the time, mustn’t it? Sharp obviously does not agree with me.

      “How long have you been there?” he says, suspiciously. “Wait a minute! I know you. You work for Cronk’s crowd. You were at the Shermer YCs the other night with their receptionist. I’ve seen this bloke before—” he starts explaining it all over again to Minto.

      “Yeah. And I know you,” I chip in. “You forced me off the road and nearly killed me.”

      “You forced yourself off. It was a bloody stupid place to try to overtake.”

      “I don’t like this,” says Minto, who has been staring fixedly at Mrs. Dent ever since he saw us. “She’s got a bump on the side of her head.”

      “I told you: she fell in,” I say desperately, but Mrs. D. doesn’t help matters by redoubling her groan rate.

      “I see what you mean,” says Sharp menacingly. “It’s not the first time something like this has happened up here.”

      “Yes. There was that chap—what was his name? Medley? Smedley?”

      “Bachelor. Strangled them and then—”

      “—when he’d sexually assaulted them—”

      “—he buried them in the bunkers.”

      “That’s the one.”

      They beam at each other like a couple of excited kids who have just landed a large minnow.

      “You’re round the twist,” I say indignantly and start to pat Mrs. D.’s cheeks gently.

      “Come on, love. You’re all right. Pull yourself together.”

      To my relief, her groans start turning into words and she stretches out her arms for support.

      “What happened? Where am I? Was there an accident?”

      “No, no, it’s all right,” I say soothingly. “Everything is going to be fine.”

      But it isn’t. Mrs. D.’s faltering fingers catch hold of her knickers and pull them out of my pocket.

      The following few seconds seem like hours and then Mrs. D. drives the final nail into my coffin by uttering her first recognisable words in minutes.

      “Those are my knickers,” she says, and her voice has just the right note of surprise and indignation to ensure that any judge worth his assault would have me inside for eleven years.

      “Now wait—” I begin, but Sharp does not. Leaping into the bunker, he brandishes his putter like a club of the СКАЧАТЬ