Mike Dixon

Tim grabbed the parcel and hurried back to the van, half
-blinded by the rain. He didn‟t look back and didn‟t see the
man jump up from the armchair. Nor did he see him slip
out through a side door and run towards a motorbike.
ack in the flat, Tim stripped off his wet shirt and
B went to the fridge for more beer. On the other side
of the table, David stared apprehensively at the brown paper
parcel, laid out on the bare boards like a hunting tro-
phy.
„Too easy!‟ Tim placed a beer in his hand. „Went like a
dream.‟
David didn‟t share Tim‟s enthusiasm.
„I‟m not sure we went about this the right way.‟
„It was your idea to post „em back.‟
„Yes. But I didn‟t think we‟d just burst in there.‟
„We didn‟t burst in.‟
Tim ripped the parcel open and tipped out the contents.
„Okay. Where‟s Charlie‟s treasure map?‟
David surveyed the assortment of items. They looked
familiar but not as he remembered packing them.
„What‟s this?‟
Tim held up a pack of photographs.
„Jesus! Just look at those boobs.‟
David felt uneasy. He had slipped one of the porno-
graphic prints into his wallet – a sort of memento. He was
certain the rest had stayed together, tied in a tight bundle.
So what were six loose prints doing in the parcel?
„What‟s the matter? Have your hormones stopped rising?‟
Tim pointed to the plump, pallid, doe-eyed girl, clasp-
ing the considerable organ of an overweight middle-aged
male.
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