” He put his hands on her shoulders and lowered her onto the flat surface of the picnic bench. Was it a week ago? No, perhaps more. She swallowed hard. ” She removed some posters from a chair, and seated herself coolly. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. He took her fingers and lifted his eyes to hers. Jack Kimble nodded eagerly. ‘I’ve never before made love at pistol point.
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