Free Rob Johnson - Lifting the Lid by Rob Johnson Page A

rabbit-in-the-headlights eyes. Trevor Hawkins. No doubt about it. She edged her way closer so she could hear what was being said.
    ‘…few questions,’ she heard the man in the tan jacket say when she came within earshot.
    ‘Er, what about?’ Trevor looked like he was about to crap his pants, and she almost felt sorry for him. Almost, but not quite. She noticed he was holding his right arm rather awkwardly across his stomach as if he had something concealed inside his jacket and was preventing it from falling out.
    ‘It might be better if we went somewhere a little more private. We need to wait for my… friend though. He’ll be along any minute.’ So saying, he raised his wrist to his face and spoke into his sleeve. ‘Subject apprehended. Outside arena entrance.’ He cocked his head to one side as if straining to hear something, and Sandra spotted the thin curly wire which ran from his right ear and disappeared inside his jacket collar.
    ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry actually,’ said Trevor.
    ‘Won’t keep you long, sir.’ The man in the tan jacket smiled without a hint of sincerity and transferred his attention to the dog, which was staring up at him and whining. ‘This your dog?’
    ‘Yes.’ The voice sounded weary.
    ‘Cute. Does he bite?’ He tentatively held out the back of his hand towards the dog, who eyed it suspiciously.
    ‘He’s a she, and no she doesn’t,’ Trevor said and then added, ‘…usually.’
    ‘I see.’ He withdrew his outstretched hand and pretended to check his watch.
    ‘Who are you anyway?’
    Sandra could see that Trevor was becoming increasingly agitated and possibly even a little braver at the same time.
    ‘Oh I’m sorry. Didn’t I introduce myself?’ His words were heavy with mock politeness. ‘Patterson’s the name.’
    ‘What are you? Police?’
    ‘Something like that, sir.’
    ‘So do you have any identification?’
    ‘Indeed I do,’ said Patterson but made not the slightest move to produce anything. ‘And while we’re at the introductions stage, you are…?’
    ‘Er… Wolf. – Stephen Wolf.’
    Patterson smirked. ‘In sheep’s clothing, eh?’
    There was no response.
    Just then, three men wearing nothing more than the minutest white skirts-cum-loincloths, sandals, and plastic laurel wreaths on their heads appeared from nowhere and advanced towards Patterson. Each carried an elaborately shaped plywood bow and arrow, and all of them were in their early to mid forties and of varying degrees of unattractiveness. Even so, they moved elegantly as if in slow motion with every step exaggerated and precise. Pouting theatrically all the while, they surrounded their prey and stared at him with the intensity of a hunter.
    Sandra watched as the oldest and chubbiest of the three crouched down in front of Patterson and ever so slowly drew himself upright, lingering momentarily over the crotch area, until their faces were only two or three inches apart. The other two Cupids slid to either side of their target and brought their own faces to within the same distance.
    For a few seconds, they stood motionless as they gazed at their victim, their bows and arrows now pointing at the ground. Then, and at exactly the same instant and without any visible cue passing between them, they each began to caress his hair and face with tender sensuality.
    A small crowd started to gather, and Sandra moved closer to maintain her uninterrupted view.
    By now, Patterson’s body was completely rigid, his head tipped backwards and his teeth bared in a fixed grin which managed to convey both embarrassment and annoyance. If he was trying for “Hey, I’m just an ordinary festival guy like the rest of you and isn’t this fun”, he’d failed badly.
    The three Cupids rotated around him, and their caresses ventured steadily downwards from his head to his shoulders and beyond, a face always directly in front of his own, eyeball to eyeball and pout to grimace. There was a movement at the edge