changed so much since his mother’s time. There were still recognised places you went when the time for sex arrived. These days a degree of comfort was expected and so a group of enterprising lads had clubbed together and paid the annual hire fee for a clapped out caravan at the local holiday park.
For a sum, you could buy a copy of the key, as Alex Winter, the chair of the Shagging Committee, had explained. In fact Alex, whom Malcolm strongly suspected was more spectator than player, had even slipped a key to Malcolm, in case he wanted to do some filming.
So Malcolm ran on, glad he was in training, hoping he could get back to his house, pick up the key and cut across to the caravan before the startled lovers-to-be arrived. He was aware that this sort of filming transgressed any number of legal and ethical codes, but once again, while reason wasn’t entirely absent, it wasn’t in the ascendancy.
It was a ‘permanent’ caravan, the sort that could still technically be moved, the way the bylaws required, although achieving this would require two new tyres, the destruction of a windbreak and the digging up of drainage pipes.
Malcolm approached from the rear, having negotiated a two-metre-high hedge in his efforts to remain undetected. He stopped outside the awning and listened. He could hear nothing but his own breath and figured they hadn’t yet arrived, or that they’d performed the operation with admirable efficiency and were now both fast asleep. Malcolm zipped open the outside door and crept inside, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
As he’d feared the portable love shack wasn’t exactly the ultimate place of concealment. The awning was furnished with nothing more than a half-deflated air-bed, two thin sleeping bags and a foldaway chair. Any game of hide-and-seek was doomed to end prematurely. The caravan itself, which the key did indeed fit, was just as basic. The double bed was permanently down, making getting in and out awkward. There was no wardrobe, or even a table, and someone had gone to the trouble of safety-pinning the closed curtains together.
Aware that time was running out, Malcolm considered his options. There weren’t many. He unpinned the curtain at the window facing the awning and folded back a corner to create a small peephole. He went back into the awning and checked it through the camera. It provided a limited view of the bed, so long as they remained fairly still. He then unbuttoned the canvas storm flap hanging down from the caravan floor and rolled beneath it. He waited.
He heard Charlotte first. The sound of her voice tightened his stomach and made his eyes dry and scratchy.
‘Yeah, this must be it. The key works.’
Malcolm felt the floor above him rock with their weight and heard the door close behind them. He rolled straight out, determined to catch as much of the action as he could. It was a difficult move to pull off quietly and he was sure they would hear but, when there was no response from within, he pointed his camera at the small gap.
The light inside was poor and the camera struggled to find its focus. The grainy picture that finally emerged showed Kevin and Charlotte, still fully clothed, somewhere between sitting and lying, joined only at the lips and barely moving, like a still from an early silent movie. Malcolm hardly knew Kevin but in that frozen moment he felt a hatred for him that was startling in its purity. He wondered whether the camping ground had a fire alarm, and what would happen if he set it off.
Charlotte broke free and stood up. Even in the half-light she was beautiful. Malcolm bit his lip to distract himself from the torture of watching her.
‘Well, suppose I should take this off,’ Charlotte said, reaching for the strap of her dress. Malcolm’s lip began to bleed. Behind Charlotte, Kevin’s face travelled from uncertainty to terror, passing through a small town called torment on the way.
‘No don’t,’ Kevin called out, too
For a sum, you could buy a copy of the key, as Alex Winter, the chair of the Shagging Committee, had explained. In fact Alex, whom Malcolm strongly suspected was more spectator than player, had even slipped a key to Malcolm, in case he wanted to do some filming.
So Malcolm ran on, glad he was in training, hoping he could get back to his house, pick up the key and cut across to the caravan before the startled lovers-to-be arrived. He was aware that this sort of filming transgressed any number of legal and ethical codes, but once again, while reason wasn’t entirely absent, it wasn’t in the ascendancy.
It was a ‘permanent’ caravan, the sort that could still technically be moved, the way the bylaws required, although achieving this would require two new tyres, the destruction of a windbreak and the digging up of drainage pipes.
Malcolm approached from the rear, having negotiated a two-metre-high hedge in his efforts to remain undetected. He stopped outside the awning and listened. He could hear nothing but his own breath and figured they hadn’t yet arrived, or that they’d performed the operation with admirable efficiency and were now both fast asleep. Malcolm zipped open the outside door and crept inside, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
As he’d feared the portable love shack wasn’t exactly the ultimate place of concealment. The awning was furnished with nothing more than a half-deflated air-bed, two thin sleeping bags and a foldaway chair. Any game of hide-and-seek was doomed to end prematurely. The caravan itself, which the key did indeed fit, was just as basic. The double bed was permanently down, making getting in and out awkward. There was no wardrobe, or even a table, and someone had gone to the trouble of safety-pinning the closed curtains together.
Aware that time was running out, Malcolm considered his options. There weren’t many. He unpinned the curtain at the window facing the awning and folded back a corner to create a small peephole. He went back into the awning and checked it through the camera. It provided a limited view of the bed, so long as they remained fairly still. He then unbuttoned the canvas storm flap hanging down from the caravan floor and rolled beneath it. He waited.
He heard Charlotte first. The sound of her voice tightened his stomach and made his eyes dry and scratchy.
‘Yeah, this must be it. The key works.’
Malcolm felt the floor above him rock with their weight and heard the door close behind them. He rolled straight out, determined to catch as much of the action as he could. It was a difficult move to pull off quietly and he was sure they would hear but, when there was no response from within, he pointed his camera at the small gap.
The light inside was poor and the camera struggled to find its focus. The grainy picture that finally emerged showed Kevin and Charlotte, still fully clothed, somewhere between sitting and lying, joined only at the lips and barely moving, like a still from an early silent movie. Malcolm hardly knew Kevin but in that frozen moment he felt a hatred for him that was startling in its purity. He wondered whether the camping ground had a fire alarm, and what would happen if he set it off.
Charlotte broke free and stood up. Even in the half-light she was beautiful. Malcolm bit his lip to distract himself from the torture of watching her.
‘Well, suppose I should take this off,’ Charlotte said, reaching for the strap of her dress. Malcolm’s lip began to bleed. Behind Charlotte, Kevin’s face travelled from uncertainty to terror, passing through a small town called torment on the way.
‘No don’t,’ Kevin called out, too
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