‘What about Evie?’
‘She’s part of the team.’
‘I fail to see how …’
‘You don’t need to know. Thanks for your services, vicar, much appreciated. Good evening to you.’
He thought about arguing, but each of the Saxonhurst cricketers was built like a Greek god and furnished with shin pads and bats.
‘Evie,’ he said, his final gambit, but she smiled, a little sadly, and shook her head.
He tore off the ill-fitting coat and stormed out, leaning up against the side of the pavilion, flattening his spine against its pebbledashed wall. His arms spread, his let his fingers press into the little sharp stones, relishing the mild pain, anything to get the image of Evie with all the cricketers out of his head.
Because that, beyond doubt, was what would be happening in there.
Another sick Saxonhurst ritual involving the use to exhaustion of Evie’s genitalia.
He took a few lungfuls of sweet summer air. How uselessly the sun shone a benevolent golden light over the pitch, how pointlessly the bees buzzed and flowers vented perfume and the cries of children playing with hosepipes drifted on the air.
It was all ugly, all without purpose, while Evie rutted like a mindless beast.
He crept, crablike, around the side of the building, finding the store cupboard unlocked and concealing himself in there, amidst the nets and racquets and balls and other paraphernalia of rural sporting life.
The smell of stale sweat and old rubber was none too pleasant, but he couldn’t seem to tear himself away from the pursuit of knowledge that would do nothing but hurt him. He needed to know how bad it was, how very low his love could stoop.
The cupboard walls were thin and beyond them lay the changing rooms. He heard the hot splash of the showers, and shouts loud enough for the words to be made out.
‘Hand ’er over, Jase. I think you missed a bit.’
Evie’s shriek and a chorus of ribald male laughter. More splashing, louder, and some screaming.
‘Fuck me, that’s cold! Turn the dial back, you bastard!’
Slaps on wet skin, female giggling, male shouts and whistles.
‘She likes it. Seen the state of her nipples?’
‘Oi!’ Evie’s voice. ‘Two against one ain’t fair! No!’ Rising to a shriek again. ‘He’s got me! Charlie, get him off me!’
But Charlie didn’t seem inclined, judging by the fulsome applause and shouts of approval coming from the other side of the wall.
‘Hold her down, Gav. Ready with the wet towels?’
Evie, half-laughing, half-screaming, ‘No!’
The sound of the towels flicking on to Evie’s presumably bare, wet bottom was indescribably sharp and cruel, making Adam flinch and swallow and claw at the plaster.
Evie sobbed through it, yet it was clear those sobs weren’t indicators of distress. Throughout, she kept up a defiant commentary.
‘Just wait till I get hold of you, Ben Summers. You’ve got it coming to you. Ow! You ain’t seen me with a whip, have you? I’m good. Shit, that hurts! Stop it!’ She broke into wailing as the vicious swish-flick-swish-flick kept up its wince-making rhythm.
‘Still got ’er, Gav? Watch her, she’s got sharp nails.’
‘Look at that arse. Bright red.’
‘She loves it.’
‘I know she does. Gave her 20 with my belt last week, she came before I’d finished with her.’