The large Handros XCL Motorhome pulled into the camp site. It was a truly luxury version, all the facilities that Handros advertised were present: the double bed accessible from both sides, the four ring hob with an oven and a microwave, the large fridge and freezer, the shower and heating of course, the better-than-normal sound system, solar panels on the roof built in rather than an add-on, and of course the ‘garage’ at the back. The garage on motorhomes was often large but not too accessible. This one was accessible from both sides, allowing bicycles to be stored inside if desired or, as in this case, one side to offer a plumbed in washing machine and a couple of lines inside to allow clothes to dry whatever the weather.

John Mitchel and his wife had fewer and fewer things in common, but this motorhome was one of them. He had agreed to motorhomes when his wife demanded something more than camping – they both despised caravans for no reason that their son could see. They had agreed to go away for a week into The Yorkshire Dales, up a narrow valley to a site they had visited before. There was no reception in the valley – neither for television or mobile phones. The only reception was medium wave and long wave radio which curled round the hills more. John was looking forward to it. He had taken early retirement at 60 but was thinking of looking for some easy work to take on, it wasn’t so much that he was bored but Lilian had agreed to retire too, he thought, but then had said she really couldn’t leave Professor Laithwaite “just at this moment.” The question ‘when could she leave’ sprang to his mind and his mouth and she had got cross about him trying to control her.

Two days ago, she had announced that she could not possibly come away after all, Prof Laithwaite had been invited to a conference in Aberdeen and simply had to have his ‘right hand man’ to help him prepare and present. She’d worked for him for decades. John actually liked Prof Laithwaite, but he had become increasingly suspicious of the close working relationship being something more.

He had wondered why Lilian had suddenly become much more interested in sex, all those years ago, eight months before their son was born. He’d put it down to some hormone change; sure enough, she went back to once a week at most not long after, and then it all got put on hold until seven months after the baby was born. There was never any sign of more children coming, eventually he realised that she was ensuring this was the case. At the time he had just thought of it as one of those things. As the years went past, their son showed more and more of the traits that the professor had: brown hair and eyes, a kink in the nose, weaker eyesight in one eye, even a couple of mannerisms like scratching his ear. Finally, John had had his DNA checked – he showed up as 10% Southern European. He ‘stole’ some DNA from his son and sent it off. No DNA from South Europe. Nothing proven, but an indication. He opted not to go for a paternity check, what would that help? John loved his son, he had enjoyed bringing him up. Knowing that Simon was ‘his’ or was not might undermine their relationship but would not change the past. No, he’d leave sleeping dogs. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, just that he didn’t want to destroy what he had just to get ‘the truth’.

He finally concluded that, given the evidence, his wife was having an affair; a very long term affair. He was right. She had never left John because he was a good man and Professor Laithwaite had always said he would never leave his wife; and Lilian understood that. The professor was married to the current Minister of Education in the government. This woman had variously been minister of this, and shadow minister for that. He may or may not have got a leg up because of his marriage, but he probably got some hidden benefits. She lived a lot in London, and she claimed certain personal rights from her junior male staff, it would not suit her to become divorced. The sad part was that Lilian and the professor was a genuine love match, they had met when much younger and grown together as they got older and fatter and slower. But they accepted their relationship, this conference (which was genuine) was the occasional silver lining of several days together.

The Handros was the third motorhome they had had, it was an impulse and a distress purchase. Distress because at the time he was having to get up four or five times a night and the bed was to one side, it meant that Lilian was disturbed. There was only one proper bed in that van. The Handros had a central double bed, but it also had a second pair of single beds that were easy to put into use. The impulse purchase was because they saw it and fell in love with the luxury of the beast – the number plate ended BLB and they both immediately christened it the Big Lumbering Beast, which was a little unfair as it had a big engine which gave it a good turn of speed. John took it up a 33% hill just to try it and it trundled up in 2nd gear; he always liked to think there was still another option to drop to.

He pulled into the site and walked over to reception, checked in and went to find a good slot, finally picking one near the gate for the lazy reason that it was near the pub across the road. Then he levelled up, hooked up, gas on and put the kettle on.

He had a cup of tea and promptly fell asleep. That was when the coincidence occurred. A second Handros pulled in and checked in. Angela Rainer, the cheerfully rotund wife of the husband and wife team running this small campsite for the Motorhome Club smiled and said “Well, that’s funny, I had a Handros check in not thirty minutes ago. You don’t see many in this country do you?” The man in front of her, who looked ill at ease, said nothing. He didn’t know what the fuck she was wittering on about, but suspected that ‘lying low’ involved not swearing at this unreasonably cheerful woman. He thought of smiling but had been told that his smile would scare a gorilla, so he just looked, signed the form and went back to his companion – a man who made the first look nearly normal. Both men were much more comfortable in black suits with threatening implements in the pockets. They had been using the threatening implements earlier that day, which is why they had to ‘lie low’. Dave was sure it should be ‘lay low’, but you don’t argue with the boss.

In accordance with what they understood, they drove to the end of the field to be less obtrusive, not realising that of course every occupied van took a look out to see who was arriving. They parked (badly), failed to realise that the machine could be levelled with little wedges under the wheels, struggled and finally worked out how to put the water on, but then that they had none – drove back to fill up and back again to their slot, parking badly again. One passer-by thought of suggesting that they weren’t very straight, looked at the two men and opted to walk on, the warden could take it up with them if he or she wanted. It was only when checking in that they discovered there was no toilet or shower block on site – the Motorhome Club were rather particular about tidy parking. The toilet compartment under the floor would not be a pretty sight or smell when they had finished since they never worked out how to open the toilet to the cassette. The result was smelly, leaking shit and piss.

John woke and went for a walk, it was a lovely evening. He was tempted to go to the pub, but thought a walk round the village was better for him, maybe he would go later. He arrived back after an hour. He hadn’t locked the door, stupid, he knew; but then the security aspects of a motorhome, even a Handros, were about the same as a wet paper bag. Anyway, he wanted to trust people. People did get robbed, but quite often the forum he read would say things like ‘I always lock up and yet they jemmied open the cabin door and stole our new 12v TV with satellite.’ So the question he asked himself was ‘is it better to be locked and have to replace the door afterwards too or to let the thieves in and out easily.’ His wife always locked, he opted not to, just to make a point that he would never tell her. He felt he was still morally in the right as he was trusting people. He opened the door and climbed in.

“Hello.” she said

He stopped, a girl in a bikini top (and bottom? She had a blanket over her lower half, which was curled up on the bench seat. She was young – twenty? Twenty one? - with an impressive bust, blonde hair cascaded to her shoulders. The boobs were enhanced, the hair was natural. She was extremely good looking). “Hello?” he replied.

“Uncle Harry sent me. I thought there were two of you?”

“Oh?” He was trying to remember who Uncle Harry was “Oh, Lilian couldn’t make it after all.”

The girl breathed an internal sigh of relief. She could put up with a lot, but having sex with some old woman was something she didn’t enjoy at all: all wrinkles and flab and flappy bits and floppy tits. Still if Uncle Harry said do it, well ... She wasn’t so fussy about older men. Actually this one looked okay, all things considered. John was a keen walker, and not a massive over-eater. But he did use moisturiser – the influence of his wife there. So he had no beer belly and smoother than normal skin, for his age, and was well built. Not overly muscly like a Mr Universe, but not some skinny old geezer either.

“So...?” she said – meaning what did he want? Uncle Harry had said “Here, get a train, you might need a taxi too. The lads are in a big campervan, mine. It’s a Handros.” He’d said that like it meant something to her. It didn’t. Harry was a keen campervan user, he liked driving his own hotel room to wherever he went. His wife was less keen since she ended up cooking wherever they went; but Harry was not one to argue with. The girl knew that, so she shoved some clothes into a bag and left. She knew that Maisy argued once, and ended up in Casualty. That was Uncle Harry. She’d been dropped in the village by Max’s Taxis, walked round the larger camp site and seen nothing, then walked into the ‘Official Motorhome Club site’ and there was a van with ‘Handros XCL’ on the grill at the front, and ‘Handros – made for travel adventure in luxury’ on the side. Well, that solved that. The door was unlocked, they were expecting her.

She went in, looked around “S’alright this” but she wasn’t clear on the sleeping arrangements – one double bed? She stripped off and then thought better of it. If they saw her like that then they’d both want a quicky straight away. Quickies were unpleasant, Double Quickies meant her arse or her mouth was roughly used. She ummed and ahhed and then put on her bikini. She’d be ready, but not quite open for business. It wasn’t as warm as she thought, she found the blanket and wrapped her lower body in it. That’s when he came in.

“Oh, sorry – would you like a drink?” He asked her. That was slightly unexpected, she looked around. She saw the tea pot.

“I ... I couldn’t have a cup of tea could I? If there is some there.”

“Oh, I’ll make some fresh, s’no trouble.”

Oh, he hadn’t insisted on alcohol like most men. Mid afternoon and a lot of men would be necking beer and feeding her vodka or gin. She found the main benefit of the alcohol was it deadened the sounds in her head. The sounds that asked why she was allowing some stranger to fuck her and finger her and stick his tongue down whichever the other free hole might be. She liked that he was happy to make tea.

They sat and drank tea and ate hobnobs. Hobnobs! For fuck’s sake! She had gone from young, fuckable tart to middle aged biddy in five minutes! Still, the former would be back soon, she was sure.

“By the way, I’m John.”

“Course you are ‘John’. Oh, me? I’m Suzy Q.”

“Pleased to meet you, umm we haven’t met before have we?”

“No, don’t think so. Though I could be wrong; Uncle Harry’s parties can get a bit raucous, can’t they? Can I say ... you don’t look like one of Uncle Harry’s usual mob, you more on the professional side?”

He nodded; yes, he supposed he was quite professional in his work. Who the hell was Harry? And why had he sent his niece to see him ... and how did Harry know where he was going?

Down the field, two men sat in chairs outside their campervan. They each had a can of beer in their hand. They’d been told not to go to the pub, so the two crates of beer would have to last the weekend. They’d heard on the radio about the manhunt. Two men had broken into to a house.

“We never broke in, that’s a lie. That’s criminal, that is.” They had knocked on the door, polite-like. They had been sent to persuade a couple that their corner shop would function better with the special insurance on offer. The Asian man had been paying for three years and now decided to grow some balls and refuse. This kind of independent thinking is not encouraged; it can become catching. They had been sent to explain the benefits of not losing a few teeth. The old man and woman were tied up on two dining room chairs with arms. Their arms were taped to the arms of the chair, their legs were taped to the front legs of the chair. The man that Dave called Eric just tipped the old man’s chair further and further back, then he just let it go.

“Leave him alone you monster!” His wife had said, as her husband’s head smacked onto the floor with a stars-inducing bang; and Dave had punched her straight in the face. The chair had catapulted back and hit the 1950’s reproduction sideboard. There was no give in the solid wood, the woman’s head had bounced off it and she had slid over sideways, blood starting to seep from the wound. She groaned meaningfully. The man caved straight away. He had steeled himself to take whatever they threw at him, but not her, not her. “I’ll pay, I’ll PAY!” but it was too late, the two men realised something was wrong, they scarpered. Perhaps if they’d cut the people loose the woman might have lived, but she died on the way to hospital three hours later and the murder hunt started.

Harry was furious. “You fuckin’ topped her! I said scare her! Shit-fuckers! What kind of moronic shit-fuckers do I employ? Fuckin’ stupid cunts! Okay, okay, look – here are the keys to my fuckin’ campervan. Do not scratch it! Take it up to Dale Farm Campsite. Hang on...” He found the address “YES, in Yorkshire, what do you expect you fuckin’ moron cocksucker! The Park Lane Hilton? Anywhere here they will be lookin’ for you on every CCTV. There aren’t none in The Dales. There’s not even phone coverage! Barely TV! They think planes are big silver birds. Take some fuckin’ Summer clothes. You DO have Summer clothes? Shorts? Teeshirts? Oh fuck’s sake – MANDY!” a girl came in “Go and buy these pillocks some shorts and shirts so they blend in.”

Mandy rolled her eyes and received a slap on the arse as she left. “DO NOT ROLL YOUR FUCKIN’ EYES AT ME!” Harry did not have a lot of patience. She went to the cheap shop round the corner and bought a load of cheap clothes for the pair.

So they had driven up and checked in. By the time they arived, Harry (Mandy actually) had made the booking in their names ‘Dave and Eric’ - not their real names of course, but it was all boaught and paid for, no-one would know. All the ports and airports were being watched, but nobody expected a pair of murdering thugs to make their escape in a campervan to a campsite with no facilities and virtually no reception. It made it the ideal escape. And Harry (only the girls called him Uncle Harry) had said he’d arrange for some entertainment for them. “I’ll send Suzy Q, she’s good.”

“You want to send two for them? Luscious Linda’s free.”

“Fuck off. They’ve cost me a fortune for being so fuckin’ cack handed, they can share Suzy Q. Anyway I hear she can cope with three at a pinch so two should be find.” He always mispronounced fine as find; nobody was going to point it out to him.

“I wonder when the entertainment will arrive. Cor ... look at that.” Dave said. A twelve year old ran past in tight shorts and a teeshirt that showed how small her assets were.

“Dave, we are lying low, don’t get any ideas.”

“Nah, sure ... but still, I would, wouldn’t you?”

“I prefer them with more tit. I hope he’s sent Luscious, corrr, she’s fuckin’ great.” They smiled at a man and his wife walking a rottweiler and the dog moved away from them. It knew when it was out classed. The wife felt two pairs of eyes stripping her in their imagination, and what they were doing after that was something she wondered about. Her husband was a boring, lazy, uninterested man and a boring, lazy, uninterested lover. She wondered what they would like to do. Truth be told, she wouldn’t have enjoyed it.

“Still, it is nice here. I wish we could go to the pub. No, no, I know we can’t, but I wish...” Dave was remembering going down to Margate with his folks when he was little, and stopping at a country pub on the way back. That was before the knife fight and the Young Offenders Institute. He and Eric were both beginning to relax. Given two weeks there (and a working toilet), they might have started to think about a new career, one that involved less stress and less violence.

In the other van, John was still trying to make sense of what was happening. Even if Uncle Harry (whoever that was) had sent his niece to see him, why was she in a revealing bikini?

“It’s a long way to get here isn’t it? Can I have some more tea? Then you’ll have to point me to the toilets.”

“There aren’t any, No, I mean not public ones. I mean there is the pub, but we have a toilet here.” He showed her. “Oh, you can close the door. It’s quite private. My wife wouldn’t use it otherwise.”

“But there’s a window over there.” He showed her how the door could double up to close off the toilet or the whole bedroom. He pulled down the blind on the window and pulled the door over to shut the bedroom and toilet off from the rest of the van – there was more space that way. It went very quiet as she peed to the side of the bowl to make no noise. Then she looked for the flush. To give her her due, she realised that the small button pumped water in, she got half way; but like the men she was meant to meet, she had never used a camper toilet. Finally she admitted defeat, “It’s broken, it won’t flush.” She had nearly filled the toilet with water. Toilet paper floated on the top.

“Sorry, I should have showed you.” He pulled the lever under the seat and the hole opened up and dropped all the water, piss and paper into the cassette below. “Always remember to push the lever back, otherwise the crap splashes back up when you drive off. Been there, done that.” She grimaced and he nodded. You only make that mistake once.

“Thanks, so, do you want to start now? Shall I get into bed?”

He was still confused. Confused but not refusing. There would have been a time when he would have said no, but time had weakened his vows – he was 99% sure that his wife was unfaithful, and 100% sure that she did not love him; he knew that was an excuse, but the fig leaf that was still blocking him joining her was swept away by the fact that she was pretty, young, busty and willing. He watched as she took off her bra and got into the bed. “Well? I can’t suck you from here, or do you want to do it in the other part?” she started to get out, ever willing to please her punter – even though she wasn’t paid for this. She wanted a good report for Uncle Harry.

“No, I’m coming.” He undressed really quickly and slid in beside her. She started to slide down, she was good at sucking men off, and it meant they put less spunk inside her. He stopped her and pulled her up and kissed her. His hand stroked her tits and then her neck, she thought he was one of those ones that liked to half-strangle the woman as they fucked them. She knew Uncle Harry wouldn’t like that, it marked the girls and put them out of circulation for a while. But he didn’t, he stroked her neck and kissed her ears and her throat and then her lips again. Like a lot of men, he wanted to shove his tongue inside her mouth, she hated that more than being fucked up the arse. Some flabby bit of muscle flapping around inside with a load of grotty saliva. Somehow, he detected that she wasn’t keen, and retreated, returning to just kissing those smooth, unwrinkled lips. His hand moved down her body and she was again surprised as he didn’t shove his hand in and finger her. He ... caressed. Yes that was the word, he caressed her thighs. First the front of the leg and then slowly moved to her inner thighs. She was actually starting to enjoy it. She made to pull her pants down. “No, not yet. A woman is like a beautiful meal, she should be savoured, and each taste appreciated.” My my, the last time it hadn’t been ‘get your kit off and bend over’ it had been with Uncle’s nephew – his real nephew. He had actually asked, not told, her to go out with Tristram and see if she could convert him to girls. He was a real gentleman; he kissed her and fondled her and told her she was lovely and then confirmed that the only way he could fuck her would be if it was dark and she was arse out and he pretended she was a boy. He’d apologised. She’d kissed him on the cheek and they had gone to see the new Harry Potter play (Harry was paying for everything so they got really good seats). It had been a good night but Uncle Harry would be disappointed. He was East End all through and a ‘nancy’ was not his idea of a good nephew. Still, even Harry had to come into the modern world eventually, and after Tristram put acid into Mickey the Plug’s drink and made him drink it, he was deemed ‘okay’. Mickey had supposedly deserved it for disrespecting Harry’s old woman (called her an effin’ slag), but Suzy Q wasn’t sure anybody deserved to have their insides destroyed with acid and to some extent at least, the ‘effin’ slag’ description was not wholly wrong.

Now this guy was stroking her and she was enjoying it. She opened her mouth to his kisses and slid her tongue into his mouth, a compromise he was happy to accept. She could feel that she was starting to get damp, no need for the little tube of lubricant that she always had with her. Sometimes she got the chance to apply some, sometimes she didn’t. The worst was when the punter was a friend of Uncle Harry (so, whatever he wants) and wanted her bumhole immediately with no chance of some lubrication. It happened, you roll with the flow – what ever that meant. This man though, he was making an effort, like he had to persuade her. He must realise?

His hand slipped into her pants at the top and briefly stopped; he’d never stroked a shaved pussy. His wife was nice and hairy, he liked that; when he was allowed near it. He didn’t really like bald cooches. He’d already guessed that the breast s were enhanced, they didn’t feel quite right, too solid? And they were too big for such a young woman. He didn’t know the half of it. She’d had boobs made bigger, liposuction to shape her bottom slight more, and labiaplasty to remove the flaps of skin – Harry had paid and unbeknownst to her he had arranged to have her vagina tightened as a gift. A gift to a friend of his, not to Suzy Q, who found it fucking painful the first time after. The ultra-tightness had been temporary, she’d stretched with use. She suspected he was thinking of arranging for it again given how Cedric Montgomery Clift MP (minister for something or other) had raved about it feeling like he was fucking a young virgin again. She wasn’t keen.

John’s fingers played over her slit, stroked, patted, gently inserted a little way, stroked again. Round and round and harder and softer. She knew she should stop him and do her job, but she was enjoying it, then he moved down the bed, Her pants were pulled down and she sighed with pleasure as he kissed the smooth skin around her vagina, he could feel the slight stubble that was starting to grow. She had been lucky, some girls who had vaginal realignment surgery had lost all feeling, or found sex was always painful. She had had no such problems, but she still had to satisfy herself because none of the men ever did – that! He was sliding his tongue in, her pants were at her ankles and she wriggled them off on foot so she could open wide again. Ohh, yes, that was really nice, oh yes. She’d stop him soon and get on with the task she’d been sent up for. She would, just a little longer. “Oh! OHHHHH. OOAHAHHHHH! Don’t stopppp yet.” He had no intention of stopping until he was told. He loved licking at a woman’s vagina. This was something else he and Lilian had had in common. When he was allowed access, he loved licking her, and she loved being licked. At that precise moment, Professor Laithwaite was performing the same service on Lilian, and wishing she’d shave off all her pubic hair. He hated getting hairs in his mouth. He never said anything, because he loved her.