She’d attracted an audience of maybe a dozen or so, some of whom she recognized from the orgy from a neighboring cubicle from earlier. Embarrassed, Beth had tried to hide her face, but she realized that only her discarded clothing would give her away; it was truly unique. Her mind drifted back to that moment in time. “It’s that horny British tart!” some squeaky London accent yelped. Beth looked through the gap in her fingers and saw Si, the short cockney creep she’d given the slip to earlier. The creep saw her looking at him and he entered the booth. He knelt beside her as the other spectators watched with a curious interest. “You know your bloke from the rugby team?” Si began. “Answer me this. How long have Bromsgrove rugby club had a load of blokes from Warsaw in their first 15?” he asked, hands on hips, trying to look authoritative. Beth groaned to herself, she might have guessed this creep might go and muscle in on their conversation and discover the team members weren’t from. Had never been until the night when he was forced to stand by his mothers bed. He was forced to hold her hand while she screamed in agony, writhing, thrashing on the bed. In labor. The baby died on the way out of her womb. They couldn’t revive it. Stress the doctor had said. The child had had an irregular heartbeat in the beginning. Soon he had so many other irregularities. All from stress. Too much emotion. It was odd that Jon didn’t blame her. If he knew that his spouse was going out behind his back and sleeping with younger women he would be stressed too. ‘Don’t blame me because ya mom doesn’t know how to carry a child.’ Those words burned. Jon almost felt the singe on his ear upon entering them. ‘Don’t call this house ever again, dad. I don’t want to hear you say something like that to me.’ ‘Jon, I swear to God. Don’t you hang up this phone—’ ‘Good night, dad. Go check your blood pressure.’ ‘Jon, you little bastard. I sw—’ Jon pressed the talk button on the phone. He turned his.
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