Jenkins satisfied himself that he was alone in the house, then, hastening to the bedroom and locking the door, he took out the package he had received from Mr Marshall. Marshall ran the specialist art and photographic emporium on Ankhurst Street and the boy had just delivered his latest collection.
Jenkins loosened his tie, then prised open the package.
There were four photos in total, the number he had requested. The first was the most shockingly pornographic image he had ever seen. It showed a woman's bottom, naked, fully exposed, no shame, no discretion, like the posterior of the baboon he had seen in Hebden Bridge zoo the week before.
No, don't think on the baboon, he told himself, but it was too late. He turned to the next photo, which displayed a raven-haired girl carrying a large jug. Her own jugs were just visible, including a nipple, dark and shriveled like an out of place raisin.
No, don't think about fruit he told himself, but it was too late.
The next picture was a blonde, sans jug, but with her own jugs fully exposed. She was laughing at something and as a result her breasts were heaving. It looked like a scene from real life, it felt like you were in the room with her, you could hear her naked laughter.
Unfortunately Jenkins remembered an unhappy experience involving a naked woman laughing. It was most offputting. He turned to the next picture.
It was a picture of a duck playing snooker. 'This can't be right', he thought to himself, 'Marshall's sold me a dummy'.
The duck was about to pot the green ball into the top pocket, watched on by his opponent, an elk, and the referee, who was, of all things, a woman. A fully dressed woman at that.
He was about to return to the blonde, when he felt a certain stirring in his loins. There was something about the picture. He couldn't quite place it. Was it the duck? The elk? Or the snooker referee?
Whatever, this was the picture, Jenkins decided. It was up there with the most evocative Marshall had sent him. He loosened his tie another inch.