Natural Instinct

By Ashley MacGregor

Have you ever wanted to experience the edgy attitude to life in the South of France? Let Ashley MacGregor take you to the exotic Mediterranean coast where people live at the will of their natural instincts.
Is that why Roger Atkins is lost in Languedoc? No, he’s on the run from an Australian underworld boss. When Roger meets beautiful Suzanne Orme, he feels at home with her sensuality, and gains a renewed sense of hope. And for her there’s something irresistible about Roger. But a grizzly death soon reveals the gang has caught up with him. The murderer’s premeditation is cunning; but are the police playing straight into the hands of the killer?
Either way, the lovers’ lives will never be the same again. You decide if that’s a good thing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashley MacGregor
• Release date: Aug 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310546938

Ashley MacGregor

Ashley's stories have an unexpected twist at the end. They might make you chuckle, or pull at your heart strings, but your reaction is also likely to surprise you. The inspiration for many of Ashley's stories comes from historical events or from travel. Recent travels in the South of France has lead to Ashley's latest book, Natural Instinct. He has recently written about a journey around the Mediterranean set in 1926, an adventure of both body and mind.

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Natural

Instinct

By Ashley MacGregor

Copyright 2013 Ashley MacGregor

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any way.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between characters in this work and any person is unintentional and purely coincidental. Names, characters, places, events and businesses are products of the author’s imagination.

With thanks to Ja Pišem writing group.

Natural Instinct

1 Le Conducteur du train grand vitesse

The blood and intestines that slimed up the windscreen was the worst part. A thud from the train hitting someone was momentary. But the remains stuck there for the rest of the journey. This time it disturbed Claude more than usual. For years Claude had been driving the very fast trains out of Montpellier along the Mediterranean coast of France; and he dreaded this part of the line through Agde. Suicide curve the other drivers had christened it. As he approached the bend, his heart beat faster. He had run into five people over the years. There was the counselling afterwards to help him get over it, but he wondered how many hits before he had to give train driving away. This may be the one.

Access to this part of the track was easy and the train appears around the bend suddenly. For those choosing the time of their departure, they just stand there and are struck before they know it. Claude was glad he didn’t see their faces. But this time was different. He was coming around the bend, the usual trepidation in his stomach, when he saw the man ahead. The instant of time became expanded, as if the clocks went slower. Claude saw the rapid change in expression, he had been laughing. The train’s light startled him, his jaw dropped, realisation rippled over his face. His decision to run showed in his grimace. He budged his body.

Thud.

The train’s momentum was too great.

Of course Claude couldn’t really feel the impact, but his mind and body shuddered as if he could. Body parts went flying. Then the blood started streaming. He thought about when he reached the next station at Narbonne they would see the dried and dark pattern over the nose of the train.

Procedures stated that he was to radio the Controller for instructions.

Claude here. 22.30, Montpellier to Barcelona.

Controller here, come in Claude.

A person on the line at Agde.

Not again, oh dear. Don’t stop, please proceed to Narbonne.

OK. Claude was glad he didn’t need to pull up in the middle of nowhere in the dark.

Another suicide? asked the Controller.

No, didn’t look like a suicide, he tried to get out of the way. I glimpsed his face, he didn’t expect the train.

How do you know that?

His expression, he looked shocked. And at the last moment, looked angry. He glanced to the side as if looking at someone. And out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone standing on the side. Watching.

Sounds like they were playing around on the tracks.

Yes, that’s what I think, but there’s something not right.

What, Claude?

More than just play.

Just static came back from the Controller.

Foul play. Said Claude.

Claude drove on through the night, peering through the blood. He thought about the Controller swinging into action. The police in Agde would be informed, and a replacement driver would take over when he arrived in Narbonne. A counsellor would be on hand, and he would have to repeat the experience to the police. His passengers, oblivious to the drama, would stay that way, until they read about it in the paper.

***

Driving trains was a passion for Claude; the precision suited his nature. He kept the cabin neat like his Poirot moustache and straight eyebrows. The technology that sped people to far-flung places excited him. When not on duty he tinkered with gadgets in his shed. And he was accountable for the whooshing sound, the clackety clack and the whistling that he thought thrilled people. If only it wasn’t for those few people that marred his ordered world. Particularly the one tonight. Claude wondered who he was. Perhaps he was a scoundrel getting what was due to him. Maybe the scoundrel was the man watching as he completed his revenge. Either way, if it was foul play, it was cunning. Not much chance of evidence remaining. Bodies are so completely destroyed and spread out that sometimes the person can’t be identified. It could be the perfect murder.

Ahead the great cathedral of Narbonne was illuminated like a beacon standing on its acropolis. Claude slowed his train and brought it in to the ancient town. It entered the station and sidled up to the platform. Passengers were gathering for the onward journey to Barcelona. At the end of the platform the police and a cleaning crew waited. He knew they would work fast. The police would go through the formality of gathering evidence, then the train would be scrubbed as if nothing had happened.

Claude alighted to the dusty metallic smell all stations have,