Sheâs not gonna appear out of thin air! Mary knew that, of course she did. But that was what daydreams were for.
The dressing gown fell open as she walked down the stairs. She did yoga twice a week and started running three years ago, when Andrea was competing in schoolsâ championships. It was a decent body, she reckoned, not bad at all. The challenge would be maintaining what she could for as long as she could. She wondered what her husband would think if he could see her, standing in front of the hallway mirror, stroking her breasts, her pussy.
Pussy . She hated the word and pulled the dressing gown tightly back round her. In any case, she was getting old. There were a few grey hairs down there. Look at that saggy old minge , thatâs what her husband would say. Her irritation was sudden and physical, a prickle down the back, tightness in the stomach. She hurried back up to Andreaâs room and sat on the bed. He wouldnât say another word if their daughter did suddenly appear, rising from the whine of the washing machine and the dazzling sun: nine years old, mousy blonde hair down to her waist, those delicate few months when she hovered so perfectly between innocence and precocious sophistication.
Then came the banging on the wall from next door. Old Mrs Cole with her walking stick. Mary fell back, eyes tight shut and fists gripping the duvet. If half her life was steeped in cliché then the other half seemed lost to irrelevance. She listened to the decrepit washing machine get louder and louder until she could be screaming and screaming but no one listening.
Ten
Spencer P.
Jonas really didnât like that kid. A few words were all it took for Spencer P to switch back on the break-in speculation that Jonas had finally managed to switch off. A draughtsman with no confidence, that was him, drawing a line, rubbing it out, drawing anotherâ¦
Heâd been standing in the Post Office queue, staring into empty space after a day on the potholes.
âYou shouldnât do that, bro.â
Spencer P was suddenly beside him. Mocking eyes and a vague leer. He had a soul patch and three diamond studs in his left ear. A wannabe pimp but the accent more Sloane than South Central.
âSorry?â
âThe magazines, Mr M.â
He followed his gaze to the newspaper racks.
âAll that trauma. All those poor people. Those victims. You never know when itâs going to be you, eh?â
Spencer P picked up a magazine, Break Time . Beside it were several others, similar titles, smiling, pretty women but jarring, make-you-frown headlines. Blind girl kept as sex slave... I changed the locks but was stabbed again... Stiletto psycho... âYou shouldnât read that rubbish.â
âI wasnât.â
âItâs well screwed up. Get this, right.â And Spencer P began telling a graphic story of a home invasion he said was true but must be made up and if made up then Spencer P was messed up. âIt went on for three days, man , they must have been enjoying it, the husband made to watch everything and the kids tied up. They were never caught, Mr M. Can you imagine that happening to you? What do they say at the end of Crimewatch ? ââDonât have nightmaresââ.â
With that Spencer P was gone. Had the kid just happened to glance in and see Jonas or had he followed him there? Was that story rehearsed ? Jonas looked back at the magazines. As the queue shuffled he found himself picking up copies of True Life and Sensational .
Killed for thrillsâ¦
Home is where the death is â¦
Sensationalised tears in the fabric of normality. Off-kilter incidents, one of which had now happened to Jonas. The Jasmine-Scented Intruder . Hardly a howitzer of weirdness but strange enough to crank the heart rate as he opened the front door of End Point. This time three whiskies made it seem unnerving rather than amusing. That night he read the magazines from cover to
The dressing gown fell open as she walked down the stairs. She did yoga twice a week and started running three years ago, when Andrea was competing in schoolsâ championships. It was a decent body, she reckoned, not bad at all. The challenge would be maintaining what she could for as long as she could. She wondered what her husband would think if he could see her, standing in front of the hallway mirror, stroking her breasts, her pussy.
Pussy . She hated the word and pulled the dressing gown tightly back round her. In any case, she was getting old. There were a few grey hairs down there. Look at that saggy old minge , thatâs what her husband would say. Her irritation was sudden and physical, a prickle down the back, tightness in the stomach. She hurried back up to Andreaâs room and sat on the bed. He wouldnât say another word if their daughter did suddenly appear, rising from the whine of the washing machine and the dazzling sun: nine years old, mousy blonde hair down to her waist, those delicate few months when she hovered so perfectly between innocence and precocious sophistication.
Then came the banging on the wall from next door. Old Mrs Cole with her walking stick. Mary fell back, eyes tight shut and fists gripping the duvet. If half her life was steeped in cliché then the other half seemed lost to irrelevance. She listened to the decrepit washing machine get louder and louder until she could be screaming and screaming but no one listening.
Ten
Spencer P.
Jonas really didnât like that kid. A few words were all it took for Spencer P to switch back on the break-in speculation that Jonas had finally managed to switch off. A draughtsman with no confidence, that was him, drawing a line, rubbing it out, drawing anotherâ¦
Heâd been standing in the Post Office queue, staring into empty space after a day on the potholes.
âYou shouldnât do that, bro.â
Spencer P was suddenly beside him. Mocking eyes and a vague leer. He had a soul patch and three diamond studs in his left ear. A wannabe pimp but the accent more Sloane than South Central.
âSorry?â
âThe magazines, Mr M.â
He followed his gaze to the newspaper racks.
âAll that trauma. All those poor people. Those victims. You never know when itâs going to be you, eh?â
Spencer P picked up a magazine, Break Time . Beside it were several others, similar titles, smiling, pretty women but jarring, make-you-frown headlines. Blind girl kept as sex slave... I changed the locks but was stabbed again... Stiletto psycho... âYou shouldnât read that rubbish.â
âI wasnât.â
âItâs well screwed up. Get this, right.â And Spencer P began telling a graphic story of a home invasion he said was true but must be made up and if made up then Spencer P was messed up. âIt went on for three days, man , they must have been enjoying it, the husband made to watch everything and the kids tied up. They were never caught, Mr M. Can you imagine that happening to you? What do they say at the end of Crimewatch ? ââDonât have nightmaresââ.â
With that Spencer P was gone. Had the kid just happened to glance in and see Jonas or had he followed him there? Was that story rehearsed ? Jonas looked back at the magazines. As the queue shuffled he found himself picking up copies of True Life and Sensational .
Killed for thrillsâ¦
Home is where the death is â¦
Sensationalised tears in the fabric of normality. Off-kilter incidents, one of which had now happened to Jonas. The Jasmine-Scented Intruder . Hardly a howitzer of weirdness but strange enough to crank the heart rate as he opened the front door of End Point. This time three whiskies made it seem unnerving rather than amusing. That night he read the magazines from cover to
Similar Books
