Read Online Black Bread White Beer by Niven Govinden - Free Book Online Page B

with the collection of cells. Pissing on its watery grave. How does indulging in these petty mind games make things any better? None of their behaviour features in the recommended pamphlets on grieving. He hears the sharp intake of breath from the other side of the partition, which tells him that she is not ready to exhale until he has spoken just the way she wants him to. She would probably write cue cards if the painting was not in the way.
    â€˜But I know this already,’ Hari says, after he has demeaned himself with this two-way pretence. ‘Why are you telling me again?’
    â€˜As one of our closest friends we wanted you to be the first to be told. We’re on our way to Sussex now to break it to Liz and Sam.’
    â€˜I get it. She doesn’t know you called me last night, does she? You’re acting like you’re scared of her, Amal. This is not the action of a strong Indian husband.’
    â€˜It’s not a question of that. We just wanted you to know.’
    â€˜All right! I get the message. You’re spineless and unable to stand up to your wife. Kid had a lucky escape if you ask me.’
    Amal swallows this because he is not prepared to make him look bad in front of Claud. It would be easy payback, putting Hari on speaker and letting him twist the knife, but he does not have the stomach for it. Privately, he will kick the shit out of him at a later date, but not now. Now is the time for murmured platitudes, sweetness and light.
    â€˜See? I knew you’d feel better if you got it off your chest,’ says Claud, satisfied, once he hangs up, not understanding that the break in his chest is one of frustration and has nothing to do with her.
    â€˜Better out than in.’
    It kills him to stay calm, keeping his breathing as smooth as the engine, resisting all urges to push her out, smash them into a tree.
    â€˜You keep too many things to yourself, ’Mal. I could see what it was doing to you in the shop. You looked like you were going to fall apart.’
    â€˜That was hunger pangs from not eating the sandwich.’
    â€˜Stop running away from it. Be brave enough to face it.’
    Says the girl who has shoved a canvas between them. Who cannot look him in the face after losing his baby. She should be taken to court for what she did. If she was poor and uneducated she probably would be.
    â€˜We’re nearly there. Five minutes.’
    â€˜We can pull up at the next lay-by if you want a cry.’
    â€˜I don’t want or need a cry, Claud. I’m fine.’
    He is not worried about tears, only the double and triple knots that have made a cat’s cradle of his guts; wrenched tightly, as if his emotions are on a leash. He wonders whether they will look back and see this as a turning point, when it began to physically hurt to share the same space. Neither Claud’s stabs nor Hari’s bleating distract from this. The car purrs as smoothly as ever but everything within it sits wrong.
    She feels something too. Thumps on the dashboard to convey it. The canvas prevents him from seeing the degree of unease etched on her face. He only has the urgency of the thumps to guide him: a series of double raps becoming louder and more frequent the further he drives, until what was first a signal morphs into a drum beat; jungle drums, communicating the depth of their contrition. He hears the un-clunk of the seat beat holder, indicating she is ready to spring into action the moment he stops the car.
    At the next lay-by, where a young couple are tradingcellophane-wrapped roses, she sprints towards the privacy of the furthest verge and dry heaves. That she wants to purge the poison so physically, the rot that has accumulated since their arrival in Battle, makes him go soft. His chest cavity rises and falls as a series of emotional waves breaks the marital surf. Her retching is synchronicity, proof that a connection exists, but he is still too pig-headed to show