from her bottle and ditched it at the sink; the glass smashed.
Magda swung her legs off the table. She unlocked the kitchen door and listened to the house. Silence greeted her. Good.
She went to the front door and locked it. Preacher had a key, so she shoved the hall table up against it too. “Alright John,” she said to the empty house. “There’s no way you’re squeaky clean. What is it you do?”
She started in the lounge room, but it was clean, of course, he wouldn’t leave anything in there; the kitchen was her domain, so that was no good either. She tentatively pushed at his bedroom door and found it unlocked.
They’d never shared a room. Of course there’d been a fumbled coupling or two early in their marriage, but he was as repressed as all the other men who thought the sun shone out of Preacher’s rear end, and she had little use for men.
She closed the door behind her. She’d never even come in here, not once in ten years. When John was away she preferred to pretend he didn’t exist. When he was home she still preferred to pretend he didn’t exist. The room was nothing out of the ordinary; he’d made the bed. The floor was neat and tidy, the curtains drawn. There was a cross on the wall.
She pulled out the drawers in his bureau. Nothing there but neatly folded socks and underwear. God, could she have been forced to marry a less interesting man?
Magda went to the built-in wardrobe. The doors slid open, same as hers, onto shelves and hanging space. She rifled through his clothes, searching for anything hidden at the back, before turning her attention to the tops of the shelves. She patted the area down with one hand and found a briefcase. She lifted it down, followed by two shoeboxes. Apparently that was it.
She took the case and the boxes over to the bed. The first shoebox had photos in it. Their wedding photos. Charming. She’d worn a long white dress and a heavy veil to cover the bruises Preacher gave her when she tried to run away the night before. The veil had to come off after the vows, and then everyone had pointedly ignored her puffy eyes and split lip and told her she looked beautiful. The memory still made her want to slap people.
There was a picture of John and Preacher outside some building. The two had taken a trip out of Hailstone once, years ago. Best week of her life. Then a bunch of people she didn’t recognise. An old woman. His mother, perhaps? He never spoke of his family. Groups of people in suits. They all looked like they belonged to the church, but she didn’t know the faces. A young girl. A middle-aged man. The young girl triggered a memory. Had she gone to school with her? Magda could remember a girl who looked like that who’d left the church, years and years ago, but a name eluded her. Maybe she should stop killing brain cells.
She pushed the photos aside. The second box wasn’t much more help; just a bunch of keepsakes, the kind she’d expect a bearded old man to have, keys and school medallions and an old bullet.
The briefcase wouldn’t open. Magda shoved the two shoeboxes back into their places and took it out into the kitchen, where she jimmied the lock open with a screwdriver she kept in the back of the drawer behind the spoons. She’d learned to break locks almost as soon as Preacher had taken to locking her in places as a kid.
She lifted the lid on the briefcase. Interesting. He kept a laptop in there. Magda switched it on and waited for the operating system to load.
Password. She scowled. He really did have something to hide. What would a man like John use as a password?
God, she typed in, but it didn’t work. Neither did Jesus, or God is great . She typed in Satan, just for a change of pace, but that didn’t work either. Congregation of the Holy Bible was just as useless. Magda tried her own name, and Preacher’s, to no avail.
Preacher McAllister, she wrote in, just because anything was worth a try. The screen blinked and the desktop
Magda swung her legs off the table. She unlocked the kitchen door and listened to the house. Silence greeted her. Good.
She went to the front door and locked it. Preacher had a key, so she shoved the hall table up against it too. “Alright John,” she said to the empty house. “There’s no way you’re squeaky clean. What is it you do?”
She started in the lounge room, but it was clean, of course, he wouldn’t leave anything in there; the kitchen was her domain, so that was no good either. She tentatively pushed at his bedroom door and found it unlocked.
They’d never shared a room. Of course there’d been a fumbled coupling or two early in their marriage, but he was as repressed as all the other men who thought the sun shone out of Preacher’s rear end, and she had little use for men.
She closed the door behind her. She’d never even come in here, not once in ten years. When John was away she preferred to pretend he didn’t exist. When he was home she still preferred to pretend he didn’t exist. The room was nothing out of the ordinary; he’d made the bed. The floor was neat and tidy, the curtains drawn. There was a cross on the wall.
She pulled out the drawers in his bureau. Nothing there but neatly folded socks and underwear. God, could she have been forced to marry a less interesting man?
Magda went to the built-in wardrobe. The doors slid open, same as hers, onto shelves and hanging space. She rifled through his clothes, searching for anything hidden at the back, before turning her attention to the tops of the shelves. She patted the area down with one hand and found a briefcase. She lifted it down, followed by two shoeboxes. Apparently that was it.
She took the case and the boxes over to the bed. The first shoebox had photos in it. Their wedding photos. Charming. She’d worn a long white dress and a heavy veil to cover the bruises Preacher gave her when she tried to run away the night before. The veil had to come off after the vows, and then everyone had pointedly ignored her puffy eyes and split lip and told her she looked beautiful. The memory still made her want to slap people.
There was a picture of John and Preacher outside some building. The two had taken a trip out of Hailstone once, years ago. Best week of her life. Then a bunch of people she didn’t recognise. An old woman. His mother, perhaps? He never spoke of his family. Groups of people in suits. They all looked like they belonged to the church, but she didn’t know the faces. A young girl. A middle-aged man. The young girl triggered a memory. Had she gone to school with her? Magda could remember a girl who looked like that who’d left the church, years and years ago, but a name eluded her. Maybe she should stop killing brain cells.
She pushed the photos aside. The second box wasn’t much more help; just a bunch of keepsakes, the kind she’d expect a bearded old man to have, keys and school medallions and an old bullet.
The briefcase wouldn’t open. Magda shoved the two shoeboxes back into their places and took it out into the kitchen, where she jimmied the lock open with a screwdriver she kept in the back of the drawer behind the spoons. She’d learned to break locks almost as soon as Preacher had taken to locking her in places as a kid.
She lifted the lid on the briefcase. Interesting. He kept a laptop in there. Magda switched it on and waited for the operating system to load.
Password. She scowled. He really did have something to hide. What would a man like John use as a password?
God, she typed in, but it didn’t work. Neither did Jesus, or God is great . She typed in Satan, just for a change of pace, but that didn’t work either. Congregation of the Holy Bible was just as useless. Magda tried her own name, and Preacher’s, to no avail.
Preacher McAllister, she wrote in, just because anything was worth a try. The screen blinked and the desktop
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