and Louise opens her eyes and sees her mother’s face, a mask of pain before she fakes a smile.
“Make me another cup of tea, Lou. Please.”
Louise nods and heads through into the kitchenette, clicking on the kettle. She doesn’t press her mother to continue. To tell her how happy they had been until one night a fire had raged through the valley, consuming a vineyard, jumping fire breaks until it reached the few small houses, whitewashed with thatched roofs and Dutch gables, that stood by the stream.
How her father had saved his wife and children and run back into the house to rescue their belongings, never to emerge.
A story lifted, of course, from one of her mother’s soap operas.
Louise adds sugar to the tea and takes the cup across to Denise, who smiles her thanks.
Louise says goodnight and walks into her bedroom, fetches her nightgown and PJs, then goes into the cramped bathroom and closes the door. She runs water into the tub and strips off her jeans, sitting down on the closed lid of the toilet.
She lets her fingers trace the filigree of scars on her upper legs. Some of the scars are old, almost invisible. Others more recent, still livid. And even though she has sworn that she would never do this to herself again, Louise removes the razor blade hidden in the folds of her pajamas and lays the cold metal against her skin for a second, closing her eyes, allowing the toxic rage that has haunted her since she was in the kitchen with Michael Lane to course through her. And, as she has learned to do, she directs that rage at herself.
Louise opens her eyes and slices at her leg, the blade biting through skin into her flesh, the blood flowing red and clean and clear, the pain sharp and purifying.
15
Lane wakes in darkness with a dry mouth. He reaches across for the familiar form of his wife, but his hand finds nothing but a rumpled comforter and he remembers that he has fallen asleep, fully dressed, on the bed in the spare room.
His swollen bladder has woken him and as he edges off the bed his pants cut into his groin and he feels the pain in his testicles. The violence of the last two nights returns to him in a montage worthy of one of his son’s bloodiest DVDs and by the time he gets to his feet his breath is coming in the short gulps of the asthmatic or the ancient.
He has to quell an urge to head into the marital bedroom, under the pretext of using the en-suite bathroom, knowing that, desperate for comfort, he’ll crawl into bed with Beverley.
You pathetic bastard, he says to himself as he limps down the passageway, his stockinged feet making no sound on the wooden floor. He has to pass Chris’s old room, the door standing ajar, his son snoring within. When he walks by the bedroom that was his for fifteen years Lane hears nothing behind the closed door. Bev has always been a quiet sleeper.
He clicks on the light of the guest bathroom. Chris has moved some of his toiletries in: a toothbrush with splayed bristles, a can of Axe deodorant and disposable razor. A wet towel and a soiled pair of boxers lie on the floor.
Lane unzips as he heads to the toilet, his stream of urine painfully arrested when he sees a huge turd coiled in the bowl. This is no floater, bobbing back from the maelstrom, this is a dump festooned with wads of toilet paper, his son exiting without bothering to flush.
Lane has to hit the handle three times to clear the bowl. Finally he gets to relieve himself, his penis and bladder throbbing in sympathy with his bruised balls. He inspects his urine for blood but finds none.
Lane washes his hands at the sink and drinks lukewarm water from the faucet. He only had three Scotches, so he’s not hungover, but this thirst—this very particular dehydration that comes from alcohol—returns him to his drinking days.
Leaving the bathroom he journeys back down the corridor, the same gargle of snores reaching him from Christopher’s room. For a second Lane entertains the fantasy of
“Make me another cup of tea, Lou. Please.”
Louise nods and heads through into the kitchenette, clicking on the kettle. She doesn’t press her mother to continue. To tell her how happy they had been until one night a fire had raged through the valley, consuming a vineyard, jumping fire breaks until it reached the few small houses, whitewashed with thatched roofs and Dutch gables, that stood by the stream.
How her father had saved his wife and children and run back into the house to rescue their belongings, never to emerge.
A story lifted, of course, from one of her mother’s soap operas.
Louise adds sugar to the tea and takes the cup across to Denise, who smiles her thanks.
Louise says goodnight and walks into her bedroom, fetches her nightgown and PJs, then goes into the cramped bathroom and closes the door. She runs water into the tub and strips off her jeans, sitting down on the closed lid of the toilet.
She lets her fingers trace the filigree of scars on her upper legs. Some of the scars are old, almost invisible. Others more recent, still livid. And even though she has sworn that she would never do this to herself again, Louise removes the razor blade hidden in the folds of her pajamas and lays the cold metal against her skin for a second, closing her eyes, allowing the toxic rage that has haunted her since she was in the kitchen with Michael Lane to course through her. And, as she has learned to do, she directs that rage at herself.
Louise opens her eyes and slices at her leg, the blade biting through skin into her flesh, the blood flowing red and clean and clear, the pain sharp and purifying.
15
Lane wakes in darkness with a dry mouth. He reaches across for the familiar form of his wife, but his hand finds nothing but a rumpled comforter and he remembers that he has fallen asleep, fully dressed, on the bed in the spare room.
His swollen bladder has woken him and as he edges off the bed his pants cut into his groin and he feels the pain in his testicles. The violence of the last two nights returns to him in a montage worthy of one of his son’s bloodiest DVDs and by the time he gets to his feet his breath is coming in the short gulps of the asthmatic or the ancient.
He has to quell an urge to head into the marital bedroom, under the pretext of using the en-suite bathroom, knowing that, desperate for comfort, he’ll crawl into bed with Beverley.
You pathetic bastard, he says to himself as he limps down the passageway, his stockinged feet making no sound on the wooden floor. He has to pass Chris’s old room, the door standing ajar, his son snoring within. When he walks by the bedroom that was his for fifteen years Lane hears nothing behind the closed door. Bev has always been a quiet sleeper.
He clicks on the light of the guest bathroom. Chris has moved some of his toiletries in: a toothbrush with splayed bristles, a can of Axe deodorant and disposable razor. A wet towel and a soiled pair of boxers lie on the floor.
Lane unzips as he heads to the toilet, his stream of urine painfully arrested when he sees a huge turd coiled in the bowl. This is no floater, bobbing back from the maelstrom, this is a dump festooned with wads of toilet paper, his son exiting without bothering to flush.
Lane has to hit the handle three times to clear the bowl. Finally he gets to relieve himself, his penis and bladder throbbing in sympathy with his bruised balls. He inspects his urine for blood but finds none.
Lane washes his hands at the sink and drinks lukewarm water from the faucet. He only had three Scotches, so he’s not hungover, but this thirst—this very particular dehydration that comes from alcohol—returns him to his drinking days.
Leaving the bathroom he journeys back down the corridor, the same gargle of snores reaching him from Christopher’s room. For a second Lane entertains the fantasy of
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