Read Online The Loving Husband by Christobel Kent - Free Book Online
Authors: Christobel Kent
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‘I don’t know. I don’t know. He said – the last time I saw him – work seemed to be getting him down, that was all.’ Pleading. ‘But that couldn’t … work couldn’t—’ He broke off. ‘He’s dead.’
‘It’s all right,’ Fran told him. ‘No, I shouldn’t … I should have let the police talk to you first, I just didn’t want it to be…’ and she heard her voice break. ‘Oh, Rob. I’m so sorry.’
‘I’m coming back down. This fucking mountain.’ It was the first time she’d heard Rob swear. ‘Why didn’t he come? I’ve got to walk out of here, I’m on my own. I’ll see if I can get a lift off, I’ve got some battery left on the phone but the signal’s not good. Are you all right, Fran? Are they making sure you’re all right? You’re on your own with the kids.’
‘I’m all right,’ said Fran, stupid tears coming to her eyes. ‘They might call you. I’m sorry. The police might call.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Rob. ‘Just tell them – I’m coming back. I’ll be there—’ He broke off. ‘Shit, shit. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
And the line went dead.
Slowly, she hung up. Ben lay sleeping in the buggy, pale and still, and she leaned her head back against the wall.
The thin light was coming through the window over the sink, showing up the dirt. Fran walked towards it, thinking. She dipped a cloth in the washing up bowl and wiped one pane, then the next. Reached for a tea towel to dry them off but on the second one she stopped and leaned closer. There was something, not on the inside. She put the tea towel down and went to the door, outside into the yard. Where, where. She looked, searched. There.
A nick in the thick glass. Fran put her finger to it and felt the sides of it. She leaned up closer and saw it quite clearly, tiny and almost perfectly round, as though something small and round had struck the thick glass from outside, and felt triumph, yes ,only then as quickly the white flash of terror, like a flare illuminating the scene, the yard, the dark yard.
He’d waited for her to find Nathan but he hadn’t gone, not then. He’d waited until she was inside and then he’d come, softly across the field, right up to the house. As she had stood there under the kitchen striplighting, holding on to the phone with her back to the window he’d been watching her.
Fran was stiff and cold; she rubbed both arms fiercely. All this from a tiny fleck in the window pane, a blemish. She looked around for the pebble he’d have thrown but the yard was littered with them, it was half gravel. She looked across at the men beyond the barn, in the field: they’d been in the yard, too, peering inside the dilapidated shed. Could she have shown them handfuls of dirt and stones, to fingerprint or whatever they did? They’d have thought she was nuts. She turned and went inside.
Ben was stirring in his sheepskin cocoon so she lifted him out quickly and still in her coat she sat to feed him at the kitchen table. She looked back at the door, the mat askew, the floor heavily marked with bootprints, and something began to tick, her wet feet at the door, mud on them as she had slid them into Nathan’s boots. Nathan had been out in the field, not wearing boots, just the shoes he’d gone out to the pub in. Wet mud on the floor last night. She tried to make sense of that, but just the image of Nathan taking off his shoes at the door defeated her, the way he knelt, untied a knot, methodical, fastidious. Fran looked at the table where the two-day-old newspaper lay. She could remember Nathan opening the paper, saying something. A stack of books she’d ordered for herself, one cardboard parcel not even opened yet though it had arrived weeks ago. A plastic carrier bag with something flat and square in it.
The evidence bag containing the sodden tights had been removed.
There was something else, distinct from misery. It sat at the base of her skull where fight or flight lived,
‘It’s all right,’ Fran told him. ‘No, I shouldn’t … I should have let the police talk to you first, I just didn’t want it to be…’ and she heard her voice break. ‘Oh, Rob. I’m so sorry.’
‘I’m coming back down. This fucking mountain.’ It was the first time she’d heard Rob swear. ‘Why didn’t he come? I’ve got to walk out of here, I’m on my own. I’ll see if I can get a lift off, I’ve got some battery left on the phone but the signal’s not good. Are you all right, Fran? Are they making sure you’re all right? You’re on your own with the kids.’
‘I’m all right,’ said Fran, stupid tears coming to her eyes. ‘They might call you. I’m sorry. The police might call.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Rob. ‘Just tell them – I’m coming back. I’ll be there—’ He broke off. ‘Shit, shit. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
And the line went dead.
Slowly, she hung up. Ben lay sleeping in the buggy, pale and still, and she leaned her head back against the wall.
The thin light was coming through the window over the sink, showing up the dirt. Fran walked towards it, thinking. She dipped a cloth in the washing up bowl and wiped one pane, then the next. Reached for a tea towel to dry them off but on the second one she stopped and leaned closer. There was something, not on the inside. She put the tea towel down and went to the door, outside into the yard. Where, where. She looked, searched. There.
A nick in the thick glass. Fran put her finger to it and felt the sides of it. She leaned up closer and saw it quite clearly, tiny and almost perfectly round, as though something small and round had struck the thick glass from outside, and felt triumph, yes ,only then as quickly the white flash of terror, like a flare illuminating the scene, the yard, the dark yard.
He’d waited for her to find Nathan but he hadn’t gone, not then. He’d waited until she was inside and then he’d come, softly across the field, right up to the house. As she had stood there under the kitchen striplighting, holding on to the phone with her back to the window he’d been watching her.
Fran was stiff and cold; she rubbed both arms fiercely. All this from a tiny fleck in the window pane, a blemish. She looked around for the pebble he’d have thrown but the yard was littered with them, it was half gravel. She looked across at the men beyond the barn, in the field: they’d been in the yard, too, peering inside the dilapidated shed. Could she have shown them handfuls of dirt and stones, to fingerprint or whatever they did? They’d have thought she was nuts. She turned and went inside.
Ben was stirring in his sheepskin cocoon so she lifted him out quickly and still in her coat she sat to feed him at the kitchen table. She looked back at the door, the mat askew, the floor heavily marked with bootprints, and something began to tick, her wet feet at the door, mud on them as she had slid them into Nathan’s boots. Nathan had been out in the field, not wearing boots, just the shoes he’d gone out to the pub in. Wet mud on the floor last night. She tried to make sense of that, but just the image of Nathan taking off his shoes at the door defeated her, the way he knelt, untied a knot, methodical, fastidious. Fran looked at the table where the two-day-old newspaper lay. She could remember Nathan opening the paper, saying something. A stack of books she’d ordered for herself, one cardboard parcel not even opened yet though it had arrived weeks ago. A plastic carrier bag with something flat and square in it.
The evidence bag containing the sodden tights had been removed.
There was something else, distinct from misery. It sat at the base of her skull where fight or flight lived,
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