Read Online Transgressions by Sarah Dunant - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarah Dunant
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very casual.
“Yes. Maybe.”
“I’ll call you. And remember. Ring the cops.”
She put the phone down and sat digesting the last interchange. Between the CD panic and all their sparring she and Tom managed to have made something resembling a kind of peace. After all this time she couldn’t quite believe it. Maybe he’d take his friend with him to Vancouver. Nice place, Vancouver. Big horizons, warm currents, the chance to start it all again. Perfect for a man like Tom.
Here, though, she still had unfinished business. On the stereo Van Morrison was taking his last applause. The album clicked off, the CD button still blinking quietly in the corner. She sat for a while staring at it, then got up and went over to the console.
She moved the back of her hand across the control panel, pushing slightly against the start button. Nothing happened. She pushed harder, rubbing against the switch. Harder still. The light leaped up and the album clicked into place. Possible.
Then she switched the system off at the console power button. Once again she played the cat, using her hand like the flank of the animal’s side. But this time the button was too close to the wall. To have activated it, Millie would have needed to use her paw like a finger. Absolutely not possible. But could she really swear that she had turned it off? The answer was no.
She did so now, making doubly sure by flicking the switch at the plug. It would mean reprogramming the tuner tomorrow, but it was worth a good night’s sleep. She checked the windows and doors one more time. There was still no sign of the cat. She took a box of cat biscuits out from the cupboard and rattled it noisily next to the window. Millie had the ears of a nuclear submarine when it came to food. She waited, but the cat didn’t come. She dumped a handful into the bowl anyway and, taking the portable phone off its hook, went upstairs, locking the door behind her.
She had been gone only a few moments when the cat flap snapped open, then shut again. But she was already too far away to hear it.
five
T o her surprise she slept almost immediately. When she woke up the sun was out and the sky was a perfect washed blue, a line of condensation on the window testifying to an early frost outside.
She lay in bed, feeling heavy with sleep. The clock read 10:15 A.M. She must have slept through the alarm. Downstairs she heard the thud of the mail on the mat. What the hell? It was Saturday and at least nobody had murdered her in her bed. She replayed the last hours of the night before, fingering the fear like a new bruise, seeing if she could make it hurt again. But the daylight had obliterated all manner of shadows and she couldn’t be bothered to try and find them again.
She stretched, half expecting her feet to dislodge Millie off the end of the bed. Then she remembered that the cat had still been out, and the kitchen door would have kept her locked up. She thought about getting up and dressed, then decided not to bother. Instead she’d have breakfast in bed with the papers, take it easy. So today she’d do only five hundred words. Or maybe none at all. What was it Tom had said about her being overconscientious? After all the drama of last night she could surely allow herself a little time off from the Prague underworld. Even her American cop let himself do some sightseeing in between the bodies.
She lay for a moment thinking about Saturdays, how they used to be when she and Tom were first together. How sometimes they would sleep till noon, then wander down to Camden Lock and have a late lunch at the Moroccan restaurant on the canal. It had been glorious to be so lazy and so comfortable with someone. Not to care what you looked like or what you did, just to hang out as if it could all go on forever. Is that how real marriages work, she wondered? People just keeping on keeping on, growing older and slower till they got to look like those happy/sad ads for pension plans. It was
“Yes. Maybe.”
“I’ll call you. And remember. Ring the cops.”
She put the phone down and sat digesting the last interchange. Between the CD panic and all their sparring she and Tom managed to have made something resembling a kind of peace. After all this time she couldn’t quite believe it. Maybe he’d take his friend with him to Vancouver. Nice place, Vancouver. Big horizons, warm currents, the chance to start it all again. Perfect for a man like Tom.
Here, though, she still had unfinished business. On the stereo Van Morrison was taking his last applause. The album clicked off, the CD button still blinking quietly in the corner. She sat for a while staring at it, then got up and went over to the console.
She moved the back of her hand across the control panel, pushing slightly against the start button. Nothing happened. She pushed harder, rubbing against the switch. Harder still. The light leaped up and the album clicked into place. Possible.
Then she switched the system off at the console power button. Once again she played the cat, using her hand like the flank of the animal’s side. But this time the button was too close to the wall. To have activated it, Millie would have needed to use her paw like a finger. Absolutely not possible. But could she really swear that she had turned it off? The answer was no.
She did so now, making doubly sure by flicking the switch at the plug. It would mean reprogramming the tuner tomorrow, but it was worth a good night’s sleep. She checked the windows and doors one more time. There was still no sign of the cat. She took a box of cat biscuits out from the cupboard and rattled it noisily next to the window. Millie had the ears of a nuclear submarine when it came to food. She waited, but the cat didn’t come. She dumped a handful into the bowl anyway and, taking the portable phone off its hook, went upstairs, locking the door behind her.
She had been gone only a few moments when the cat flap snapped open, then shut again. But she was already too far away to hear it.
five
T o her surprise she slept almost immediately. When she woke up the sun was out and the sky was a perfect washed blue, a line of condensation on the window testifying to an early frost outside.
She lay in bed, feeling heavy with sleep. The clock read 10:15 A.M. She must have slept through the alarm. Downstairs she heard the thud of the mail on the mat. What the hell? It was Saturday and at least nobody had murdered her in her bed. She replayed the last hours of the night before, fingering the fear like a new bruise, seeing if she could make it hurt again. But the daylight had obliterated all manner of shadows and she couldn’t be bothered to try and find them again.
She stretched, half expecting her feet to dislodge Millie off the end of the bed. Then she remembered that the cat had still been out, and the kitchen door would have kept her locked up. She thought about getting up and dressed, then decided not to bother. Instead she’d have breakfast in bed with the papers, take it easy. So today she’d do only five hundred words. Or maybe none at all. What was it Tom had said about her being overconscientious? After all the drama of last night she could surely allow herself a little time off from the Prague underworld. Even her American cop let himself do some sightseeing in between the bodies.
She lay for a moment thinking about Saturdays, how they used to be when she and Tom were first together. How sometimes they would sleep till noon, then wander down to Camden Lock and have a late lunch at the Moroccan restaurant on the canal. It had been glorious to be so lazy and so comfortable with someone. Not to care what you looked like or what you did, just to hang out as if it could all go on forever. Is that how real marriages work, she wondered? People just keeping on keeping on, growing older and slower till they got to look like those happy/sad ads for pension plans. It was
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