Read Online Unchained Melanie by Judy Astley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Judy Astley
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trickling down the wall beside him. This couldn’t be right, surely the plane should be completely sealed? He wondered about calling the stewardess, but was terrified that these small wet drops really were a cause for concern. He could imagine the stewardess’s panic-stricken shriek, all the passengers waking, the shouting, the confusion, the praying – the end. Definitely if he made a fuss they’d crash. If he ignored this, the plane would fly on. Whether he said something or not, though, there shouldn’t be little gaps where the outside could let itself in. Suppose something gave way under the pressure. Wouldn’t they all be sucked out? He tightened his seat belt, then felt under Leonora’s blanket to make sure hers was secure. The stewardess, catching sight of his hidden hand snaking across her body, gave him an uncertain little smile. Let her think what she liked: he was too old to explain himself away.
Leonora smiled in her sleep, content, confident, sure of her happy future. Roger, meanwhile, twitched his feet up and down, rotated his ankles, went on to worry about deep vein thrombosis and about whether he really should have eaten the chicken risotto that now lay so heavily in his stomach. Most of all, though, he worried about whether the plane’s oxygen supply was enough for the fragile growing baby, because, as he (and Mel) knew too well, there were things that could go catastrophically wrong and, as Leonora’s pregnancy advanced, it seemed more and more to Roger as if with this extra chance of producing a little life, fate was being teased and tempted. With wicked disloyalty, he wished Melanie was next to him right now. Not as areplacement for Leonora, but just to talk to about all the worry-things. She’d know whether it was all right about the leaky plane, that was for sure. If she took one quick look and said, ‘Condensation,’ that’s exactly what it would be. If she said, ‘Hmm, not sure,’ he’d worry on. You knew where you were with Mel. He hoped, he really hoped, as he looked at Leonora’s smooth young trusting face, that he’d manage to know where he was without her.
The trouble with working late was that sleep wasn’t as easy to come by as when you packed up earlier and gave yourself several hours to loosen the brain. On nights like this, when Mel’s head was still buzzing at 2 a.m. with the work she’d just finished, she could quite see the point of proper office hours. She realized, as she lay in bed staring at the shadows on the ceiling, that she shouldn’t have gone to bed straight after the cheese and pickle sandwich. If it was true, as her mother had always said, that cheese last thing at night gave you nightmares, she wouldn’t mind at least getting to sleep so that she could put the theory to the test.
It should have been the quietest part of the night, too. Instead she could hear the distant whoopings of a group of revellers who must have managed to persuade some unlucky pub landlord to host a lock-in. There was the special night-time traffic as well: she could hear the rhythmic whine and clunk of the bin wagon collecting rubbish from the back of the shops and restaurants on the main road a couple of streets away. And along with them was the metallic clanging of heavy-load trolleys delivering to the fast-food restaurant at the end of that same block.
The whooping gang were getting nearer. Melanie tensed as she heard glass breaking, somewhere at the far end of the road near the lane that led to the river. There’d be graffiti by morning too, she guessed: some indecipherable teenage tag scrawled on a house-side, applied with far more speed than artistry.
Mel turned the pillow over to cool her head, lay on her side and tried to settle. Thoughts about Tina Keen still raced around her brain. There could, she thought, be a way of using these early-hours rubbish collections to find her way to the killer. Mel herself wasn’t yet sure who’d done it. She preferred to use the
Leonora smiled in her sleep, content, confident, sure of her happy future. Roger, meanwhile, twitched his feet up and down, rotated his ankles, went on to worry about deep vein thrombosis and about whether he really should have eaten the chicken risotto that now lay so heavily in his stomach. Most of all, though, he worried about whether the plane’s oxygen supply was enough for the fragile growing baby, because, as he (and Mel) knew too well, there were things that could go catastrophically wrong and, as Leonora’s pregnancy advanced, it seemed more and more to Roger as if with this extra chance of producing a little life, fate was being teased and tempted. With wicked disloyalty, he wished Melanie was next to him right now. Not as areplacement for Leonora, but just to talk to about all the worry-things. She’d know whether it was all right about the leaky plane, that was for sure. If she took one quick look and said, ‘Condensation,’ that’s exactly what it would be. If she said, ‘Hmm, not sure,’ he’d worry on. You knew where you were with Mel. He hoped, he really hoped, as he looked at Leonora’s smooth young trusting face, that he’d manage to know where he was without her.
The trouble with working late was that sleep wasn’t as easy to come by as when you packed up earlier and gave yourself several hours to loosen the brain. On nights like this, when Mel’s head was still buzzing at 2 a.m. with the work she’d just finished, she could quite see the point of proper office hours. She realized, as she lay in bed staring at the shadows on the ceiling, that she shouldn’t have gone to bed straight after the cheese and pickle sandwich. If it was true, as her mother had always said, that cheese last thing at night gave you nightmares, she wouldn’t mind at least getting to sleep so that she could put the theory to the test.
It should have been the quietest part of the night, too. Instead she could hear the distant whoopings of a group of revellers who must have managed to persuade some unlucky pub landlord to host a lock-in. There was the special night-time traffic as well: she could hear the rhythmic whine and clunk of the bin wagon collecting rubbish from the back of the shops and restaurants on the main road a couple of streets away. And along with them was the metallic clanging of heavy-load trolleys delivering to the fast-food restaurant at the end of that same block.
The whooping gang were getting nearer. Melanie tensed as she heard glass breaking, somewhere at the far end of the road near the lane that led to the river. There’d be graffiti by morning too, she guessed: some indecipherable teenage tag scrawled on a house-side, applied with far more speed than artistry.
Mel turned the pillow over to cool her head, lay on her side and tried to settle. Thoughts about Tina Keen still raced around her brain. There could, she thought, be a way of using these early-hours rubbish collections to find her way to the killer. Mel herself wasn’t yet sure who’d done it. She preferred to use the
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