Read Online White Lady by Jessica Bell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jessica Bell
Tags: psychological thriller, organized crime, domestic chiller, domestic thriller, marriage thriller, chick noir, literary thriller
Ads: Link
God.
As I twist the key in the front door, I realize Mick forgot to lock it again.
For fuck’s sake! I swallow, take a deep breath, and remind myself to stop saying that word. Even when it is only inside my head.
Last time Mick forgot to lock the door, our entire entertainment system was stolen. Along with my iMac, which I had just bought the same week. Since then I have resorted to using my old PC, and failing to collect Mick’s weekly monetary contribution for a new computer like he promised. I didn’t really expect him to pay me. But the possibility sustained my sanity. He needs focus—some constituent of responsibility. Because God knows his father never taught him more than “be faithful to your brothers.”
I open the door, and my heart sinks at the scattered papers all over the floor.
God no. Not again.
I put my bag down and close the door behind me, making sure to be as quiet as possible. Just in case Mick’s still here. I cannot bear to face him this morning. Every expression, every wince, every … smile, reminds me of Ibrahim. There’s no escaping him no matter how much I try. I look around for something other than my stashed pistol to use as a weapon. Nothing. Not even a nail file. The curtain in the lounge room waves about in the breeze.
He’s been gone all night? Excellent. Thieves are going to think we’re inviting them in!
I sigh and roll my shoulders to try to relax, and notice there is a huge puddle of water on the floor below the windowsill.
I close the window and curtains, drop my belongings on the couch, strip to my underwear as I walk back into the hall, throw my dirty clothes through my bedroom door on the way by, and yank the tea towel with the Periodic Table on it off the kitchen door handle. And … what? The kitchen is clean ?
I stare at the shiny sink, polished floor, empty dishwasher, while holding the tea towel in the air. A shiver travels down my spine, and I sneeze. It echoes through the whole house, followed by uncertain calm. Goose bumps form all over my naked limbs.
I blink. I must be imagining this. This is not the work of Mick. It cannot be. If it is, is it a sign of progress?
I swivel around on my heel and head back to the lounge room to mop up the water. I kneel on the floor. My knobbly knees dig into the floorboards like chicken bones. I am reminded of scrubbing at the bloodstain on the back porch and the satisfaction I had felt at that moment.
Once I’ve mopped up all the water, I collect the papers that have flown about the house. Some are supermarket receipts; some are empty envelopes, sealed envelopes, bills, junk mail from Safeway and David Jones. Another blank postcard from Ibrahim. This time from Istanbul. My husband’s way of letting me know he’s still alive. I feel sick to the stomach every time I receive one. Not because I worry about him. Because he knows I still care. He knows his postcards remind me of our past. He thinks this will bring me back to him. It will not. I have promised myself—and my son—to ignore the temptation.
I single out Mick’s offshore bank statement. He blackmailed some banker into opening it for him. Mick apparently had saved him from being busted by the police after handing cash to a hooker. It is who you know, is it not? And of course, there is the whole “be faithful to your brothers.” And we know many “brothers.”
I stare at the envelope. Thumb already lodged under its corner, ready to rip it open.
Should I?
I do. And I am not at all surprised at the amount of money he has. I was hoping to be surprised at him not having any money.
Thirty thousand dollars. At seventeen. With no job. And terrible at maths.
The time has come to call him out on it. It is the only way I am going to fix our relationship. If he knows I know what he is doing, maybe he will have more respect for me. And if I confront him about it, he’ll admit it. Because he cannot lie. He can only hide. He is absolutely fine as long as no one asks
As I twist the key in the front door, I realize Mick forgot to lock it again.
For fuck’s sake! I swallow, take a deep breath, and remind myself to stop saying that word. Even when it is only inside my head.
Last time Mick forgot to lock the door, our entire entertainment system was stolen. Along with my iMac, which I had just bought the same week. Since then I have resorted to using my old PC, and failing to collect Mick’s weekly monetary contribution for a new computer like he promised. I didn’t really expect him to pay me. But the possibility sustained my sanity. He needs focus—some constituent of responsibility. Because God knows his father never taught him more than “be faithful to your brothers.”
I open the door, and my heart sinks at the scattered papers all over the floor.
God no. Not again.
I put my bag down and close the door behind me, making sure to be as quiet as possible. Just in case Mick’s still here. I cannot bear to face him this morning. Every expression, every wince, every … smile, reminds me of Ibrahim. There’s no escaping him no matter how much I try. I look around for something other than my stashed pistol to use as a weapon. Nothing. Not even a nail file. The curtain in the lounge room waves about in the breeze.
He’s been gone all night? Excellent. Thieves are going to think we’re inviting them in!
I sigh and roll my shoulders to try to relax, and notice there is a huge puddle of water on the floor below the windowsill.
I close the window and curtains, drop my belongings on the couch, strip to my underwear as I walk back into the hall, throw my dirty clothes through my bedroom door on the way by, and yank the tea towel with the Periodic Table on it off the kitchen door handle. And … what? The kitchen is clean ?
I stare at the shiny sink, polished floor, empty dishwasher, while holding the tea towel in the air. A shiver travels down my spine, and I sneeze. It echoes through the whole house, followed by uncertain calm. Goose bumps form all over my naked limbs.
I blink. I must be imagining this. This is not the work of Mick. It cannot be. If it is, is it a sign of progress?
I swivel around on my heel and head back to the lounge room to mop up the water. I kneel on the floor. My knobbly knees dig into the floorboards like chicken bones. I am reminded of scrubbing at the bloodstain on the back porch and the satisfaction I had felt at that moment.
Once I’ve mopped up all the water, I collect the papers that have flown about the house. Some are supermarket receipts; some are empty envelopes, sealed envelopes, bills, junk mail from Safeway and David Jones. Another blank postcard from Ibrahim. This time from Istanbul. My husband’s way of letting me know he’s still alive. I feel sick to the stomach every time I receive one. Not because I worry about him. Because he knows I still care. He knows his postcards remind me of our past. He thinks this will bring me back to him. It will not. I have promised myself—and my son—to ignore the temptation.
I single out Mick’s offshore bank statement. He blackmailed some banker into opening it for him. Mick apparently had saved him from being busted by the police after handing cash to a hooker. It is who you know, is it not? And of course, there is the whole “be faithful to your brothers.” And we know many “brothers.”
I stare at the envelope. Thumb already lodged under its corner, ready to rip it open.
Should I?
I do. And I am not at all surprised at the amount of money he has. I was hoping to be surprised at him not having any money.
Thirty thousand dollars. At seventeen. With no job. And terrible at maths.
The time has come to call him out on it. It is the only way I am going to fix our relationship. If he knows I know what he is doing, maybe he will have more respect for me. And if I confront him about it, he’ll admit it. Because he cannot lie. He can only hide. He is absolutely fine as long as no one asks
Similar Books
