A Spot Of Bother

63

Jean had always found her sister hard work. Even before she was born-again. To be honest, it was slightly better after she was born-again. Because then there was a reason for Eileen being hard work. You knew you’d never get on because she was going to heaven and you weren’t, so you could give up trying.

But, God, the woman could make you feel greedy and self-centered just by the way she wore a shapeless faun cardigan.

She was sorely tempted, over lunch, to mention David. Just so she could see her sister’s face. But Eileen would probably consider it her moral duty to share the information with George.

It didn’t matter now. The ordeal was over for another year.

By the time she got home she was looking forward to a conversation with George. About anything.

She was juggling her keys, however, when she realized something was wrong. She could see, through the little square of frosted glass, that the phone table was at an angle. And there was something dark lying at the foot of the stairs. The dark thing had arms. She hoped to God it was a coat.

She opened the door.

It was a coat.

Then she saw the blood. On the stairs. On the hall carpet. There was a bloody handprint on the wall beside the living-room door.

She shouted George’s name, but there was no answer.

She wanted to turn and run and phone the police from a neighbor’s house. Then she imagined the conversation on the phone. Not being able to say where he was, or what had happened to him. She had to be the first to see him.

She stepped inside, every tiny hair on her body standing on end. She left the door ajar. To keep that connection. To the sky. To the air. To the ordinary world.

The living room was exactly as she had left it that morning.

She went into the kitchen. There was blood all over the lino. He had been in the middle of doing some washing. The door of the machine was open and a box of detergent tablets was sitting on the work surface above it.

The cellar door was open. She walked slowly down the steps. More blood. Great smears of it all over the inside of the paddling pool, and lines of it running down the side of the freezer cabinet. But no body.

She was trying very, very hard not to think about what had happened here.

She went into the dining room. She went upstairs. She went into the bedrooms. Then she went into the bathroom.

This was where they had done it. In the shower. She saw the knife and looked away. She staggered backward and slumped onto the chair in the hallway and let the sobs take her over.

They had taken him somewhere afterward.

She had to call someone. She got to her feet and stumbled along the landing to the bedroom. She picked up the phone. It seemed suddenly unfamiliar. As if she’d never seen one before. The two pieces that came apart. The little noise it made. The buttons with black numbers on them.

She didn’t want to ring the police. She didn’t want to talk to strangers. Not yet.

She rang Jamie at work. He was out of the office. She rang his home number and left a message.

She rang Katie. She wasn’t in. She left a message.

She couldn’t remember their mobile phone numbers.

She rang David. He said he’d be there in fifteen minutes.

It was unbearably cold in the house and she was shaking.

She went downstairs and grabbed her winter coat and sat on the garden wall.