Blood Worm

4

Guy moved his fingers, flexing them under the bandage which covered all but their very tips. With those fingertips he could feel a dam in the sheet over him: quite a long darn too, curving gently like a segmented worm.

He must be in bed, he realised — and he accepted the fact without understanding. A high, narrow bed.

Because of the bright irritation of the daylight he kept his eyes half-closed, though just beyond arm’s reach he was aware of vague, insubstantial shapes. A chair, perhaps? A small table with… was that a vase on it? A vase with flowers? No? He couldn’t really focus on it.

In any case, everything was blotted out by a patch of blue moving across his line of sight: smooth blue material with buttons, and a belt.

‘Awake now, are we?’ The voice was cheerful and friendly, with an Australian accent. ‘Like something to drink?’

‘Champagne,’ he responded drowsily.

‘You an’ me both!’ she laughed. ‘Only this ain’t the Ritz, worse luck. Try some o’ this water to be goin’ on with. OK?’

He took a sip, with her holding the glass for him.

‘Urgh…’

‘It’s an acquired taste, they say!’ she joked, taking the glass away to place it on the bedside table. Then her tone of voice changed. ‘Feel sick, do you?’

‘I’m all right.’

‘Use this bowl here if you feel sick. An’ that’s the bell-push. If you need any help, jus’ press it, OK?’

Her face dissolved into a mysterious mist. Briefly it sharpened again but the shape refused to hold. His fault. The thought shocked through his mind like a blinding revelation: the molecules were drifting apart and she’d cease to exist, this Australian nurse, if he didn’t concentrate.

He frowned, trying to make sense of what his optic nerves were telling him, identifying her cropped, untidy blonde hair beneath a perky cap.

‘I’m in hospital!’ he decided, unnaturally loud.

‘Clever boy! How did you guess?’ The Australian voice held no malice, only a light, gurgling laugh. ‘They brought you in last night, only I don’t suppose you remember.’

‘No.’

‘Me neither, tell you the truth. I was off duty. Think you feel up to holding this thermometer under your tongue while I check your pulse?’ Giving him no chance to reply, she slipped the glass rod into his mouth. ‘No, no need to talk.’

Closing his eyes, he rested his head back on the cool pillows to digest the information. He was in hospital, hands bandaged; dressings on arms and legs too, and on his chest. What had happened he was still not sure. Had he been involved in some sort of accident, in a place overrun with beetles? But his mind wandered again. Concentration slipped down.. down.. until it was lost.

Light years away the nurse’s cool fingers held his wrist, though he knew his arm was floating independently by the bedside, no longer part of him. But she returned it to him, removing the thermometer from his lips, and with a start he came back to a hazy consciousness.

‘You can drop off back to sleep now, Mr Archer,’ that same voice announced from another world. ‘Oh, your wife’s been, 1 meant to tell you. She’s had to go again but she’ll look in later. Meanwhile, you have a good rest — right? OK?’

‘Kath?’

‘Who?’

‘My daughter. Kath. Is she all right?’

‘Oh, you’ll have to ask your wife when you see her. I’ve only jus’ come on, so I know nothing ’cept you bein’ attacked by a swarm o’ some insects or other. What were they — wasps? Look more like snakebites to me, leastwise that’s what I’d think back home in Australia.’

‘Beetles,’ he corrected her drowsily.

With his eyes closed he could see them now: beautiful, terrifying beetles with pincer claws. A whole battalion of them.

‘Beetles? Christ! You mean beetles did that to you? What kind were they, for Chrissake?’

‘Mm-m..’ He was too sleepy to answer.

‘Don’t you worry, Mr Archer. We’ve no beetles in this hospital. The new matron wouldn’t let so much as a greenfly live, not on the wards. She’s a stickler. So ring the bell now if you need anything. Oh, an’ don’t try to get out o’ bed by yourself, not till we say so. OK?’

But her voice had retreated again down the long misty tunnel and his reply died on his lips as he realised she could not possibly hear him, not so far away in the dark caverns.

Snakes, she’d said, hadn’t she?

She must have known.

Plenty of snakes around now in the graveyard, upstanding like waving grass, undulating sensuously, in turns dipping their heads into the pink mess which had once been the old tramp. No — several tramps, one lying on each grave; dead, of course. Dead meat opened up to feed the—

They weren’t real snakes, were they? More like giant worms with dark eyes which regarded him gravely.

He wanted to scream but the tramps — one by one — turned their bulging eyes towards him and placed their raw forefingers warning!)' across their thick lips. Attempting to read their names on the worn headstones, he found the lettering illegible, their identities lost. Meanwhile the worms continued feeding, taking their time, their open mouths slobbering at him.

Until they began to fade.

So too did the corpses and the gravestones, like a slow dissolve in an old black-and-white movie. First soft focus; next the image blurring to the point where even the outline lost all meaning; finally the disappearance: the blank screen on which only the tired print’s scratches were to be seen, flickering and dancing.

Disappeared: that was the key word.

Again he saw Dorothea greeting him when he arrived home, before he had put his bag down even. ‘Kath’s disappeared!’ A memory, of course, a mental voice reassured him calmly. He was reliving — vividly — a larger-than-life memory. In full colour.

‘Kath?’ he demanded urgently, conscious that he was speaking aloud even in his hallucination. ‘Where’s Kath?’

‘Kath’s at school.’

It was Dorothea’s voice. That flat, down-to-earth manner could not be mistaken. Yet—

Delirium? Or dream?

He was puzzled that Dorothea should be here in the graveyard with him. Why had she said nothing about the giant maggots which she must have seen?

Reluctantly he opened his eyes, turning over in bed to put the question to her, half-expecting to find nobody there, the way it so often happens in dreams. But he was wrong.

‘Kath’s all right! Didn’t they tell you?’

He felt Dorothea’s wet kiss on his forehead and was aware of her fleshy forearm stretching across him as she tidied his bedclothes. A cold, irrational instinct warned him that he had arrived at the dangerous stage when hallucinations seemed most real. Once he entered this dimension he might never escape.

‘I don’t believe you’re properly awake,’ the hallucination said, and it was her familiar laugh, though sounding oddiy forced.

‘I think I’m awake,’ he heard someone replying. His own words, were they? Hard to tell.

‘Well, your eyes are open,’ she retorted with another laugh. ‘I don’t know if that means anything!’

‘Kath’s at school?’ he asked, still suspicious.

‘Where else whould she be at this time of day? Oh, Guy, I’m sorry, it’s all my fault it happened like this. I got so worked up when she didn’t come home, then the moment you’d gone out to look for her — there she was! Been home with some other kid, of course. A new kid I didn’t know.’

‘A new kid?’

She was going on at such a pace, he was not taking it all in.

Still talking about Kath and her new friend and the school and the ballet lessons, she fetched a chair from the table by the window and sat down close to his bed. Her face still had that pure Italian madonna look which had immediately attracted him to her when they first met, though these days she wore her dark hair cut short and trimmed to lie flat against her head, hardly covering her ears. More practical, she said. But secretly he preferred it long.

He was giad to see her, though. Just to know she was there brought a relaxing calmness to his mind. He tried to say so, but she did not pause long enough to listen. That was typical of Dorothea.

Then the blonde Australian nurse reappeared, bearing a jug of fresh water for his bedside table. Something snapped in his head as he realised he was truly awake this time.

‘Back in the land o’ the livin’, are we?’ she greeted him with a quick friendly smile. ‘You’re lookin’ a bit better. Like to sit up for a while? Not too long to begin with, but five minutes won’t harm. Lift yourself!’

Nothing ethereal about Australian nurses, he thought. Good earthy flesh-and-blood there. She smelled inviting too.

He grinned sheepishly at Dorothea, who had moved back to give the nurse some room. ‘I’m not quite sure what happened,’ he toid her. ‘You did say Kath is all right?’

She would drive past the old school to see for herself, Dorothea decided as she eased her Renault 5 out of the narrow space where she had left it behind the hospital. For one thing, she found it hard to accept that mere beetles could inflict so much injury on a man such as Guy. Or the tramp, for that matter.

On her first visit to the hospital during the night she’d been terribly shocked to see him lying there so pale and drawn, looking like death, both hands in bandages, and other dressings on his neck and part of his face. His legs and chest too, according to the doctor. ‘Unfortunately they aren’t clean cuts,’ she had explained briskly. ‘Mrs Archer, they may take some time to heal and we must expect scars. As for infection, well it’s possible. I’ve sent samples to the lab for tests and we’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed.’

‘What kind of infection?’ Dorothea had asked. ‘What exactly d’you mean?’

But she had known the answer as soon as the words crossed her lips. Insects carry parasites. Bloody hell! she swore to herself, her hands gripping the steering wheel. Why did this have to happen now?

The moment she drove into St John’s Road she noticed the spreading pall of dark smoke above the rooftops, but not until she had passed the church hall did she realise it was the school which was on fire. At the top of the cul-de-sac she slowed down, then stopped.

People stood around in little groups, quietly looking on as the old school burned. Even the fire brigade appeared to be taking the whole thing quite calmly; they had sent only one tender whose crew — despite their oilskins and helmets — seemed resigned to simply waiting. Probably at this stage nothing more was possible, she thought. She didn’t bother to get out of the car. The roof had already gone; as she watched, the end wall collapsed spectacularly, as if it had given way at the knees. She heard the roar and clatter of tumbling bricks; then a pause, a drawing of breath, and the flames shot up again triumphantly.

‘So much for the beetles,’ she said aloud. ‘Now I’ll never know.’

She considered walking over for a closer look but spotted the plain-clothes man, Detective-Sergeant Evans, who had cross-examined her about Guy at some Godforsaken hour that morning. He was the last person she wanted to meet. Even if he had some answers by now, she knew he would never tell her; not why they were destroying what evidence there was in that burning school. That would be against police training.

As a breed, she thought as she wound up the window and drove off, she preferred beetles.

Miraculously she found a space to park directly in front of her own house. It was two o’clock. She had planned to make do with a quick snack and then carry on painting the spare room but she was restless. She stood in the hall, debating with herself whether to stay in or have a bite in the Plough. It was the sight of Guy’s briefcase still lying where he had left it which decided her.

The whole business with Guy had thrown her mind into a turmoil. Only this time yesterday she had been seriously considering — not for the first time — whether the best solution for their marriage might not be a legal separation, but she could not spring that on him now he was in hospital, could she? It would have to wait, and God alone knew what problems that might cause.

In any case, she was certainly in no mood to be painting wails. She dropped her handbag on the telephone table, took out her keys and some money, and left the house.

In the Plough everything seemed so normal, it was unreal. The usual lunchtime business crowd had been in-she could see that from one glance at the multitude of dirty glasses to be washed and the remnants of food scattered around the tables — though many had already gone back to their offices and others were leaving even as she arrived. She was relieved to see that her favourite stool at the comer of the horseshoe-shaped bar was free and she hoisted herself on to it.

‘Hello, Thea! Be with you in just a sec.’

Brian was serving today. With a slight frown of concentration he picked up four whiskies simultaneously, spreading his long fingers to hold the glasses together as he conveyed them to the waiting customer on the other side of the bar. ‘Sorry to hear about Guy,’ he called out as he took the man’s ten-pound note and crossed to the till.

‘How is he?’

‘He’ll live, I suppose,’ she replied wearily. ‘It’s all such a mess, Brian.’

‘So we were just saying. What a thing to happen!’ He gave the man his change, then returned to move some of the used beer glasses out of her way and give the top of the bar a wipe. ‘The usual, Thea?’

‘Gin and tonic.’

‘A large one? I’m sure you need it.’ He held up the glass under the inverted bottle, waiting for the measure to refill before drawing off the second tot.

No need to worry about letting her guard down with Brian, she felt, and that was a comfort. With him she could always relax, perhaps because he seemed vulnerable himself. Guy didn’t think much of him, of course, though she’d never understood why. He looked so young, with that light-coloured hair and his skin like a boy’s, much younger than he probably was.

‘We’ve been so busy today, you wouldn’t believe!’ he said as he dropped the ice into her gin, then cut a sliver of lemon. ‘Ten minutes ago you’d not have got in through the door, we were so packed. Thinning out now, though.’ He opened a bottle of tonic and set it on the bar in front of her, next to her glass. Lowering his voice, he added: ‘See that girl talking to the feller with the beard? Far side o’ the fruit machine? She was asking for you earlier.’

‘Don’t know her.’ She tasted her gin, letting it trickle smoothly down her throat, actually sensing her tensions begin to ease. ‘Do you?’

‘Can’t be sure. So many come in here. She knew your name, yours and Guy’s. Asked for Guy Archer’s wife. Someone had told her you often come in here.’

‘Huh.’

Dorothea eyed the girl suspiciously. A narrow face with thin, mean lips. Round, metal-framed National Health glasses. Frizzy light hair too, which didn’t help.

She took an immediate dislike to her.

‘Hard to believe she’s one of Guy’s girl friends.’

‘Does Guy have girl friends?’ Brian enquired guilelessly. ‘I’m surprised he has time.’

He was beginning to rinse the beer glasses and his back was turned to her, so she could not see his face as he spoke. Just as well, she thought, as she took another gulp at her drink.

‘I was at that hospital at five o’clock this morning,’ she started to tell him, dismissing the girl from her mind. ‘That was the second time. They’d already sent me home to get some sleep once, then they phoned and wanted me back. He’d taken a turn for the worse, they said. Well, I knew what that meant. But he pulled through. Guy’s tougher than you’d think.’

‘Must have been awful for you.’

‘I don’t know what I feel, honestly I don’t.’

She was holding her glass with both hands, staring into it and rolling it between her palms while she talked.

‘I hate insects.’ The bubbles still rose through what little drink was left in the glass. She drained it. ‘I’ve always hated insects, and I imagine the feeling’s mutual. They’ve had a go at me often enough. Give me another drink, Brian, love. Today I’ve earned it.’

‘And everyone’s sure it was beetles?’

He dried his hands on a tatty piece of towelling and reached for her glass.

‘What else?’ she shrugged.

She watched Janet from the food bar — a short, thin woman getting on for fifty — bustling around collecting up the dirty plates from wherever the customers had left them: on the tables, on window ledges, perched on top of the fruit machine, even under the chairs. With a heavy pile in her hands she paused to enquire if Dorothea wanted anything before they closed up.

‘Oh, I don’t think I could face eating. What is there?’

‘Not a lot. Salads are finished, so is the quiche. We did have shepherd’s pie, but that’s gone. Of course there’s bangers… and sandwiches.. cheese…’

That first gin was already warning her that she’d better get something inside her, appetite or not. Cups of tea apart, she’d had practically nothing for twenty-four hours. Heaving herself off the stool, she went across to the food bar to see what was left. Perhaps a couple of cold bangers, she thought at first, but the sight of the three remaining sausages lying on a lettuce leaf like fat, brown slugs made her stomach turn. i’ll have a ploughman’s,’ she told Janet. ‘And don’t stint the Branston.’

The girl with the frizzy hair was looking in her direction, she noticed. Then the man she was with made some remark and she laughed. Getting up, she came over to the food bar clutching her bag. Right, Dorothea thought. Opening gambit. Tackle her directly.

‘They say at the bar you were asking for me.’

The girl seemed taken aback; then she produced a smile like a curling leaf. ‘Oh, you must be Mrs Archer?’ ‘What of it?’

‘I’m Tessa Brownley, from the Gazette.’

Christ, a journalist! Dorothea thought contemptuously. That was just about the last thing she needed right now.

Reluctantly she agreed to answer a few questions. At least the Gazette was only a local weekly, not one of the nationals. Not that there was ever much in it: three or four pages of weddings, funerals and borough council scandals, and the rest was all advertisements.

She carried her plate over to a vacant table, fetched her drink from the bar and settled down to eat, taking her rime. ‘Right,’ she said, her mouth full. ‘What d’you want to know?’

The questions, as she’d expected, were unoriginal.

How old was Guy, how long had they been married, how many children did they have, where did they live and how long for — all the usual family stuff. Why, she wanted to know, had he gone into the derelict school in the first place? Had he known about the tramp?

‘You’d better ask him that,’ Dorothea grunted, spreading pickle on her cheese. ‘I’ve no idea.’

She noticed with distaste that the journalist girl’s own lunch consisted of two of those disgusting sausages, which she gnawed as she scribbled the answers in her notebook.

‘I tried to interview him this morning but the hospital wouldn’t let me in.’

‘Wouldn’t have done you any good. He wasn’t conscious this morning. Can’t you journalists leave a sick man alone?’

‘Mrs Archer, believe me, we’re all terribly sorry about what happened.’

‘Are you? I’m not even sure I know what happened. Suppose you tell me.’

The girl hesitated. ‘Are you serious?’ she asked.

‘Of course I’m bloody serious! They say he was bitten by beetles, I ask you! What kind of beetles do that to a person? He’s had an emergency operation, two blood transfusions, the doctor’s still not certain if he’s going to live or die, and I’m expected to believe it was beetles. I came—’ Her throat dried on her. She gulped down the rest of her drink. ‘I came past the school where it happened. They’ve burned it down. Destroyed the evidence. Do you know why? Because I bloody don’t.’

‘You suspect they’re trying to cover up?’

‘Listen, Miss… whatever your name is…’

‘Tessa.’

‘The police never let on, or didn’t you know that? Why set fire to the place if there’s nothing to hide?’

‘I’ve just been talking to a man who was there,’ Tessa announced crisply. She put down her half-eaten sausage and wiped her fingers. ‘Let’s have him over. I’ll introduce you.’

The young bearded man came across to join them. He was, she explained, a carpenter working for the borough council and could tell her far more than anyone else. In fact, that morning he’d been there when they took the decision to burn the school down.

‘My name’s Tony,’ he said, shaking hands with her. He pulled over a chair and sat down. ‘What d’you want to know?’

‘You’re sure you’re allowed to talk about it?’ Dorothea demanded suspiciously.

‘No one told me not to.’

Though she had no reason to doubt his word, she listened with some scepticism as he described the extent of the damage to the building caused by the infestation. She’d heard all about death-watch beetles, she said, but they didn’t feed on people as well, surely?

‘In the first place, it’s not the beetles that eat into the timber, but their larvae. Worms. Maggots. After a while, when they’ve fed long enough — which can be two or three years — each one becomes a chrysalis, and out of that comes the beetle. All this goes on inside the wood, in those galleries that they make. Eventually' the beetle crawls out through what we call flight holes.’

‘And you know all about it?’

‘Lot of old buildings in this borough. They sent me on a course.’

. ‘All right, then. Tell me, have you ever heard of death-watch beetles biting humans?’

‘Oh, it wasn’t death-watch, not this time. These beetles were quite different. Look, I’ll show you.’ He groped into his duffel bag and produced a plastic sandwich box with a rubber band around it. ‘They’re bigger than death-watch, these are.’

‘Tony, you didn’t mention you had some with you!’ Tessa exclaimed sharply.

‘Didn’t ask, did you?’

‘But are they — safe?’

‘Hope so,’ he grinned as he slipped the rubber band off. ‘We’re in dead trouble if they’re not.’

Easing away the lid, he tipped the beetles out on to the table: four of them, lying motionless in a little heap. With the tip of his forefinger he separated them, turning over one which had landed upside down.

‘Jesus!’ she heard Tessa mutter under her breath. ‘That’s what they look like?’

‘Dead, of course,’ Tony said.

Dorothea could not contain her own reaction. ‘But they’re beautiful!’ she exclaimed in astonishment. ‘The colours!’

They were not completely identical but near enough. Their heads were a rich, deep green, reminiscent of shot silk, though with a couple of bright yellow spots, one at either side, and speckles of the same two colours decorated the enamel-pink body, which seemed as perfect as a Faberge pendant. Without their protruding crayfish-style claws, each beetle, she estimated, was about the size of a lOp coin, but oval in shape; the claws added an extra, menacing dimension.

‘Don’t you think they’re beautiful?’ she demanded of Tony.

‘Dangerous.’

‘Aren’t most beautiful things?’

‘These are really vicious, you can be sure of that,’ he insisted seriously. ‘I’ve seem ’em in action. Those little claws are what you’ve got to watch out for.’

Tessa shuddered, then gave the nearest a tentative little push with her finger, drawing back quickly in case it snapped at her — even in death.

‘I wish you’d said earlier you’d got them, while the photographer was still with us,’ she grumbled. ‘I’m going to need a picture.’

‘My God!’ Brian had joined them from the bar. He gazed at the dead beetles with a mixed expression of horror and fascination, then called back: ‘Janet, come an’ give yourself a thrill, darlin’! Did you ever see the like?’ Janet was unimpressed. ‘You might have some consideration, bringing in dead beetles. People come in here to eat, you know. What if the food inspector drops by?’

‘But they’re gorgeous, aren’t they?’ Dorothea repeated, determined to find someone who agreed with her. She felt slightly drunk. Despite her bread and cheese, those two large gins on an empty stomach had done their work. ‘Don’t you think so, Janet?’

‘Thea!’ Brian protested with a little laugh. ‘How can you say that after what they did to Guy?’

‘Only time I saw one, I stamped on it. Didn’t give it a chance. One look o’ them pincers was enough for me.’ Janet made her remark as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Then she stopped and gazed around at them, surprised. ‘What have I said?’

There was a shocked silence. They were all staring at her.

‘Where did you see ’em, love?’ Tony asked gently. ‘Here, of course, in the Plough. Down in the cellar. Mind you, that was three or four weeks ago. Haven’t spotted nothing since.’

More silence, as though no one dared make the first move. Then Dorothea spoke. Someone had to say something.

‘Well, I’m going to have another drink,’ she announced defiantly. ‘This just isn’t my day.’

By the time Dorothea left the Plough that afternoon Tony, accompanied by the landlord, had already examined the cellar. To everyone’s relief, he discovered no sign of beetles, neither pink-and-green nor any other kind. All the same, to be on the safe side he phoned the borough council to report Janet’s story, predicting that they would insist on a proper inspection in view of what had happened at the school.

Dorothea made her way home, feeling exhausted. She had one more large gin inside her, which — she realised as she fumbled to get her key into the lock — was a mistake. In her state, after almost no sleep and nothing to eat, she should either have had a proper meal or else cut down on the drink. Eleven years as an army wife had taught her to know her own capacity. Under the right circumstances she could still be on her feet while everyone else was crawling in the sawdust, but not without food or sleep. That was her weak point; always had been.

But what the hell, it’s not every day your husband gets eaten by beetles, she said to herself as she went into the hall, slamming the front door shut behind her. And Christ, I needed it, that drink!

In case the hospital had rung while she was out she checked the answering machine. The first message was from Guy’s office, wondering where he was. Hell, she’d forgotten she should have let them know; it had just slipped her mind. Otherwise the only call was from the temp agency asking her to confirm if she was free to take on a two-week holiday-relief stint starting on Monday. Personal secretary in a financial adviser’s office.

She shrugged, deciding to answer later, and left the machine on.

Guy was right about the house not looking like home yet, she brooded when she went into the living room, almost stumbling over the rolled-up carpet. There was nowhere comfortable to sit downstairs. All the woodwork was stripped ready for painting, and it had been that way for weeks now. She just hadn’t got round to doing it. The furniture was still the old rubbish she’d kept when they sold her father’s house, stuff he’d often talked about throwing out before he died, but good enough to use till she got all the decoration finished. It wouldn’t matter if she got spots of paint on it, because she intended to replace everything.

During all those years in married quarters a house of her own had been a dream. Now, with the money left to her in her father’s will, she’d made it come true: her house, in her name. And not a comer in it anywhere where she could just drop into an armchair and relax without being reminded of how much work still remained to be done.

Except her bathroom.

Glancing at her watch, she reckoned she’d just enough time for a slow, luxurious bath before she had to collect Kath from her class and take her to visit Guy. She kicked off her shoes and went upstairs.

The marital bedroom with its bathroom en suite, as they say in the estate agents’ handouts, was her pride; the few visitors they had so far risked inviting had all been taken up to admire it. It had quiet good taste, she thought yet again as she stood in the doorway to admire her work. Japanese wallpaper with a delicate hint of distant mountains, Finnish curtains, Austrian furniture, and a thick, comforting carpet which gently caressed her feet. As for the bathroom, she’d been lucky to find a suite in that delicately mottled green, and even luckier to come across contractors capable of doing such an excellent job of conversion. She almost purred with delight every time she walked into it.

Turning on the water, she went back into the bedroom to strip off her clothes — God, she felt as though she hadn’t been out of them for a month! — and tie a towel around her hair. In front of the full-length mirror she paused, passing her hands over her hips as she examined herself critically.

In a second she’d get on the scales to check properly, but she could swear she hadn’t lost any weight. For a week now she had been cutting down, watching every mouthful, suffering agonies whenever she passed a cake shop, yet with nothing to show for it. She tried to press her abdomen flat but it bulged between her spread fingers. She gripped the flesh of her thighs; there was too much of it, she knew.

Guy didn’t complain, of course. ‘A figure like a Renoir calendar,’ he’d tell her, his hand skating lightly over her breasts, arousing her.

No, what was wrong with their marriage was not that. It was her. She was bored; she’d had enough of it. Eleven years after all — Christ!

He irritated her much more than he used to. Little things. The way he carefully squeezed out the smallest quantity of toothpaste as though it were made of gold dust. His habit of picking his toes before he got into bed. The way he slurped his cornflakes in the morning. Things she hadn’t really noticed when they first married.

But she’d been in love then; already pregnant and crazily in love.

Going into the bathroom to turn off the taps, she tested the temperature of the water with her hand. It was, just about right, and those new bath salts smelled so inviting. The scales could wait, she thought.

Before stepping into the bath she glanced quickly back into the bedroom to check the time on her bedside clock; as she did so, she caught a quick glimpse of something reflected in the full-length mirror. Her whole body tingled and came out in goose pimples. She could swear it was a beetle, identical to those Tony had shown her in the Plough.

Hurriedly she looked around, not daring to move from the spot. Nothing near her feet; nothing visible at all. Naked but for the towel around her head, she felt totally vulnerable. Yet — had she really seen a beetle? That rapid flash of green and pink glimpsed from the comer of her eye as she was moving — had she merely imagined it?

Treading cautiously, she went back to where she thought she had been standing, keeping her eyes on the mirror. No sign of beetles or any other insea, but she noticed a face flannel had fallen down from the mottled green washbasin: was that what she had seen?

She bent down to pick it up, her eyes searching the floor. Then she investigated the pile of thick towels too, turning each one over to make quite sure.

Nothing.

Nor in the bedroom either, not that she could see.

‘Nerves!’ she decided aloud, scoffing at herself. ‘And if you don’t get into that bath now, Dorothea Cunningham, it’ll be too late to have one at all.’

She stepped into the water, though the sound of her own voice scarcely reassured her. Slipping down comfortably until she was lying full-length, she let the warmth take over and soothe her fears, cocooning her against all dangers.

It was only later — when she was wondering idly whether it was time to get out and fetch Kath — that she suddenly realised she had used her maiden name, Cunningham. That was something she hadn’t done for ages, she thought.