Chapter Thirteen

Mike Dobson closed his eyes as he lay back on the sofa. It was one of those summer evenings when the heat never really disappears and the neighbourhood children seem to play too late, the laughs and shrieks drifting in through the open windows.

The television was on in the corner of the room, but he couldn’t concentrate. Why was it that the memories came back to him so strongly? He could go for months when there was nothing, but then it took just a small thing, like the sight of his naked wife, frigid and cold, or the flowery sweetness of the scent of Chanel. He was swept more than two decades back, and the images assaulted him, mixed up the past with the present, as if she was in the room with him.

Summer nights like these were the worst, when the sun took all evening to set over the lavender bushes in the garden, their delicate smell drifting in through the open window. And with the smells came the sounds, the sensations. He felt her touch for a moment, that spark, that excitement, her hand in his, her fingers soft and light, sitting together in the park. Then he remembered those other moments. His mouth on her breast, soft murmurs, loud moans, two bodies together.

But then came the blood, as always. He could feel it on his hands, and his eyes shot open as he heard the thumps, the knocking, like a desperate drumbeat, the shouts, the muffled cries.

Mary was watching him. He glanced over quickly and he thought he saw a shadow behind her, someone moving through the door. He blinked and it was gone, and all he could see were Mary’s cold eyes.

He clambered to his feet to go to the fridge. When he got there, he leant against the door for a moment, his forehead damp, before reaching for a beer.

When he walked back into the room, Mary looked pointedly at the bottle. ‘Do you think you should?’ she said.

‘I feel like I want to,’ he replied, taking a long swig. When she shot a stern look at him, he added, ‘I’ve had a long day. No one’s buying, and I’m hot.’

He went outside, to wait for the sun to drop lazily behind the houses, catching the duck and dive of evening birds and the buzz of midges over the laurel bush in the corner of his garden.

He closed his eyes for a moment and let the scents creep back in again, and he was taken back to stolen hours, a country drive, the weight of her in his arms, laughing, his mouth on hers, the caress of her fingers in his chest hairs, the summer of innocence.

He heard a sound, like a thump on wood; as he looked up, he saw Mary step away from the window. She had been watching.

He took another pull on his beer. He knew he shouldn’t think of it, but then he felt that burn, that familiar need.

He went back into the house and took his car keys from the hook by the door.

‘I’m going for a drive,’ he said, and he was met by silence as he slammed the door.