Author: Amanda Robson
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/amanda-robson/page,14,560635-my_darling.html
The guards are taking me away from her. New guards. Guards I have not met before. One male, one female. Slim and young. I do not look at them. I walk down the corridor, balancing my belongings and paperwork, trying not to drop them. The guards stop at a cell door. I stop with them.
‘This is your new home,’ the female guard says, gesticulating for me to step inside.
I do as she asks. But someone is in my cell. How dare they? A big woman with hands like a man’s.
I put my head back and scream, ‘Constance, come back, I need you.’
92
Emma
I wake up and open my eyes. Saturday morning. You are here, lying next to me in bed; arms tangled around me. Pushing me too far over to my side. Why are you taking up so much space, Alastair? You are poky and bony. All elbows and knees. I extricate myself from your arms and pad to the bathroom.
I pull off my black lace nightie and step into the shower. I turn the temperature up, so hot it scalds me. I like it like that. Hot water is cathartic. I savour the pressure of the shower as it pummels my back, my chest. I soap myself, and rinse the suds off, slowly, carefully. Until every crevice in my body is clean enough to lick.
You pad into the bathroom wearing your white towelling dressing gown.
‘Good morning. I need a shower too,’ you announce.
I push my wet hair back from my face. ‘I’m just getting out,’ I say.
You step into the shower cubicle, closing the door behind you. ‘Please stay.’
Inside the shower cubicle, pulling me towards you. Erect and groping. Rubbing soap on me, into my vagina.
‘I’ve just washed myself,’ I snap.
You press your body onto mine, pinning me against the glass.
‘I’m just washing you again.’
My insides tighten. I wanted to get on with my day. Why are you so demanding at the moment?
93
Alastair
A perfect weekend.
We make love in the warmth of your bed. Softly. Gently. Six out of ten. We make love in the shower. Your muscles tighten around me like they used to, telling me that you love me. I give you the best climax yet, pressed against the glass cubicle, face contorted with pleasure. Ten out of ten.
Making love in the kitchen while we wait for the Chinese takeaway. Ten out of ten again. The takeaway arrives. All my favourites. Singapore noodles. Chicken with cashew nuts. Crispy duck with pancakes. Beef in black bean sauce. We sit at the kitchen table and laugh as we try to use the cheap wooden chopsticks it came with. I top up your wine glass.
‘Do you mind if I bring Stephen over to meet you next weekend?’ I ask. ‘Mum’s going away.’
94
Emma
Do you mind if I bring Stephen over to meet you next weekend? Your words echo in my head.
‘Alastair, I told you when we met, I don’t do children.’
Your eyes narrow. ‘Remind me why not?’
‘It’s because of all the kids I have to deal with at work; I just don’t want the hassle at home.’ I pause. ‘I’m just not maternal. I’ve never wanted children of my own, never mind having to cope with other people’s.’
‘But I thought you’d like to meet Stephen. Most women are maternal.’
‘Women are not clones.’
You catch my eyes in yours. ‘I just thought now that we’re so close it might be nice for the three of us to get together.’
You look so upset. Shoulders down, eyes deflated. Your recent words, I risked my job, my life for you. You won’t come away with me and you still don’t want to see me midweek? push into my mind.
‘OK then,’ I say and force a smile. ‘Please bring him. I’ll try and make sure my mothering skills improve.’
95
Jade
A meeting room in prison. Everything white and grey. Grey plastic table. Grey plastic chairs. White ceiling. White chairs. White walls. Constance wearing a floral jumpsuit that clings to her generous thighs, sitting next to me holding my hand. The door opens. A guard enters accompanied by a thin woman, wearing a black suit, carrying a briefcase. Short brown hair. Pale face.
The guard and the woman sit down opposite Constance and me. The woman smiles at me and leans across the table to shake my hand. It feels cold in mine.
‘Agatha Basildon, your defence barrister.’ She nods her head in greeting.
‘Hello,’ I reply.
‘Hello,’ Constance parrots.
Agatha Basildon opens her briefcase, pulls out a pile of papers and begins to flick through them. She brandishes one sheet in the air then places it at the top. She taps the sheets together to neaten the pile, and lays them on the table in front of her.
She stares at me, neck stretched forwards. ‘We’re moving towards a trial in eight weeks’ time. I advise we plead guilty to manslaughter with diminished responsibility. Are you happy with that?’
‘Saying I’m happy is an exaggeration.’
Agatha places her elbows on the table and leans forwards. ‘OK. But is it acceptable?’ she pushes.
I shake my head. ‘No. I want to tell the court that I’m innocent.’
She frowns. ‘Do you think that’s wise when there’s so much evidence against you?’
I shrug my shoulders. ‘I’ve been set up. Why should I plead guilty?’
‘Let me explain,’ She pauses to cross her legs. ‘If you plead not guilty to murder and are found guilty you will receive a much longer sentence than if you plead guilty to manslaughter with diminished responsibility.’ She leans back in her chair. ‘You’ve been very seriously ill. Please remember that you had to be sectioned to get your meds under control. It’s as simple as this. If you plead guilty you’ll get a substantially reduced sentence.’
Memories
Sitting at the kitchen table opposite Colin, eating a takeaway from our local Indian restaurant. Colin loved curry. A prawn dhansak, gobi saag aloo, chicken jalfrezi and pilau rice. I remember because I spent ages on the phone ordering it.
‘I’m going out with my friends from work tomorrow evening,’ I told him.
His eyes darkened. ‘What friends?’ he asked.
‘The other locum dentists working in my area. We’re getting together for a drink to swap notes.’
Face hard. Jaw stiff. ‘What do you need to swap notes about?’
I shrugged. ‘Everything really. How we’re all finding working in this area. Problem patients. Surgeries with awkward managing partners. That sort of thing.’
His eyes seared into mine. ‘We’ve discussed this before. You’re a very attractive woman. You belong to me. I don’t want you going out in mixed company.’
‘What do you mean?’
A twist of the lips. ‘I would have thought it was quite clear what I mean.’
‘Don’t you trust me?’ I asked.
He leant across the table and grabbed my wrist. He tightened his fingers. ‘It’s not about trust. It’s about obedience, Emma.’
96
Alastair
Hand in hand, Stephen and I follow you into your shiny kitchen. You look at my son and your eyes soften.
‘We could order takeaway pizza and watch a movie,’ you suggest.
‘That would be lovely,’ Stephen says. ‘Thank you so much, Emma.’
I knew I was right. There is no such thing as a non-maternal woman.
97
Emma
The takeaway pizza arrives. You open the box, choking my kitchen with the stench of hot cheese and processed meat. Stephen’s eyes light up as he reaches across to grab a piece. Stuffing it in his mouth. As he chews, grease dribbles down his chin.
I look across at you, Alastair, tucking into pizza with a base like fried bread, swimming in melted chorizo fat, and silently ask you, aren’t you going to tell your son to wipe his face with his napkin? You seem oblivious to your son’s bad table manners. Behaviour that is making me feel sick. What about the noise? The chomping? The difficulty he has closing his mouth?
I stand up and walk to the fridge. I help myself to the remains of the tabbouleh salad I made for supper last night.
‘Don’t you like pizza?’ Stephen asks.
I smile. ‘Yes, it’s delicious. I just have to watch my weight.’
‘My mummy doesn’t watch her weight.’
‘So I hear.’ I take a forkful of salad, and raise it to my mouth. ‘What film would you like to watch tonight?’
‘My favourite. The Incredibles.’
‘The first one or the second one?’ you ask knowledgeably.
Stephen reaches for another slice of pizza. ‘Both please. Please, Dad, please.’
‘What’s it about?’ I ask.
You smile enthusiastically. ‘Cartoon superheroes.’
I can’t stand superhero movies. I can’t stand cartoons. A headache begins to throb at my temples. I need to take an early night.
Sunday morning. You make eggy bread. Fried bread saturated in fried eggs. Are you trying to clog your son’s arteries by the time he is twelve? Why not just serve him a bowlful of saturated fats?
‘Would you like some?’
‘No thanks.’
Breakfast done and dusted, it is time to play cricket. I bowl first. I feel as if I have dislocated my shoulder. You massage it and it feels worse. You bowl. Stephen hits a six. You disappear off to the toilet.
‘What does God look like?’ Stephen asks.
I shrug my shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Maybe we can feel him rather than see him.’
‘Is he a man?’ he asks, swinging his bat, revving up for his next shot.
‘Maybe he’s neither a man or a woman.’
‘Transgender?’
‘Maybe. As long as he’s all-powerful what does his sex matter?’
I bowl a soft shot. He whacks it into the flower bed. He puts his head back and laughs, delighted with himself. ‘Six again.’
‘I suppose we’ll find out more about God when we die,’ I say as I tiptoe through my flower bed, trying not to damage my roses and clematis, looking for the ball.
Stephen leans on his bat. ‘Why do we die?’
So many questions. Does this child ever shut up? ‘Our bodies are just machines. They won’t last forever.’ My voice is strained. Clipped.
‘What happens to our bodies when we do?’
Dwelling on decomposition and maggots, unsuitable for his ears, I do not answer. I bowl at him again, shoulder killing me.
He misses, runs after the ball, picks it up and throws it back to me.
‘Where do we go when we die?’
Shut up. Shut up and stop asking questions, a voice screams in my head. ‘Heaven,’ I reply.
‘What’s heaven?’
‘The place where God lives; a place of perfection.’
Alastair, where are you? Why are you taking so long on the toilet? Has that greasy pizza made you ill?
‘Can we go and visit heaven before we die? Let God know whether we want to go there or not?’
I look around. Where have you gone, Alastair? How long do I have to play with your son, alone?
I bowl again. He hits the ball straight back to me. I catch it.
‘Your turn to bat,’ he instructs.
I hand him the ball. He passes the bat to me and we swap places. I stand in front of the wickets.
He is about to bowl. He stops and holds the ball by his side.
‘One last question,’ he says. I sigh inside with relief. ‘Why does Daddy hurt my mummy sometimes?’
Panic rises inside me.
98
Alastair
I step back into your garden, where you are playing cricket with Stephen. You stand, ball in hand, watching me as I walk towards you, fear in your eyes. What is the matter, Emma? Things were going so well. What happened while I was reading the newspaper on the loo?
99
Emma
I’m standing in the supermarket by the toiletries when I see an elderly woman hobbling towards me. Clasping a basket, head down, intent on the ground beneath her. She arrives and encroaches on my body space, lifting her head to inspect the shower gels. She turns and sets her eyes on me.
She is short, about five two. Wavy grey hair. Intense dark eyes. Face, heavily furrowed. Wearing sensible shoes and a mac. Moving closer, staring harder.
I look down at her. ‘Are you all right? Can I help you?’
‘I’m Mary. Alastair’s mother and Stephen’s grandmother.’
‘Oh. I’m Emma. Nice to meet you.’
‘I know who you are.’ Unfriendly. Menacing. Staring. ‘From the photos Alastair showed me on his iPhone,’ she continues. ‘He told me you use the same supermarket as me, so I’ve been looking out for you.’
‘Well, here I am,’ I say, beginning to wilt beneath the heat of Mary’s gaze.
‘So I see,’ she replies, voice taut. ‘I’m pleased I’ve bumped into you. I need to talk to you.’
‘Would you like to go to the café? We could have a chat and a drink there.’
She shakes her head. ‘We can talk here.’ There is a pause. ‘I want to know why you’re being so selfish.’
Her words stab into me. ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Stephen enjoyed his weekend with you.’
‘Well I’m glad he did.’
She frowns; her chin moves back and her eyes narrow as she does so. ‘But given your relationship with my son, I think Stephen should also come to you both, every weekend he’s not at Heather’s.’ There is a pause, ‘So that I can have a rest.’
Every other weekend. If that happened I would shoot myself in the head, or throw myself in the river. ‘I’m having a relationship with Alastair. Not you or Stephen.’
She purses her lips and shakes her head. ‘It doesn’t work like that. Try separating us. We are symbiotic; like trees and ivy.’
‘Alastair is divorced. His child is not my responsibility.’
Her eyes spit towards mine. ‘If you want to be with him, everything about his life is also yours. Including his responsibilities.’ She pauses. ‘I think you’re a spoilt, rich bitch, trying to split up our family – what’s left of it.’
Spoilt rich bitch. That hurts.
‘How can you accuse me of that? I can assure you I’ve worked hard, really hard for everything I have.’
Her lined lips snarl. ‘If you’re not going to stick around to help bring Stephen up, you’re not doing my son any good. I want you to back off. Leave him alone.’
‘You’re a heartless interfering bitch,’ I whisper.
‘Are you talking about yourself?’ she asks calmly, placing a bright-blue shower gel in her basket.
100
Alastair
I’m walking towards your house, along the river. The sun is high in the sky, fragmenting across the water like moissanite. The river meanders today, wide and slow. Emma, how could you call someone as kind and concerned as my mother a heartless, interfering bitch? Someone who looks after my son twenty-four-seven. The only other woman in the world who cares for me as much as you do.
Across the bridge. Cutting through the Leander Club land, onto the public footpath. I arrive at your house and you stand in front of me, eyes wide, face taut. Blonde hair framing your sculptured face like an aura. Into the kitchen. Shoulders wide, head high.
‘Why did you speak to my mother like that?’ I ask.
You turn your head towards me, imperiously. ‘She spoke to me like that first – did she tell you what she said?’
‘She recorded it actually, on her iPhone. I heard every word.’
Surprised, you raise your eyebrows. You laugh. ‘Wily old bird, trying to catch me out and record it for posterity.’ There is a pause. ‘I’ll try and be more flamboyant with my language next time.’
So provocative. So irritating.
I push down my desire to laugh back. To take you in my arms and hold you.
‘Are you going to apologise?’ I demand.
‘Only if she apologises first.’
I give in. I smile. The smile that shows my dimple. The smile I know women like. ‘Why don’t we go to bed? That might help take your mind off things. Off your temper.’
Your face doesn’t move. ‘I don’t want my mind taking off my temper. I don’t feel the need to dilute myself. When I’m cross I want to experience it. Really, really feel it.’ You pause. ‘Anyway, I’m not in the mood to play around right now.’
My body tightens. Anger incubates inside me. Hot white anger. I have taken such a risk for you. You have insulted my mother and I have forgiven you. Why can’t you reward me? I push the anger down. Breathe. Breathe. It will be fine by morning, I tell myself. By morning your body and mind will have relaxed.
‘Let’s just go to bed and sleep.’
Lips thin. Eyes flatten. ‘Alastair, please understand, I want to be on my own tonight.’
My body stiffens.
‘You don’t mind, do you? This argument with your mother has upset me. I’ll be fine next weekend. I just need a bit of time out.’
Time out.
Your words reverberate in my head. I stand up to leave. I walk to the door. You do not follow me. What has happened to you, Emma? Were you just using me so that you didn’t get convicted?
I walk back along the river. Back towards Stephen. Back towards my mother. Back towards my small little life.
Memories
The Bear in the centre of Esher; on the corner by the feeder road to the A3. Sitting in a group around the fire, on a brown leather sofa, watching flames dance and play. Sally, Joe, Frieda, Tim, Ian and me. I ate scampi and chips. Everyone had something and chips. I drank three gin and tonics – Bombay Sapphire and Fever-Tree – and finished off with a large glass of white Burgundy. We laughed. We bitched about our bosses. Their ears must have been burning. I don’t suppose they realised they were so thoughtless, so controlling. We bad-mouthed awkward receptionists, clumsy dental assistants. Told tales of difficult patients.