wet Bergen night, the sharp smell of petrol, and jasmine.
âAny questions for Mr Mortensen?â
Jonas sank into the silence of the unasked questions. As if he was actually melting, the dayâs sun having super-heated the hall. This is what it would feel like to be baked alive, swelling fingers, a rising whine in your ears as the blood boils, your face reddening, reddening , eyes popping out one by one, plop, plop. His watch said eight twenty. Only agenda item eleven out of twenty-four. The meeting would go on for at least another hour. He could stay.
Killing time.
He didnât fancy a night in The Black Lionâs beer garden and didnât want to go back to the scent of jasmine. The five whiskies had finally counted back to zero and the outriders of his hangover were closing fast, a sickly promise of desolation that Jonas refused. Heâd face the house. Maybe drag his bed across to block the bedroom door. Buy a couple of bolts in the morning.
The chair scraped as he got up to leave. Mrs Hawthorne scowled. If she said anything he might just burst into tears. But despondency made no sense on an evening like this, the summer air too soft and scent-heady with honeysuckle, primrose, gardenia... There may be someone in the village who was a lover of jasmine, whose eyes would light up if Jonas happened to mention it, perhaps the woman who had just turned the corner at the bottom of Faraday Street and was walking slowly towards him. For a moment Jonas thought he recognised Mary, she of the auburn hair, the LPs and the blues . But it wasnât her. He felt a quick rising disappointment and closed his eyes, briefly, to the sad, enigmatic smile of his dead wife.
Nine
Mary leaned against the door, drinking coffee and watching her husband. Heâd given her the mug. Keep Calm and Conquer On . Of the billions of Keep Calm messages out there he chose that one. In the utility room directly underneath, the terminally ill washing machine moved up a gear.
She wondered if the choice of mug had been a random choice, or if her husband was making some obliquely sarcastic point. There was something about that underline, something to fret about as he lay naked on the bed like a broken starfish, arc-lit by the morning sun.
But he was as straightforward as he was naked. She relaxed the longer she stared, the belly heaving, slowly up and down. Straining, even, like it might suddenly burst. She imagined what it would be like to watch him explode. Right in front of her. Right now. Her feelings were mixed, she decided. Not that she wished her husband any harm. That would be going too far.
He was still ok to look at. The belly might have got him and the bugle long-sounded the hairline retreat but enough remained of the man sheâd married. And hallelujah, the cock was still holding up. When the flames died down a big cock was the log that kept on burning. Briefly, she considered going over there and waking it up. But waking it meant waking him.
All of this begged the question of what she was doing staring at him. This was WMT, Weekend Mary Time, she actually called it that, even if it sounded like a coping mechanism youâd read about in one of those lifestyle magazines. Whatever you do, always find... time... for... YOU.
She liked WMT. Saturday and Sunday, six till about ten, when her husband got up, a quiet space sheâd filled over time with things he knew nothing about. The space was quite full now. She saw it as a cluttered old attic, dust angling through sunlight. Not so much physical entities as thoughts and considerations, dialogues she had only with herself. While he would understand some things, most he wouldnât, like her decision to volunteer at The Hub.
He rolled over and revealed a big hairy arse. Mary took the cue to leave and, as so often, found herself in her daughter Andreaâs old bedroom. These visits were something else he laughed at, although an amused impatience was closer to the mark.
âAny questions for Mr Mortensen?â
Jonas sank into the silence of the unasked questions. As if he was actually melting, the dayâs sun having super-heated the hall. This is what it would feel like to be baked alive, swelling fingers, a rising whine in your ears as the blood boils, your face reddening, reddening , eyes popping out one by one, plop, plop. His watch said eight twenty. Only agenda item eleven out of twenty-four. The meeting would go on for at least another hour. He could stay.
Killing time.
He didnât fancy a night in The Black Lionâs beer garden and didnât want to go back to the scent of jasmine. The five whiskies had finally counted back to zero and the outriders of his hangover were closing fast, a sickly promise of desolation that Jonas refused. Heâd face the house. Maybe drag his bed across to block the bedroom door. Buy a couple of bolts in the morning.
The chair scraped as he got up to leave. Mrs Hawthorne scowled. If she said anything he might just burst into tears. But despondency made no sense on an evening like this, the summer air too soft and scent-heady with honeysuckle, primrose, gardenia... There may be someone in the village who was a lover of jasmine, whose eyes would light up if Jonas happened to mention it, perhaps the woman who had just turned the corner at the bottom of Faraday Street and was walking slowly towards him. For a moment Jonas thought he recognised Mary, she of the auburn hair, the LPs and the blues . But it wasnât her. He felt a quick rising disappointment and closed his eyes, briefly, to the sad, enigmatic smile of his dead wife.
Nine
Mary leaned against the door, drinking coffee and watching her husband. Heâd given her the mug. Keep Calm and Conquer On . Of the billions of Keep Calm messages out there he chose that one. In the utility room directly underneath, the terminally ill washing machine moved up a gear.
She wondered if the choice of mug had been a random choice, or if her husband was making some obliquely sarcastic point. There was something about that underline, something to fret about as he lay naked on the bed like a broken starfish, arc-lit by the morning sun.
But he was as straightforward as he was naked. She relaxed the longer she stared, the belly heaving, slowly up and down. Straining, even, like it might suddenly burst. She imagined what it would be like to watch him explode. Right in front of her. Right now. Her feelings were mixed, she decided. Not that she wished her husband any harm. That would be going too far.
He was still ok to look at. The belly might have got him and the bugle long-sounded the hairline retreat but enough remained of the man sheâd married. And hallelujah, the cock was still holding up. When the flames died down a big cock was the log that kept on burning. Briefly, she considered going over there and waking it up. But waking it meant waking him.
All of this begged the question of what she was doing staring at him. This was WMT, Weekend Mary Time, she actually called it that, even if it sounded like a coping mechanism youâd read about in one of those lifestyle magazines. Whatever you do, always find... time... for... YOU.
She liked WMT. Saturday and Sunday, six till about ten, when her husband got up, a quiet space sheâd filled over time with things he knew nothing about. The space was quite full now. She saw it as a cluttered old attic, dust angling through sunlight. Not so much physical entities as thoughts and considerations, dialogues she had only with herself. While he would understand some things, most he wouldnât, like her decision to volunteer at The Hub.
He rolled over and revealed a big hairy arse. Mary took the cue to leave and, as so often, found herself in her daughter Andreaâs old bedroom. These visits were something else he laughed at, although an amused impatience was closer to the mark.
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