out into the corridor.
The door to the main bedroom is still closed and he knows that facing his wife now is impossible.
Exley goes down the stairs and walks toward his studio, the insulated box shrouded in welcoming gloom, sliding open the door, the chill of the A/C on his face. He closes the door and without switching on the lights sits down in his Aeron ergonomic chair, feeling it mold its shape to him like a lover. Reaching beneath his workstation, his hand red in the muted glow of a pilot lamp, Exley boots up his computer.
He closes his eyes, listening to the whine of the hard drive rising to a low scream, like a distant jet taking off, hears the static crackle and low burp as the monitors come to life, followed by the cluck as the motherboard engages the CPU, catches that familiar hot-wire smell of the innards of his computer waking from their slumber, information coursing through the suddenly alert banks of memory.
As he sits in the dark, his eyes closed, a flashback hits Exley that almost overwhelms him with its intensity. He’s lying with Caroline on the bed in their tiny London flat, his hand on her swollen belly, staring into her eyes as he feels their child kicking in her womb. Caroline, orphaned at twelve, raised by her much older sister—an aloof, distant woman—reaches up and touches his face and says, “This is all I ever wanted, Nick. A family.”
Exley’s eyes open, and he grips the arms of the chair, staring into a cold and barren future. Even when Caroline’s madness exiled her, he’d had Sunny and the simple, undiluted love that flowed between them.
Gone now.
The computer grunts and Sunny, or rather the digital familiar of his daughter, appears on the monitors. He stares at the loop of dancing pixels and hears her singing just the day before, “ Sun -ny Ex -ley is having her birth -day”, and he finds himself mouthing the words endlessly, giving them her childlike cadence, until they make as little sense to him as her death.
Chapter 9
The car engine wakes Yvonne Saul, the glass in her bedroom window buzzing as it vibrates from the low rumble. She looks at the clock next to her bed—just gone 4 a.m. The engine cuts, and the car door smacks shut, then the front door of the house opens and slams. She lies still, listening to his footsteps getting closer to the door that she can’t lock since he kicked it in.
The door hits the wardrobe as he pushes it open. “Hey!”
Yvonne keeps her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. As if that will stop him. Suddenly cold as he pulls the blankets from the bed, leaving her lying in her nightdress, her knees lifted to her chin. “Move your fat fucken ass. I’m hungry.”
She opens her eyes. He stands over her, switching on the bedside lamp. As the light floods the room, she sees the blood on his shirt and jeans. Dried dark red on his arms and hands. So much blood.
Yvonne can’t stop her mother’s reflex. “Boy, you hurt?” Sitting up, reaching a hand to her son.
He slaps it away. “You gonna be fucken hurt if you don’t get up. I’m not talking again.” He slams out of the room.
She lifts herself from the bed, a tall, thickset woman in her mid-fifties. The wild young beauty she once was lost in the flab and the wrinkles that have left her looking ten years older than her age. She draws a robe around herself, slides her feet into slippers and goes to the cramped kitchen.
He is by the table, stripping off his bloody shirt, dropping his jeans and kicking them across to her. Standing there in his underpants. Yvonne can smell sweat on his body and the metal stink of the blood.
“Wash these clothes,” he says.
She bends to pick up the bloody jeans. “What you done now, Vernon?”
His bare foot catches her in the abdomen and sends her flying against the stove. The back of her head smacks the oven door. “Who the fuck are you to question me?” Staring up at him as he looms over her, making a fist, waiting for him to
The door to the main bedroom is still closed and he knows that facing his wife now is impossible.
Exley goes down the stairs and walks toward his studio, the insulated box shrouded in welcoming gloom, sliding open the door, the chill of the A/C on his face. He closes the door and without switching on the lights sits down in his Aeron ergonomic chair, feeling it mold its shape to him like a lover. Reaching beneath his workstation, his hand red in the muted glow of a pilot lamp, Exley boots up his computer.
He closes his eyes, listening to the whine of the hard drive rising to a low scream, like a distant jet taking off, hears the static crackle and low burp as the monitors come to life, followed by the cluck as the motherboard engages the CPU, catches that familiar hot-wire smell of the innards of his computer waking from their slumber, information coursing through the suddenly alert banks of memory.
As he sits in the dark, his eyes closed, a flashback hits Exley that almost overwhelms him with its intensity. He’s lying with Caroline on the bed in their tiny London flat, his hand on her swollen belly, staring into her eyes as he feels their child kicking in her womb. Caroline, orphaned at twelve, raised by her much older sister—an aloof, distant woman—reaches up and touches his face and says, “This is all I ever wanted, Nick. A family.”
Exley’s eyes open, and he grips the arms of the chair, staring into a cold and barren future. Even when Caroline’s madness exiled her, he’d had Sunny and the simple, undiluted love that flowed between them.
Gone now.
The computer grunts and Sunny, or rather the digital familiar of his daughter, appears on the monitors. He stares at the loop of dancing pixels and hears her singing just the day before, “ Sun -ny Ex -ley is having her birth -day”, and he finds himself mouthing the words endlessly, giving them her childlike cadence, until they make as little sense to him as her death.
Chapter 9
The car engine wakes Yvonne Saul, the glass in her bedroom window buzzing as it vibrates from the low rumble. She looks at the clock next to her bed—just gone 4 a.m. The engine cuts, and the car door smacks shut, then the front door of the house opens and slams. She lies still, listening to his footsteps getting closer to the door that she can’t lock since he kicked it in.
The door hits the wardrobe as he pushes it open. “Hey!”
Yvonne keeps her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. As if that will stop him. Suddenly cold as he pulls the blankets from the bed, leaving her lying in her nightdress, her knees lifted to her chin. “Move your fat fucken ass. I’m hungry.”
She opens her eyes. He stands over her, switching on the bedside lamp. As the light floods the room, she sees the blood on his shirt and jeans. Dried dark red on his arms and hands. So much blood.
Yvonne can’t stop her mother’s reflex. “Boy, you hurt?” Sitting up, reaching a hand to her son.
He slaps it away. “You gonna be fucken hurt if you don’t get up. I’m not talking again.” He slams out of the room.
She lifts herself from the bed, a tall, thickset woman in her mid-fifties. The wild young beauty she once was lost in the flab and the wrinkles that have left her looking ten years older than her age. She draws a robe around herself, slides her feet into slippers and goes to the cramped kitchen.
He is by the table, stripping off his bloody shirt, dropping his jeans and kicking them across to her. Standing there in his underpants. Yvonne can smell sweat on his body and the metal stink of the blood.
“Wash these clothes,” he says.
She bends to pick up the bloody jeans. “What you done now, Vernon?”
His bare foot catches her in the abdomen and sends her flying against the stove. The back of her head smacks the oven door. “Who the fuck are you to question me?” Staring up at him as he looms over her, making a fist, waiting for him to
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