she would listen. She always listened. She would smile at him, say the right thing and make him feel better. He wanted to feel better. He snatched his jacket off the back of the chair, and left the office.
He had left it too late. All too soon he found himself caught up in the laboriously slow-moving traffic as the city workers tried, like lemmings, to flee to the sanctuary of the suburbs and outlying villages. An accident on the road further hampered his progress.
He switched on the radio for company. The news proved to be the usual litany of crime, politics and the prediction of economic disaster; the weather forecast wintry showers with snow at higher altitudes. He switched the radio off and drove the remainder of the way home in gloomy silence.
It was dark when he finally pulled into the gates of Struan Lodge. He pressed a button on a gadget on his dashboard and a hundred yards up the driveway, the signal was received. The electric garage door slid open ready to receive him. At his approach the security light came on, flooding the parking area with glaring white light and the absence of Megan's car. There would be no welcome home and no smile for him today, and his neck would go unsoothed.
Disappointed, he edged the car into the garage. As the door glided silently home, he grabbed his things and exited through the side door to let himself into the house. He dropped his briefcase on the table and hung his jacket on a chair back.
The kitchen was dark save for the red light on the oven. His evening meal was in there keeping warm. It would be something tasty, it usually was. Megan's cooking wasn't really as bad as she had led him to believe, but he wasn't interested in eating right now. Maybe later. Probably not. He didn't really care. He was too tired to care.
The door to the hall stood open and a table lamp glowed gently beyond, giving out just enough light for the house to not seem completely lifeless. Apart from the gentle hum of the refrigerator, the house was silent.
He took two bottles of chilled strong beer from the fridge, grabbed the bottle opener from its hook, and crossed the hall into his study, closing the door behind him.
Chapter 7
Megan had been out for the morning running errands. She had enjoyed lunch at a very nice diner and returned to Struan in cheerful spirits. Uproar assaulted her as she stepped into the house and her good mood shattered.
In his study, Nat was pacing and yelling, obviously furious. As he was on speakerphone and all the doors between them were open, she could hear both sides of the conversation quite clearly.
The language from both parties was appalling, shocking even her with its obscenity. There was an outburst of cursing and swearing and after more than a few threats of legal action, she heard him shout a final vulgar insult…and then everything went quiet.
The sound of breaking glass made her look up from her industrious unpacking of the morning's groceries and pay attention. Seconds later followed a strange sound, much like a voice, but with a peculiar, strangled edge. The wrenching in her gut told her something was very wrong and she abandoned her task, tearing across the hall to the study.
Nat was on his knees, one hand clutching at the desk leg the other clawing frantically at the front of his shirt. A beaker used for holding pencils lay smashed around him on the exposed wooden floor. She ran across the room and fell to her knees before him, ignoring the shard of glass that cut into the flesh of her leg.
He was grasping at air with rapid, shallow, ineffective breaths, his fingers scrabbling to undo his collar and tie.
She took his hand away, loosened his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. His hand went immediately to his throat to seek relief that did not come.
'I…I'm having…a heart attack…help me!' he rasped, wide eyed and terrified.
She looked him over carefully. She had seen something like this before, albeit in an instructional
He had left it too late. All too soon he found himself caught up in the laboriously slow-moving traffic as the city workers tried, like lemmings, to flee to the sanctuary of the suburbs and outlying villages. An accident on the road further hampered his progress.
He switched on the radio for company. The news proved to be the usual litany of crime, politics and the prediction of economic disaster; the weather forecast wintry showers with snow at higher altitudes. He switched the radio off and drove the remainder of the way home in gloomy silence.
It was dark when he finally pulled into the gates of Struan Lodge. He pressed a button on a gadget on his dashboard and a hundred yards up the driveway, the signal was received. The electric garage door slid open ready to receive him. At his approach the security light came on, flooding the parking area with glaring white light and the absence of Megan's car. There would be no welcome home and no smile for him today, and his neck would go unsoothed.
Disappointed, he edged the car into the garage. As the door glided silently home, he grabbed his things and exited through the side door to let himself into the house. He dropped his briefcase on the table and hung his jacket on a chair back.
The kitchen was dark save for the red light on the oven. His evening meal was in there keeping warm. It would be something tasty, it usually was. Megan's cooking wasn't really as bad as she had led him to believe, but he wasn't interested in eating right now. Maybe later. Probably not. He didn't really care. He was too tired to care.
The door to the hall stood open and a table lamp glowed gently beyond, giving out just enough light for the house to not seem completely lifeless. Apart from the gentle hum of the refrigerator, the house was silent.
He took two bottles of chilled strong beer from the fridge, grabbed the bottle opener from its hook, and crossed the hall into his study, closing the door behind him.
Chapter 7
Megan had been out for the morning running errands. She had enjoyed lunch at a very nice diner and returned to Struan in cheerful spirits. Uproar assaulted her as she stepped into the house and her good mood shattered.
In his study, Nat was pacing and yelling, obviously furious. As he was on speakerphone and all the doors between them were open, she could hear both sides of the conversation quite clearly.
The language from both parties was appalling, shocking even her with its obscenity. There was an outburst of cursing and swearing and after more than a few threats of legal action, she heard him shout a final vulgar insult…and then everything went quiet.
The sound of breaking glass made her look up from her industrious unpacking of the morning's groceries and pay attention. Seconds later followed a strange sound, much like a voice, but with a peculiar, strangled edge. The wrenching in her gut told her something was very wrong and she abandoned her task, tearing across the hall to the study.
Nat was on his knees, one hand clutching at the desk leg the other clawing frantically at the front of his shirt. A beaker used for holding pencils lay smashed around him on the exposed wooden floor. She ran across the room and fell to her knees before him, ignoring the shard of glass that cut into the flesh of her leg.
He was grasping at air with rapid, shallow, ineffective breaths, his fingers scrabbling to undo his collar and tie.
She took his hand away, loosened his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. His hand went immediately to his throat to seek relief that did not come.
'I…I'm having…a heart attack…help me!' he rasped, wide eyed and terrified.
She looked him over carefully. She had seen something like this before, albeit in an instructional
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