moments, it was done. Anything the body might have usefully offered by way of nourishment had been taken; the husk that remained would not have sustained a family of fleas. She was impressed.
Suddenly, the bulb began to flicker. She looked to the wall, expecting it to tremble and spit her lover from hiding. But no. The bulb went out. There was only the dim light that crept through the age-beaten
blind.
"Where are you?" she said.
The walls remained mute.
"Where are you?"
Still nothing. The room was cooling. Her breasts had grown gooseflesh. She peered down at the luminous watch on the lamb's shriveled arm. It ticked away, indifferent to the apocalypse that had overtaken its owner. It read 4:41. Rory would be back anytime after 5:15, depending on how dense the traffic was. She had work to do before then.
Bundling up the blue suit and the rest of his clothes, she put them in several plastic bags, and then went in search of a larger bag for the remains. She had expected Frank to be here to help her with this labor, but as he hadn't shown she had no choice but to do it herself. When she came back to the room, the deterioration of the lamb was still continuing, though now much slowed. Perhaps Frank was still finding nutriments to squeeze from the corpse, but she doubted it. More likely the pauperized body, sucked clean of marrow and every vital fluid, was no longer strong enough to support itself. When she had
parceled it up in the bag, it was the weight of a small child, no more. Sealing the bag up, she was about to take it down to the car when she heard the front door open.
The sound undammed all the panic she'd so assiduously kept from herself. She began to shake. Tears pricked her sinuses.
"Not now..." she told herself, but the feelings would simply not be suppressed any longer.
In the hallway below, Rory said: "Sweetheart?"
Sweetheart! She could have laughed, but for the terror. She was here if he wanted to find her-his sweetheart, his honeybun-with her breasts new-washed, and a dead man in her arms.
"Where are you?"
She hesitated before replying, not certain that her larynx was the equal of the deception.
He called a third time, his voice changing timbre as he walked through into the kitchen. It would take him a moment only to discover that she wasn't at the cooker stirring sauce; then he would come back and head up the stairs. She had ten seconds, fifteen at most.
Attempting to keep her tread as light as possible, for fear he heard her movements overhead, she carried the bundle to the spare room at the end of the landing. Too small to be used as a bedroom (except perhaps for a child), they had used it as a dump. Half-emptied tea chests, pieces of furniture they had not found a place for, all manner of rubbish. Here she laid the body to rest awhile, behind an upended armchair. Then she locked the door behind her, just as Rory called from the bottom of the stairs. He was coming up.
"Julia? Julia, sweetheart. Are you there?"
She slipped into the bathroom, and consulted the mirror. It showed her a flushed portrait. She picked up the blouse she'd left hanging over the side of the bath and put it on. It smelled stale, and there was
undoubtedly blood spattered between the flowers, but she had nothing else to wear.
He was coming along the landing; she heard his elephantine tread.
"Julia?"
This time, she answered-making no attempt to disguise the tremulous quality of her voice. The mirror had confirmed what she feared: that there was no way she could pass herself off as undistressed. She was obliged to make a virtue of the liability.
"Are you all right?" he asked her. He was outside the door.
"No," she said. "I'm feeling sick."
"Oh, darling..."
"I'll be fine in a minute."
He tried the handle, but she'd bolted the door.
"Can you leave me alone for a little while?"
"Do you want a doctor?"
"No," she told him. "No. Really. But I wouldn't mind a brandy-"
"Brandy..."
"I'll be down in two ticks."
"Whatever
Suddenly, the bulb began to flicker. She looked to the wall, expecting it to tremble and spit her lover from hiding. But no. The bulb went out. There was only the dim light that crept through the age-beaten
blind.
"Where are you?" she said.
The walls remained mute.
"Where are you?"
Still nothing. The room was cooling. Her breasts had grown gooseflesh. She peered down at the luminous watch on the lamb's shriveled arm. It ticked away, indifferent to the apocalypse that had overtaken its owner. It read 4:41. Rory would be back anytime after 5:15, depending on how dense the traffic was. She had work to do before then.
Bundling up the blue suit and the rest of his clothes, she put them in several plastic bags, and then went in search of a larger bag for the remains. She had expected Frank to be here to help her with this labor, but as he hadn't shown she had no choice but to do it herself. When she came back to the room, the deterioration of the lamb was still continuing, though now much slowed. Perhaps Frank was still finding nutriments to squeeze from the corpse, but she doubted it. More likely the pauperized body, sucked clean of marrow and every vital fluid, was no longer strong enough to support itself. When she had
parceled it up in the bag, it was the weight of a small child, no more. Sealing the bag up, she was about to take it down to the car when she heard the front door open.
The sound undammed all the panic she'd so assiduously kept from herself. She began to shake. Tears pricked her sinuses.
"Not now..." she told herself, but the feelings would simply not be suppressed any longer.
In the hallway below, Rory said: "Sweetheart?"
Sweetheart! She could have laughed, but for the terror. She was here if he wanted to find her-his sweetheart, his honeybun-with her breasts new-washed, and a dead man in her arms.
"Where are you?"
She hesitated before replying, not certain that her larynx was the equal of the deception.
He called a third time, his voice changing timbre as he walked through into the kitchen. It would take him a moment only to discover that she wasn't at the cooker stirring sauce; then he would come back and head up the stairs. She had ten seconds, fifteen at most.
Attempting to keep her tread as light as possible, for fear he heard her movements overhead, she carried the bundle to the spare room at the end of the landing. Too small to be used as a bedroom (except perhaps for a child), they had used it as a dump. Half-emptied tea chests, pieces of furniture they had not found a place for, all manner of rubbish. Here she laid the body to rest awhile, behind an upended armchair. Then she locked the door behind her, just as Rory called from the bottom of the stairs. He was coming up.
"Julia? Julia, sweetheart. Are you there?"
She slipped into the bathroom, and consulted the mirror. It showed her a flushed portrait. She picked up the blouse she'd left hanging over the side of the bath and put it on. It smelled stale, and there was
undoubtedly blood spattered between the flowers, but she had nothing else to wear.
He was coming along the landing; she heard his elephantine tread.
"Julia?"
This time, she answered-making no attempt to disguise the tremulous quality of her voice. The mirror had confirmed what she feared: that there was no way she could pass herself off as undistressed. She was obliged to make a virtue of the liability.
"Are you all right?" he asked her. He was outside the door.
"No," she said. "I'm feeling sick."
"Oh, darling..."
"I'll be fine in a minute."
He tried the handle, but she'd bolted the door.
"Can you leave me alone for a little while?"
"Do you want a doctor?"
"No," she told him. "No. Really. But I wouldn't mind a brandy-"
"Brandy..."
"I'll be down in two ticks."
"Whatever
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