The Yellow Glass by Claire Ingrams

the
room.   Your damn job .   I actually used to
think it was other women that made you such a secretive, devious sod, but it
wasn’t, was it?   It was your job .   Whatever your job is (and I’ve
got a damn good idea of what it might be), it’s turned you into somebody I
barely know any more.”
    I started to protest, except she took such a vicious
drag of her cigarette that I felt compelled to stop and wait to see whether the
smoke would ever emerge.  
    “But when you involve Rosa . .” there was unmistakeable menace in her voice, “ . . which
you have, haven’t you?   Well, then it’s a
different story altogether.   Because, if
you’ve involved our little Rosa in whatever it is that you do, Tristram, then I
will kill you.   Believe me when I say
that.   I will kill you.”
    I wanted to take her in my arms and kiss her until her
lips were swollen; kiss her as we used to kiss.
    “Oh, and one more thing,” Kathleen added.   “There’s been a black Austin K8 van on our
tail for the last ten minutes.”

 
      I squinted into the mirror.   It had hidden itself somewhere, but I’d no
reason to suppose she wasn’t right.   Had
Magnus Arkonnen betrayed us?   One thing
was certain, my wife would now have to be involved.   Well, she was already - it looked like the
game was up with Kathleen.  
    “Can you lose the van, darling?”   I asked.
    She chucked her fag out of the window.
    “Watch me,” she said.
    I had to hand it to my wife; nobody could have moved
that car as she did, and I include myself in that.   She really was a superb driver.   What’s more, she was totally without
fear.   We must have gone from nought to
fifty in two seconds flat, and she wasn’t stopping there.   It was familiar territory for Kathleen, our
house being in Tite Street, directly off Chelsea Embankment, but I’d never seen
her drive quite like that before.   We
bombed down Cheyne Walk and she weaved in and out of the evening traffic,
seemingly oblivious to any cars coming in the opposite direction.   For quite a stretch, she simply drove on the
wrong side of the road and forced the other cars to do the weaving.   A cacophony of horns sounded in our wake,
almost blocking out the unmistakeable whine of police sirens.   She glanced in her mirror.
    “Ambulances, probably,” she remarked, rather casually,
“off to the Brompton or the Marsden.”
    I hardly thought so, but now was not the time to
contradict her.   I unrolled my window and
stuck my head out just as we flew past the Albert Bridge.   I couldn’t see any black vans behind us, but
there were several motorbikes that I wasn’t too happy about.   Even given the atrocious way many motorbike
riders careered through London, they were taking it to extremes.
    “Bikes on our tail, darling.”
    “Fine,” she murmured.
    I waited with interest to see how she would
out-manoeuvre those bikes in her Austin; hardly the most stream-lined of
cars.   As we reached Millbank, she opted
for a slight detour around the back of the Tate Gallery; not the best course of
action, in my view, because narrow Pimlico streets opening out onto all the
congestion one finds around Victoria would favour a motorbike.   Soon enough, we were forced to slow down at
the corner of Herrick Street and Marsham Street and the three bikes made their
move.   All of the riders were leathered
and goggled, but only one was toting a gun.   He took aim and, for the second time that day, I shouted:
      “Duck!”  
    But Kathleen, hunched like a pro over the
steering-wheel, didn’t appear to hear or, if she did, had made up her mind to
ignore me and proceeded to slam the gears into reverse and actually drive
closer to the gunman.   I had my head in
my lap and my hands over it by this time, but felt the car lurch backwards and,
instinctively, made a grab for the wheel; at which she performed a karate-like
chop at my hand, slicing me on the knuckles with one of her diamond rings.
    “Christ,