nights.”
“Yes?”
“Mmn.
Oh, I know some of them go up and down via the woods, and there’s the odd
nocturnal courtship. Not to mention animal wildlife. But this was a man on his
ownsome. I couldn’t see much of him. No moon round the first time. It was about
2 a.m. I usually have to get up for the old feller about then, he wants the
lav. And I took a look out of the window, as you do, and there’s this tallish bloke,
all in black, out in the woods, between here and the cottage. Thing was, he
wasn’t courting, or pissing, or walking through. He was standing there. Just
standing. I went back to bed in a bit, didn’t stay to watch long. Too old for that
malarkey. Wondered if I’d dreamed it, the next day. But last night he was back
again. About the same time, and the same thing, just there, just stood there. I
couldn’t see which way he was facing, towards your place or mine. I had the
impression his face was covered up as well. A black mask or a black balaclava.
Should have told you, perhaps, the first time. But now it’s happened twice.
What do you think?”
Five
He heard the car
draw up about four in the afternoon. The sound was different, and he recognised
it: a 2000 Chevrolet Monté Carlo SS. Bought about three years ago, second-hand
admittedly, as a present from a then-admirer, it was a rich oiled red and
gleamed, as it always did in sunshine. Maggie’s car. Looking out from the
upstairs window in his ‘playroom’, Carver made sure only Maggie got out of it,
and only Maggie had been in it.
He
locked the ‘playroom’s’ door before going down.
“What lovely
tea, Car. I can do with this. The traffic, honestly. It’s absurd at this time
of day.”
“Yes,
it can be.” He waited, gauging her as he tried his own glass of soda water.
“This
is quite difficult,” said Maggie.
He
waited on.
“It’s
Donna,” she said, and her well-organised prettiness flushed with a sudden,
perhaps hormonal agitation.
“What’s
the matter with Donna?”
“You
don’t sound very concerned,” said Maggie sharply. “I mean, I say ‘it’s Donna’
and you sound – almost bored.”
“No,
I’m not bored. I’m just listening.”
“And
now you sound very patient .”
He
waited.
Maggie
drank her tea. At last she put down the mug and said, “I love my daughter, Car.
Of course I love her. But I know sometimes, particularly recently, she can...
exaggerate things. To others, to herself. Do you see? That’s my difficulty.”
“Is
she ill?” Carver asked quietly. It was a much safer response than the one she
might expect: What has Donna
exaggerated?
“Oh
– no. No, I think she’s fine–”
Fine
but not pregnant? He wondered, pondered, kept silent, kept waiting.
“No,
she just – I don’t know how to broach this, Car. I simply don’t. It would be a
different matter if I didn’t know you – I mean, we know each other, don’t we?
We have done for a few years. And I’m not such a bad judge of men. Even quiet men,
like you. Even men your young age, Car. And so – oh shit. Well, here goes. She
says,” Maggie put back her artistically styled and blonded head and looked him
fiercely in the eye, “you’ve abused her. You’ve been physically violent.”
He
allowed the surprise to show on his face. (He had been anticipating something
else, some floundering guess Donna had belatedly made, concerning the work he
did. Some notion his ‘office in London’ was not exactly that at all. That his
job involved somewhat more than the ordinary, soulless, time-eating yet well-recompensed
slog he had always implied it was and did. She had never taken excessive
interest in it, and this he encouraged. The long and erratic hours always
irritated, and more recently apparently maddened her, but did not make her
believe, he had supposed, that it was more than corporate overkill and
overtime.)
“Why,”
he said slowly, “does she say that?”
“Well,
fairly obviously, Car,” said
“Yes?”
“Mmn.
Oh, I know some of them go up and down via the woods, and there’s the odd
nocturnal courtship. Not to mention animal wildlife. But this was a man on his
ownsome. I couldn’t see much of him. No moon round the first time. It was about
2 a.m. I usually have to get up for the old feller about then, he wants the
lav. And I took a look out of the window, as you do, and there’s this tallish bloke,
all in black, out in the woods, between here and the cottage. Thing was, he
wasn’t courting, or pissing, or walking through. He was standing there. Just
standing. I went back to bed in a bit, didn’t stay to watch long. Too old for that
malarkey. Wondered if I’d dreamed it, the next day. But last night he was back
again. About the same time, and the same thing, just there, just stood there. I
couldn’t see which way he was facing, towards your place or mine. I had the
impression his face was covered up as well. A black mask or a black balaclava.
Should have told you, perhaps, the first time. But now it’s happened twice.
What do you think?”
Five
He heard the car
draw up about four in the afternoon. The sound was different, and he recognised
it: a 2000 Chevrolet Monté Carlo SS. Bought about three years ago, second-hand
admittedly, as a present from a then-admirer, it was a rich oiled red and
gleamed, as it always did in sunshine. Maggie’s car. Looking out from the
upstairs window in his ‘playroom’, Carver made sure only Maggie got out of it,
and only Maggie had been in it.
He
locked the ‘playroom’s’ door before going down.
“What lovely
tea, Car. I can do with this. The traffic, honestly. It’s absurd at this time
of day.”
“Yes,
it can be.” He waited, gauging her as he tried his own glass of soda water.
“This
is quite difficult,” said Maggie.
He
waited on.
“It’s
Donna,” she said, and her well-organised prettiness flushed with a sudden,
perhaps hormonal agitation.
“What’s
the matter with Donna?”
“You
don’t sound very concerned,” said Maggie sharply. “I mean, I say ‘it’s Donna’
and you sound – almost bored.”
“No,
I’m not bored. I’m just listening.”
“And
now you sound very patient .”
He
waited.
Maggie
drank her tea. At last she put down the mug and said, “I love my daughter, Car.
Of course I love her. But I know sometimes, particularly recently, she can...
exaggerate things. To others, to herself. Do you see? That’s my difficulty.”
“Is
she ill?” Carver asked quietly. It was a much safer response than the one she
might expect: What has Donna
exaggerated?
“Oh
– no. No, I think she’s fine–”
Fine
but not pregnant? He wondered, pondered, kept silent, kept waiting.
“No,
she just – I don’t know how to broach this, Car. I simply don’t. It would be a
different matter if I didn’t know you – I mean, we know each other, don’t we?
We have done for a few years. And I’m not such a bad judge of men. Even quiet men,
like you. Even men your young age, Car. And so – oh shit. Well, here goes. She
says,” Maggie put back her artistically styled and blonded head and looked him
fiercely in the eye, “you’ve abused her. You’ve been physically violent.”
He
allowed the surprise to show on his face. (He had been anticipating something
else, some floundering guess Donna had belatedly made, concerning the work he
did. Some notion his ‘office in London’ was not exactly that at all. That his
job involved somewhat more than the ordinary, soulless, time-eating yet well-recompensed
slog he had always implied it was and did. She had never taken excessive
interest in it, and this he encouraged. The long and erratic hours always
irritated, and more recently apparently maddened her, but did not make her
believe, he had supposed, that it was more than corporate overkill and
overtime.)
“Why,”
he said slowly, “does she say that?”
“Well,
fairly obviously, Car,” said
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