Whistler’s fifth victim, had exactly twenty minutes to live. She sat on the banquette against the wall, sipping her second medium sherry of the evening, deliberately making it last, knowing that Colin was impatient to order the next round. Catching Norman’s eye, she raised her left wrist and nodded significantly at her watch. Already it was ten minutes past their deadline, and he knew it. Their agreement was that this was to be a pre-supper drink with Colin and Yvonne, the limit both of time and alcohol consumption clearly understood between her and Norman before they left home. The arrangement was typical of their nine-month-old marriage, sustained less by compatible interests than by a carefully negotiated series of concessions. Tonight it had been her turn to give way, but agreeing to spend an hour in the Clarence with Colin and Yvonne didn’t extend to any pretence that she actually enjoyed their company.
She had disliked Colin since their first meeting; the relationship at a glance had been fixed in the stereotyped antagonism between newly acquired fiancée and slightly disreputable old schoolmate and drinking partner. He had been best man at their wedding—a formidable pre-nuptial agreement had been necessary for that capitulation—and had carried out his duties with a mixture of incompetence, vulgarity and irreverence which, as she occasionally enjoyed telling Norman, had spoilt for her the memory of her big day. It was typical of him to choose this pub. God knew, it was vulgar enough. But at least she could be certain of one thing: it wasn’t a place where there was a risk of meeting anyone from the power station, at least not anyone who mattered. She disliked everything about the Clarence, the rough scrape of the moquette against her legs, the synthetic velvet which covered the walls, the baskets of ivy spiked with artificial flowers above the bar, the gaudiness of the carpet. Twenty years ago, it had been a cosy Victorian hostelry, seldom visited except by its regulars, with an open fire in winter and horse brasses polished to whiteness hung against the black beams. The lugubrious publican had seen it as his job to repel strangers and had employed to that end an impressive armoury of taciturnity, malevolent glances, warm beer and poor service. But the old pub had burnt down in the 1960s and been replaced by a more profitable and thrusting enterprise. Nothing of the old building remained, and the long extension to the bar, dignified by the name Banqueting Hall, provided for the undiscriminating a venue for weddings and local functions and on other nights served a predictable menu of prawns or soup, steak or chicken, and fruit salad with ice cream. Well, at least she had put her foot down over dinner. They had worked out their monthly budget to the last pound, and if Norman thought she was going to eat this overpriced muck with a perfectly good coldsupper waiting in the refrigerator at home and a decent programme on the telly, he could forget it. And they had better uses for their money than to sit here drinking with Colin and his latest tart, who had opened her legs to half Norwich if rumour was to be believed. There were the hire-purchase repayments on the sitting-room furniture and the car, not to mention the mortgage. She tried again to meet Norman’s eye, but he was rather desperately keeping his attention on that slut Yvonne. And that wasn’t proving difficult. Colin leaned over to her, his bold treacle-brown eyes half-mocking, half-inviting, Colin Lomas, who thought every woman would swoon when he beckoned.
“Relax, darling. Your old man’s enjoying himself. It’s your round, Norm.”
Ignoring Colin, she spoke to Norman: “Look, it’s time we were going. We agreed we’d leave at seven.”
“Oh, come on, Chrissie, give the lad a break. One more round.”
Without meeting her eyes, Norman said: “What’ll you have, Yvonne? The same again? Medium sherry?”
Colin said: “Let’s get on to
She had disliked Colin since their first meeting; the relationship at a glance had been fixed in the stereotyped antagonism between newly acquired fiancée and slightly disreputable old schoolmate and drinking partner. He had been best man at their wedding—a formidable pre-nuptial agreement had been necessary for that capitulation—and had carried out his duties with a mixture of incompetence, vulgarity and irreverence which, as she occasionally enjoyed telling Norman, had spoilt for her the memory of her big day. It was typical of him to choose this pub. God knew, it was vulgar enough. But at least she could be certain of one thing: it wasn’t a place where there was a risk of meeting anyone from the power station, at least not anyone who mattered. She disliked everything about the Clarence, the rough scrape of the moquette against her legs, the synthetic velvet which covered the walls, the baskets of ivy spiked with artificial flowers above the bar, the gaudiness of the carpet. Twenty years ago, it had been a cosy Victorian hostelry, seldom visited except by its regulars, with an open fire in winter and horse brasses polished to whiteness hung against the black beams. The lugubrious publican had seen it as his job to repel strangers and had employed to that end an impressive armoury of taciturnity, malevolent glances, warm beer and poor service. But the old pub had burnt down in the 1960s and been replaced by a more profitable and thrusting enterprise. Nothing of the old building remained, and the long extension to the bar, dignified by the name Banqueting Hall, provided for the undiscriminating a venue for weddings and local functions and on other nights served a predictable menu of prawns or soup, steak or chicken, and fruit salad with ice cream. Well, at least she had put her foot down over dinner. They had worked out their monthly budget to the last pound, and if Norman thought she was going to eat this overpriced muck with a perfectly good coldsupper waiting in the refrigerator at home and a decent programme on the telly, he could forget it. And they had better uses for their money than to sit here drinking with Colin and his latest tart, who had opened her legs to half Norwich if rumour was to be believed. There were the hire-purchase repayments on the sitting-room furniture and the car, not to mention the mortgage. She tried again to meet Norman’s eye, but he was rather desperately keeping his attention on that slut Yvonne. And that wasn’t proving difficult. Colin leaned over to her, his bold treacle-brown eyes half-mocking, half-inviting, Colin Lomas, who thought every woman would swoon when he beckoned.
“Relax, darling. Your old man’s enjoying himself. It’s your round, Norm.”
Ignoring Colin, she spoke to Norman: “Look, it’s time we were going. We agreed we’d leave at seven.”
“Oh, come on, Chrissie, give the lad a break. One more round.”
Without meeting her eyes, Norman said: “What’ll you have, Yvonne? The same again? Medium sherry?”
Colin said: “Let’s get on to
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