early arrival, but Lucy would be eager to get away.
I told myself that I arrived early on these occasions so that I’d have an extra hour with my daughter, but I wondered if, subconsciously, I did it on purpose to spite Marianne.
I started the engine and cruised down the hill. Three minutes later I entered the village of Hockton and pulled up outside a row of cottages, each one quaintly bonneted with a thick mantle of snow.
A light glowed behind the mullioned window of Marianne’s front room. Lucy would be watching a DVD of her latest favourite film.
I pressed the horn twice, my signal to Lucy that I was here, and climbed out.
Lucy had hauled the door open before I reached the gate, and only the fact that she was in her stockinged feet prevented her rushing out to meet me.
She was a beautiful skinny kid, eight years old, with a pale elfin face and long black hair. My heart always kicked at the sight of her, after an absence of days.
She seemed a little subdued today: usually she would launch herself into my arms. I stepped inside and picked her up, her long legs around my waist, and kissed her nose, lips, neck in an exaggerated pantomime of affection which made her giggle.
“Love you,” I said. “Bag packed?”
“Mmm.”
“Where’s your mum?”
“I think in the kitchen.”
“Get your bag and put some shoes on. I’ll just pop through and tell her I’m here.”
She skipped into the front room and I moved towards the kitchen, a psychosomatic pain starting in my gut.
Marianne was peeling carrots at the draining board, her back to me. “You’re early again, Daniel,” she said without turning. She knew I disliked the long form of my name.
I leaned against the jamb of the door. “I was in the area, working.”
She turned quickly, knife in her hand. “You mean to say you have a body with you?”
She was a small, pretty woman, an adult version of Lucy. In the early days of our separation, alternating with the anger, I had experienced a soul-destroying sorrow that all the love I’d felt for this woman had turned to hate.
I should have seen what might have happened before we married, extrapolated from her beliefs—but at the time my love for her had allowed no doubt.
Lately she had taken to wearing a big wooden crucifix around her neck. Her left temple was not implanted and neither, thanks to her, was Lucy’s.
“Not all my work involves collection,” I said. “What time should I bring her back on Thursday?”
“I’m working till five.” She turned and resumed her peeling.
I pushed myself away from the door and moved to the lounge. Lucy was sitting on the floor, forcing her feet into a pair of trainers. I picked up her bag and she ran into the kitchen for a goodbye kiss. Marianne, the bitch, didn’t even come to the door to wave her off.
I led Lucy to the Range Rover and fastened her into the middle section of the back seat. When I started collecting her, a year ago, she had said that she wanted to sit in the front, next to me. “But why can’t I?” she had wailed.
How could I begin to explain my paranoia? “Because it’s safer in case of accidents,” I’d told her.
I reversed into the drive, then set off along the road back to Oxenworth, ten miles away over the moors.
“Enjoying your holidays?” I asked.
“Bit boring.”
I glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. “You okay?”
She hesitated. “Feeling a bit rough,” she said, and to illustrate pantomimed a hacking cough into her right fist.
“Did mum take you to the doctor’s?”
I saw her nod.
“And?” I asked.
“He gave me some pills.”
“Pills?” I said. “What did he say was wrong?”
She looked away, through the window. “I don’t know.”
“Do you have the pills with you?” Perhaps I’d be able to determine her ailment from the medication.
She shook her head. “Mummy said I didn’t need them.”
I decided to ring Marianne when we got back, find out what was going on. Or was this yet
I told myself that I arrived early on these occasions so that I’d have an extra hour with my daughter, but I wondered if, subconsciously, I did it on purpose to spite Marianne.
I started the engine and cruised down the hill. Three minutes later I entered the village of Hockton and pulled up outside a row of cottages, each one quaintly bonneted with a thick mantle of snow.
A light glowed behind the mullioned window of Marianne’s front room. Lucy would be watching a DVD of her latest favourite film.
I pressed the horn twice, my signal to Lucy that I was here, and climbed out.
Lucy had hauled the door open before I reached the gate, and only the fact that she was in her stockinged feet prevented her rushing out to meet me.
She was a beautiful skinny kid, eight years old, with a pale elfin face and long black hair. My heart always kicked at the sight of her, after an absence of days.
She seemed a little subdued today: usually she would launch herself into my arms. I stepped inside and picked her up, her long legs around my waist, and kissed her nose, lips, neck in an exaggerated pantomime of affection which made her giggle.
“Love you,” I said. “Bag packed?”
“Mmm.”
“Where’s your mum?”
“I think in the kitchen.”
“Get your bag and put some shoes on. I’ll just pop through and tell her I’m here.”
She skipped into the front room and I moved towards the kitchen, a psychosomatic pain starting in my gut.
Marianne was peeling carrots at the draining board, her back to me. “You’re early again, Daniel,” she said without turning. She knew I disliked the long form of my name.
I leaned against the jamb of the door. “I was in the area, working.”
She turned quickly, knife in her hand. “You mean to say you have a body with you?”
She was a small, pretty woman, an adult version of Lucy. In the early days of our separation, alternating with the anger, I had experienced a soul-destroying sorrow that all the love I’d felt for this woman had turned to hate.
I should have seen what might have happened before we married, extrapolated from her beliefs—but at the time my love for her had allowed no doubt.
Lately she had taken to wearing a big wooden crucifix around her neck. Her left temple was not implanted and neither, thanks to her, was Lucy’s.
“Not all my work involves collection,” I said. “What time should I bring her back on Thursday?”
“I’m working till five.” She turned and resumed her peeling.
I pushed myself away from the door and moved to the lounge. Lucy was sitting on the floor, forcing her feet into a pair of trainers. I picked up her bag and she ran into the kitchen for a goodbye kiss. Marianne, the bitch, didn’t even come to the door to wave her off.
I led Lucy to the Range Rover and fastened her into the middle section of the back seat. When I started collecting her, a year ago, she had said that she wanted to sit in the front, next to me. “But why can’t I?” she had wailed.
How could I begin to explain my paranoia? “Because it’s safer in case of accidents,” I’d told her.
I reversed into the drive, then set off along the road back to Oxenworth, ten miles away over the moors.
“Enjoying your holidays?” I asked.
“Bit boring.”
I glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. “You okay?”
She hesitated. “Feeling a bit rough,” she said, and to illustrate pantomimed a hacking cough into her right fist.
“Did mum take you to the doctor’s?”
I saw her nod.
“And?” I asked.
“He gave me some pills.”
“Pills?” I said. “What did he say was wrong?”
She looked away, through the window. “I don’t know.”
“Do you have the pills with you?” Perhaps I’d be able to determine her ailment from the medication.
She shook her head. “Mummy said I didn’t need them.”
I decided to ring Marianne when we got back, find out what was going on. Or was this yet
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