Soon by Charlotte Grimshaw Page B

And there he’d be at the breakfast table, casting his eye expectantly down the columns. He had buried her, and the details of the affair: the row of tiny houses where she lived near the airport, the squalid pub they’d once visited, the quirky interior of her house, the smoky smell of her hair and skin, her primitive way of talking, her rough hands and feet. Her memory was tainted by the depression that had made him crave her kindness and her love. And here, controlled by Weeks, she was lithe and beautiful and wandered across the sand and tossed her hair and swam in the sparkling water, spoke corny dialogue and made a joke, while a young man (‘Hamish’) trailed after her, yearning . . .
    Weeks had called her Anahera, which means angel.
    Taking the DVD out of the machine, he hid it. Sleep came again, an escape.
    He woke with a crick in his neck and a dry mouth, thought his phone had rung and that Karen had called out, but there was no missed call and no one in the Little House.
    Everything lay still in the heat. The tuis and thrushes had stopped squabbling at the bird table and there was a hush in the green shade under the trees, only the sound of the sea coming across the dunes and the faint drone of a car on the coast road. The teenagers were no longer shouting and splashing over at the pool. His sweaty legs peeled off the canvas of the chair and he was dizzy when he got up, lurching into the bathroom to wash his face.
    He tidied himself and walked across the compound to find David holding court under the trees and Troy and Trent hovering with trays and glasses; it was a Saturday which meant, according to David’s regime, they were allowed wine with lunch, although Simon hated to drink during the day, the afternoon narrowing into a tunnel of lethargy, headaches.
    The Cock was holding a spray can which he squirted fitfully around his feet every few moments, complaining of mosquitoes.
    Johnnie arrived with Tuleimoka. He had something to show everyone: a jar with holes punched in the lid.
    â€˜It’s a poisonous spider.’ His small face was solemn, thrilled.
    They all peered at the dark shape in the jar.
    â€˜It’s deadly,’ the boy said, shaking the jar. ‘I caught it.’ He brushed past the Cock, tipping over his glass. The Cock, mopping the table, visibly irritated, said, ‘I’m starting to feel sorry for that spider. Why don’t you let it go?’
    â€˜It’s a specimen.’
    â€˜Surely it would be more humane if you tipped it into the bushes.’ A bitter, hectoring note entered the Cock’s voice. He stood over the boy. ‘It’s not going to be a pet. It’s going to die in there.’
    David watched the Cock without expression.
    Roza said, ‘I think in this case my sympathies are with the human creature, rather than the animal.’
    The Cock, incredulous: ‘The human?’
    â€˜The child,’ Roza said.
    â€˜The human’s not in a jar.’
    â€˜It’s Johnnie’s find. His prize.’
    The Cock shrugged, picked up his can of insect spray and squirted along the edge of the table.
    Ed Miles said to Sharon, ‘Can you tell your husband to stop squirting me?’
    â€˜But he seems to be enjoying it,’ she said.
    Ed lifted his feet out of the way. ‘He’s not so high-minded about flies and mosquitoes, is he. Not all David Attenborough about them .’
    David went back to sorting through photographs. ‘Here’s a good one of you and me,’ he said, beckoning to Simon. ‘Put these aside, Roza, I’m going to frame them — the one of me and Simon, this one of us and Karen, and this one of Elke and Johnnie.’
    Roza, Karen and Juliet crowded around. Roza snatched one up. ‘That’s going in the bin.’
    There was a chorus. ‘Give us a look, no, you look gorgeous Roza, what a waste, don’t throw it away.’
    Ed held out his hand. ‘Can I