The Secret House of Death by Ruth Rendell Page A

propelling her, while she tugged a little and looked back, like a child whose father has come to fetch it home from a dangerous game with the boy next door.

8
    Julian and Susan had tried to be very civilised and enlightened. They had to meet for Julian to see his son. It had seemed wiser to try to maintain an unemotional friendship and Susan had known this would be difficult. How difficult, how nearly impossible, she hadn’t envisaged. When life went smoothly, she preferred not to be reminded of Julian’s existence and his telephone calls—incongruously more frequent at such times—were an uncomfortable disruption of peace. But when she was unhappy or nervous she expected him to know it and to a certain degree be a husband to her again, as if he were in fact a husband separated from his wife for perhaps business reasons, who had to live far away.
    She knew this was an impossible hope, totally unreasonable. Nothing on earth would have made her disclose this feeling to anyone else. Julian had his own life to lead.
    But was it so unreasonable to expect at this time some sign of concern from him? Louise’s death had been in all the newspapers; tonight both evening papers featured the inquest. Julian was an avid reader of newspapers and the fact that the two Evenings had been delivered to her house, were now spread on the table before her, was a hangover from her marriage to Julian who expected his wife to be well-informed.
    That he still hadn’t phoned showed a careless disregard for her that changed her loneliness from a gathering depression to a panicky terror that no one in the world cared whether she lived or died. To spend the evening and night alone here suddenly seemed a worse ordeal to pass through than any she had encountered since her divorce. For the first time she resented Paul. But for him, she could have gone out tonight, gone to the pictures, rooted out a friend from the past. Here in this house there was nothing else to think about but Louise and the only conversation possible an interchange between herself and her alter ego. The sentences almost spoke themselves aloud, the answerless questions. Could she have helped? Could she have changed the course of things? How was she going to stand days, weeks, months of this house? Above all, how to cope with Paul?
    He had gone on and on that evening about Louise and the man. Because someone had told him Louise had loved this man, he found curious childish parallels between her case and that of his parents. Susan too had found parallels and she couldn’t answer him. She reproached herself for her inadequacy but she was glad when at last he fell silent and slid the beloved cars out of their boxes, playing with absorption until bedtime.
    So it was unforgivable to feel this mounting anger when she went to her desk and saw how he had left it, a multistoried car park with miniscule bonnet and fender protruding from every slot and cranny. Black tyre marks were scored across each of the top three sheets of her typescript. Unforgivable to be angry, cruel perhaps not to control that anger.
    But the words were out when she was halfway up the stairs, before she could stop herself and count to ten through set teeth.
    â€˜How many times have I told you to leave my things alone? You’re never to do it again, never! If you do, I won’t let you wear your watch for a whole week.’
    Paul gave a heart-breaking wail. He made a grab for the watch, pulling it from its velvet-lined case, and cradling it against his face. Desperately near tears herself, Susan fell on her knees beside him and took him in her arms.
    â€˜Stop crying. You mustn’t cry.’
    â€˜I’ll never do it again, only you’re not to take my watch.’ How quickly a child’s tears evaporated! They left no trace, no ugly swollen redness. Louise’s weeping had left her face furrowed, old, distraught.
    Paul watched her with a child’s sharp intuition. ‘I