letting his eyes wander to the mantelpiece. It just sat there, the silver frame glittering in the low light, the tanned, unkempt man grinning out at him.
Still clutching his precious trophy, Matt sank back down in his chair, realising that not everything in marriage was going to be easy. His flat, his space, was not just his now; it had to be shared with someone else. Although he loved Eppie, she was almost a stranger.
A soft kiss woke him, and he sleepily reached out to encircle his arms around Eppie, pulling her down onto his lap. It was only when she yelped slightly that he realised he was still holding the trophy. It didn’t seem important now next to his need for her love and warmth, and he dropped it beside the chair to indulge himself in the softness of her body, all too aware that the day would stampede in soon enough.
CHAPTER 15
A s the shrill demand of the alarm clock woke him at seven, Clive could feel the tiredness behind his eyes and the tension in his muscles. Finalizing his plans and the sense of power they infused had kept him up late.
His dreams had been of Ben. Not the soft, longing dreams he used to have, but one that shot brittle shafts of danger between them as Clive fought through an unfamiliar landscape of foggy, cobbled streets trying to reach him.
As he showered, he reasoned with himself that all he had of Ben were dreams. Did he want to give up the intense excitement and feeling of importance for this slight friendship, which might come to nothing?
However, being with Ben brought its own excitement in a softer, gentler way, awaking alien thoughts of loving and of being loved. No one had loved him since Lizzie gurgled her way into his life. Could Ben love him? All his old feelings of being unlovable surfaced.
Whereas, committing murder gave Clive an intense sense of power; he alone could choose who should live or die, like a Roman Emperor deciding someone’s fate with a flick of his thumb. Surely, for such a powerful man there would be a million Bens. Maybe Clive didn’t need him after all.
He pulled himself back to the present, reminded that he must keep up a very normal routine; nothing should stand out as different. Clive took up Mother’s breakfast tray and then went to watch the news in the kitchen. Too excited to eat, he chewed on a cereal bar.
The murder was still headline news on the local channel, but on the national news, some new international atrocity had pushed it to the place before the weather report, in the spot usually reserved for children needing a bone-marrow transplant and the like. The added interest was a grey haired professor, lapping up the limelight like a budding rock star. He had nothing of great importance to say but still managed to make it sound as weighty as one of the Shakespearean tragedies.
Mother seemed more tired than usual, and Clive wondered if having Emily once a week could be wearing her out. He made a mental note to use this to curtail the visits by expressing his concern to Margaret over the state of Mother’s health. That way he could regain some control and banish the infiltrator for good from his immaculate home.
Before leaving for work, he removed Mother’s breakfast tray and helped her move with difficulty from the bed into the chair. Sensing the perfect opportunity, he sat on the edge of the bed and in his most concerned voice, leant towards her.
‘I’d like you to think about having a few massages, Mother. I’m sure it would help with this stiffness.’
She was too distracted trying to get her sparse grey hair into some sort of respectable order before Mrs Sinclair arrived, to take in what he was saying and merely nodded. He had learnt that she was at her most vulnerable first thing in the morning, before those skinny limbs had eased off the night cramps and became used to moving again.
He pressed on. ‘I thought we might have dinner at the spa one night soon. Their new French chef is getting rave reviews. Then I could arrange
Still clutching his precious trophy, Matt sank back down in his chair, realising that not everything in marriage was going to be easy. His flat, his space, was not just his now; it had to be shared with someone else. Although he loved Eppie, she was almost a stranger.
A soft kiss woke him, and he sleepily reached out to encircle his arms around Eppie, pulling her down onto his lap. It was only when she yelped slightly that he realised he was still holding the trophy. It didn’t seem important now next to his need for her love and warmth, and he dropped it beside the chair to indulge himself in the softness of her body, all too aware that the day would stampede in soon enough.
CHAPTER 15
A s the shrill demand of the alarm clock woke him at seven, Clive could feel the tiredness behind his eyes and the tension in his muscles. Finalizing his plans and the sense of power they infused had kept him up late.
His dreams had been of Ben. Not the soft, longing dreams he used to have, but one that shot brittle shafts of danger between them as Clive fought through an unfamiliar landscape of foggy, cobbled streets trying to reach him.
As he showered, he reasoned with himself that all he had of Ben were dreams. Did he want to give up the intense excitement and feeling of importance for this slight friendship, which might come to nothing?
However, being with Ben brought its own excitement in a softer, gentler way, awaking alien thoughts of loving and of being loved. No one had loved him since Lizzie gurgled her way into his life. Could Ben love him? All his old feelings of being unlovable surfaced.
Whereas, committing murder gave Clive an intense sense of power; he alone could choose who should live or die, like a Roman Emperor deciding someone’s fate with a flick of his thumb. Surely, for such a powerful man there would be a million Bens. Maybe Clive didn’t need him after all.
He pulled himself back to the present, reminded that he must keep up a very normal routine; nothing should stand out as different. Clive took up Mother’s breakfast tray and then went to watch the news in the kitchen. Too excited to eat, he chewed on a cereal bar.
The murder was still headline news on the local channel, but on the national news, some new international atrocity had pushed it to the place before the weather report, in the spot usually reserved for children needing a bone-marrow transplant and the like. The added interest was a grey haired professor, lapping up the limelight like a budding rock star. He had nothing of great importance to say but still managed to make it sound as weighty as one of the Shakespearean tragedies.
Mother seemed more tired than usual, and Clive wondered if having Emily once a week could be wearing her out. He made a mental note to use this to curtail the visits by expressing his concern to Margaret over the state of Mother’s health. That way he could regain some control and banish the infiltrator for good from his immaculate home.
Before leaving for work, he removed Mother’s breakfast tray and helped her move with difficulty from the bed into the chair. Sensing the perfect opportunity, he sat on the edge of the bed and in his most concerned voice, leant towards her.
‘I’d like you to think about having a few massages, Mother. I’m sure it would help with this stiffness.’
She was too distracted trying to get her sparse grey hair into some sort of respectable order before Mrs Sinclair arrived, to take in what he was saying and merely nodded. He had learnt that she was at her most vulnerable first thing in the morning, before those skinny limbs had eased off the night cramps and became used to moving again.
He pressed on. ‘I thought we might have dinner at the spa one night soon. Their new French chef is getting rave reviews. Then I could arrange
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