Evil Relations Read Online Free Page A

Without its glow and drone, the flat feels barren.
    His wife is crying very softly, feeling for the tissue tucked inside one of the short sleeves of her nightdress. He looks down at his T-shirt, at the dark, rust-coloured specks and smears, and his mouth thickens with bile.
    Swallowing, he states quietly, ‘As soon as it’s light, we’ll call the police.’ When she doesn’t answer, he cracks his knuckles, one after the other, in a vain attempt to relieve the tension inside himself. ‘All right, girl? We’ll wait until there are other people moving about and then we’ll go to the phone box.’
    ‘And take Bob.’ Her reply, spoken in a small voice, is that of a girl even younger than her 19 years. The dog, hearing his name, half-opens a bleary eye.
    ‘Yeah, him too.’
    He turns his head towards the glass door that leads to the balcony. Stiffly, he rises and crosses the carpet, then opens the door carefully so as not to make a noise. The air strikes his skin like a fist; the temperature seems to have dropped beyond reason. The sky over Hattersley is starless and unremittingly dark, but down there among the myriad houses, it’s somehow possible to make out which row is Wardle Brook Avenue.
    Minutes pass with painful sluggishness. He divides his time crouching in the chair beside the lifeless fire and leaning over the balcony screen to reassure himself that there’s no one watching the flat – not from Wardle Brook Avenue nor from the car park below.
    Because that’s his deepest fear, in these last hours before daybreak. He feels safe as long as he and Maureen remain in the flat, but in his mind he pictures the two of them leaving Underwood Court and a car cruising up alongside, then a soft voice asking, ‘And where do you think you’re off to?’ In the flat, he can just about cope with the knowledge of what’s gone before, but if they leave and the nightmare scenario becomes reality, he will go to pieces, without a shadow of doubt; he will absolutely go to pieces. So he keeps guard instead, and waits for the right moment to present itself.
    And it does, a little after six o’clock, when a shard of light breaks over the estate. He’s left the balcony door open and hears the familiar sound of the milkman arriving on his rounds: first the trundle of the float on the road, then the faint chink of dozens of bottles. He gets up from the fireside chair to watch the white-coated figure carrying a red crate along the nearest terrace. Lights are going on as people rise for the new day; no more than a handful dotted about the estate, but enough to convince him that the time has come.
    He turns to Maureen and she stares back at him, wide-eyed.
    Taking a deep breath, he keeps his voice as even as he can: ‘Get dressed and fetch your coat.’
    He waits until she’s walked through to the bedroom before entering the kitchen and pulling open a drawer. He tucks the bread knife prudently inside the waistband of his jeans, then pulls open another drawer filled with useless things gathering dust – small keys to unknown locks, old bus ticket stubs, a broken plastic spoon – and rummages until his fingers light on an object at the back. He takes out the heavy screwdriver and pushes it into his waistband next to the knife.
    His wife stands in the sitting room, awkward in her coat and impractical shoes.
    With the dog at their heels, they head for the fetid lift. The clunking mechanism shudders into life, jerking them down to the ground floor. They step out in unison, all three, and cross the hall with its prickly mat skew-whiff to the front door.
    Maureen gazes at him. He opens the door slowly and takes a step outside, glancing in every direction. The roads are empty and the car park uninhabited. He looks back at his wife. Her black beehive is unkempt and her eyes, without their usual spit-slicked mascara and thick, pencilled contours, seem sunken and huge at the same time.
    ‘Ready?’
    She nods, clutching the dog’s collar