Her Victory Read Online Free Page B

pinch, are a bloody good weapon, legal, above board, yet unconcealed. Good to kick somebody to death sooner or later – the bitch. His workmen wore thin shoes or suede, not much better than carpet slippers, so at that place anyway nobody could tread on his toes. George swore at the same time as the man behind.
    Under the back seat was a box-set of micrometer, depth gauge, pair of callipers and a spirit level, as well as a ruler and a steel tape measure, bought as a present by his grandfather when he started on an apprenticeship thirty years ago. He had hardly used them. In the early days he left the box safe in his locker while he borrowed, bought more cheaply, or used what the firm provided. They hadn’t been calibrated since leaving the shop, but today he’d compare their readings with those on his office bench at work, and maybe use them again, though he would have to make sure they didn’t get borrowed or stolen. Such antique quality would spark a light in any roving eye. He’d always carried them in his car, fearful of leaving them at home in case the place was rifled when Pam was out shopping. They fitted snugly into green cloth-lined shapes in the box, smelled faintly of oil, steel and camphor, but instead of being comforted by their existence he saw his face in the mirror of the car behind, which happened to be that of the passenger he continually talked to. He’d always thought himself too old to go barmy.
    He’d dreamed of walking into his factory and finding the machines covered in inches of dust. Pam came in from the yard outside and stood naked in the doorway, but when he touched her she changed into a steel drill spinning towards him. His only escape was into a bottomless pit, whirling down the smooth-walled shaft, from which descent he woke up sweating.
    The only way to wipe the misery from all three faces was to grin. He owned the three of them, and had to decide whether it was misery or merely a forced smile stamped on each face. There was no middle path. There never was. Pam could have told him that. Didn’t look much like a smile, being the sort that often made people think he was having a harder time in life than he really was.
    He wished he had never looked in the mirror in the first place and caught that expression of unmistakable pain on his face. He had sent the lovely foreign au pair upstairs to tell his wife her morning coffee had been poured. He heard a scream, and the smiling girl with nice bare breasts came in to say his wife wouldn’t be wanting her breakfast because she had killed herself. Dial the police then, you slut, he shouted, tucking into his own. Then come down and sit on my knee.
    It wasn’t like that, and never could be, and don’t I know it? He said the tale aloud so that the man in the next car, who had also stopped at the pedestrian crossing, looked at him, then raced off at the all-clear so as to get out of the madman’s way.
    His wife had been trying to get into the freezer. Maybe it wasn’t the first time. But in full plain view she had gone off her head, and when he had tried to stop her, had come for him with a carving knife. Tell yourself the truth. You had to face facts. If you didn’t look them square in the phizzog you might never know how to mend matters. He hadn’t been trained as a mechanic for nothing. By completing a few calculations he avoided going into the dark. No, she hadn’t been trying to tuck herself into the freezer, but she ought to have done.
    He had been afraid of her because she was so strong. She had been frightened of him for the same reason. He had found out now that it was too late. They were vulnerable, kids in a playpen, unable to climb over and grow up. He had been scared out of spite, gone yellow from ignorance. He was nervous everywhere except in his workplace. He opened a window and spat, nearly hitting a biker in a black jacket covered in badges, who lifted his gloved fist in warning