Second Chances Read Online Free

hands. Kit was wrapped around a tree—oh my God, why did I let him take the car?—brilliant eyes blank and staring, blood trickling from the corner of a mouth that would never laugh again. Perhaps he was dying alone in the rain, pulverised by thugs, his vitality flowing away down the drain. Maybe he’d thrown himself into the river.
    Inactivity was unbearable. Grabbing my handbag, I scribbled a note for Sacha. Sorry gone to look for Kit. Love M x
    The phone rang as I was opening the front door. Thank God . I lunged for it, expecting to hear my husband’s familiar tones—depressed, slurred, contrite. Light-headed with relief, I drew breath for a first-rate fishwife impersonation.
    It wasn’t Kit.
    ‘Mrs McNamara? Barry Prescott, Bedfordshire police.’
    The room darkened. I stared in terror at one of Kit’s paintings, and the imp smirked back at me. This was it, then: the voice of doom. I was a widow. I felt the first jolt of grief.
    The voice of doom sounded matter-of-fact. ‘We’ve got your husband here. In the cells. He’s, erm, you might say he’s a little bit the worse for wear.’
    ‘You mean he’s drunk,’ I croaked furiously. Not wrapped around a tree, then; not pulverised by thugs or under the waters of the Great Ouse.
    ‘We picked him up off the High Street. Lucky he didn’t get himself run over.’
    They were really quite nice about it down at the police station, though I expect they’d all been having a good laugh. Sergeant Prescott seemed positively avuncular as he led me to the cells, jingling his keys. He was well past middle age, bushy-browed and seen-it-all. ‘Your bloke’s a bit of a mess,’ he warned. ‘Bet he’ll be in hot water once he’s slept it off.’
    I’ve never been so humiliated in my life—for myself, for Kit. It was like collecting a mangy dog from the pound. My beautiful husband lay sweating on a concrete bench, his once-immaculate shirt grubby and torn, reeking of vomit. Hair hung lankly over his face. At Prescott’s good-natured urging he swung his legs to the floor and sat up, pressing his head into his hands.
    ‘Sorry,’ he groaned. ‘Oh God, Martha, what the hell is happening?’
    I needed to be out of that place; I needed to get my man home and clean and human. Prescott swiftly processed the paperwork and gave me back Kit’s wallet. Then he steered him outside and into my car.
    ‘Next time we find him in this state, we’ll have to charge him,’ the policeman said, and he wasn’t smiling any more. ‘You do appreciate that, Mrs McNamara? We can’t have people rolling around in the gutter.’
    I dimly recall rain-soaked streets, the lights of McDonald’s, a black cat streaking across the road with a flash of luminous eyes—did that mean we were in for good luck or bad? Kit half lay with his head against the window, whispering hoarsely— sorry, sorry . . . Christ, I’m such a fucking fool —and I knew the morning would bring a thudding head, crippling guilt and even deeper despair. He’d try to pull himself up by the bootstraps, swear off the drink for a week, maybe three, and then the whole miserable cycle would begin again.
    ‘I’ve heard it all before,’ I said wearily.
    ‘Me too. I’m sick of myself.’
    I swerved into our driveway and yanked at the handbrake. ‘This is bloody ridiculous. Okay, so your business went down. Okay, you can’t find work.’
    ‘And we’re broke.’
    ‘And we’re broke. It’s been hell. But it’s happened, and now it’s time—’
    While I ranted, Kit was fumbling at his door. ‘I can’t get out,’ he said. I walked around and opened it from the outside.
    ‘There,’ I declared coldly. ‘You’re a free man.’
    ‘Am I?’ He put his arms around me, leaning his head against my waist. ‘I don’t think I want to be.’
    ‘C’mon. Bed.’
    It was a struggle, because he didn’t have the will to move. I manhandled all six foot of him into the house and up the steep stairs. We’d almost made it when he