The Silent Sleep of the Dying (Eisenmenger-Flemming Forensic Mysteries) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Keith McCarthy
clothes and make-up. Even he could read the signs. Accordingly he was ready for her next question.
"You haven't forgotten, have you?"
"Of course not," he smiled. "Sorry I'm late. You know how it is. There was a ton of work, and then the traffic was bloody awful … "
"Don't swear, Mark." The rebuke came as she was looking at herself in the mirror, primping. It cut across his lies, an uncaring but vicious knife through his bluster. Then, "You'd better hurry up. Mum and Dad will be here soon."
He'd been wondering who was coming to sup with them, but the information didn't lighten his gloom. She wasn't his Mum and he most definitely was not his Dad and Hartmann, as they made plain whenever he was with them, was not their son. He said nothing and trudged upstairs while Annette exhorted him with a following, "Do get a move on, dear."
In their bedroom he undressed and then stood under the shower, slowly rubbing his expanding stomach with soap, his mind full of questions, chief amongst which was, When did I start to hate her ?
The question of when he had stopped loving her was not relevant here, since he had now to admit he had never actually started. Infatuation had masqueraded as that purest of emotions, had fooled him into thinking that she was the one for him. Infatuation with her snub nose and with her money.
He could not stop the merest of involuntary shudders rippling the more superfluous rolls of flesh as he thought of her snub nose.
And, bastard that it was, infatuation had remained disguised just long enough to see him married and the father of a small daughter. Then, the process undoubtedly exacerbated by the arrival of a son and the subsequent tantrums, insomnia and constant smell of infant faeces, his feelings of affection for his wife gradually ebbed, drying to nothing. That would have been bad enough, but it had not stopped there. From the vacuum had germinated a rising level of dislike; dislike that had inevitably deepened, broadened and gradually darkened until he had to admit that he now hated her.
He turned off the water and stepped from the shower. He had forgotten to get out a towel and he had to walk across the vinyl flooring to get one, thus leaving wet footprints. He knew that if he failed to dry these Annette would be angry with him, perhaps even sufficiently aroused from enervation to initiate a row; he knew, too, that he wouldn't be bothering to dry them.
Did she hate him? The recurrent question was unanswerable. Certainly she no longer loved him, but it was hardly a question he could pose with ease. They rowed with increasing frequency and about matters of increasing pettiness, and in those rows she was becoming noticeably more vituperative, but they weren't yet at the point where such basic truths could be tested. Thus he was left with mere suspicion that his feelings were matched by hers, a suspicion that was worse than knowledge, that irritated and gnawed at him, that left him eroded and dissatisfied.
There were no clean socks, nor underwear. The cleaning lady was paid to do the ironing but not to put it away, and clearly Annette had not had the time again. Exasperated he found his dirty socks and pants and put them on. At least there were some clean shirts and slacks; his father-in-law always turned up in a jacket and tie but he was damned if he was going to be the victim of social coercion in his own home. Defiantly he left the neck of the shirt open and pulled on a lambswool sweater.
… And what if she did? What if she did hate him?
What if she left him or, more accurately, she made him leave her?
The consequences were …
He couldn't even form the thought. Its very existence made his mind cramp into a distortion; it stopped thought as effectively and completely as cyanide.
He began to comb his hair in lieu of further examination of his situation.
He might have fallen from love but marriage, he knew, was about a good deal more than a useless emotion. Certainly his marriage to
"You haven't forgotten, have you?"
"Of course not," he smiled. "Sorry I'm late. You know how it is. There was a ton of work, and then the traffic was bloody awful … "
"Don't swear, Mark." The rebuke came as she was looking at herself in the mirror, primping. It cut across his lies, an uncaring but vicious knife through his bluster. Then, "You'd better hurry up. Mum and Dad will be here soon."
He'd been wondering who was coming to sup with them, but the information didn't lighten his gloom. She wasn't his Mum and he most definitely was not his Dad and Hartmann, as they made plain whenever he was with them, was not their son. He said nothing and trudged upstairs while Annette exhorted him with a following, "Do get a move on, dear."
In their bedroom he undressed and then stood under the shower, slowly rubbing his expanding stomach with soap, his mind full of questions, chief amongst which was, When did I start to hate her ?
The question of when he had stopped loving her was not relevant here, since he had now to admit he had never actually started. Infatuation had masqueraded as that purest of emotions, had fooled him into thinking that she was the one for him. Infatuation with her snub nose and with her money.
He could not stop the merest of involuntary shudders rippling the more superfluous rolls of flesh as he thought of her snub nose.
And, bastard that it was, infatuation had remained disguised just long enough to see him married and the father of a small daughter. Then, the process undoubtedly exacerbated by the arrival of a son and the subsequent tantrums, insomnia and constant smell of infant faeces, his feelings of affection for his wife gradually ebbed, drying to nothing. That would have been bad enough, but it had not stopped there. From the vacuum had germinated a rising level of dislike; dislike that had inevitably deepened, broadened and gradually darkened until he had to admit that he now hated her.
He turned off the water and stepped from the shower. He had forgotten to get out a towel and he had to walk across the vinyl flooring to get one, thus leaving wet footprints. He knew that if he failed to dry these Annette would be angry with him, perhaps even sufficiently aroused from enervation to initiate a row; he knew, too, that he wouldn't be bothering to dry them.
Did she hate him? The recurrent question was unanswerable. Certainly she no longer loved him, but it was hardly a question he could pose with ease. They rowed with increasing frequency and about matters of increasing pettiness, and in those rows she was becoming noticeably more vituperative, but they weren't yet at the point where such basic truths could be tested. Thus he was left with mere suspicion that his feelings were matched by hers, a suspicion that was worse than knowledge, that irritated and gnawed at him, that left him eroded and dissatisfied.
There were no clean socks, nor underwear. The cleaning lady was paid to do the ironing but not to put it away, and clearly Annette had not had the time again. Exasperated he found his dirty socks and pants and put them on. At least there were some clean shirts and slacks; his father-in-law always turned up in a jacket and tie but he was damned if he was going to be the victim of social coercion in his own home. Defiantly he left the neck of the shirt open and pulled on a lambswool sweater.
… And what if she did? What if she did hate him?
What if she left him or, more accurately, she made him leave her?
The consequences were …
He couldn't even form the thought. Its very existence made his mind cramp into a distortion; it stopped thought as effectively and completely as cyanide.
He began to comb his hair in lieu of further examination of his situation.
He might have fallen from love but marriage, he knew, was about a good deal more than a useless emotion. Certainly his marriage to
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