Pop Goes the Weasel - [16]
‘How’s she been?’
‘Very good,’ replied Anna, smiling. She was always smiling, thank goodness. ‘She had her dinner and then I read her a few chapters.’
She held up Bleak House. Nicola had always loved Dickens – David Copperfield her particular favourite – so they were working through his back catalogue. It was a project, something for Nicola to achieve, and she seemed to enjoy the stories with their plucky heroes and diabolical villains.
‘We’re just getting to the exciting bit,’ Anna continued, ‘and she wanted to read on, so I gave her a couple of bonus chapters. But she’d pretty much nodded off by the end of it – you might have to recap a bit tomorrow. Make sure she doesn’t miss anything.’
Tony suddenly felt very emotional, moved by the tender care Anna lavished on his wife. Fearing his voice would falter, he patted Anna’s arm, thanked her quickly and sent her on her way.
Nicola was his childhood sweetheart and they had married young. Their life was set fair but two days before her twenty-ninth birthday, Nicola had suffered a massive stroke. She survived it, but the resulting brain damage was extensive and she was now a prisoner of locked-in syndrome. She could see and was aware, but was only able to move her eyes, due to the paralysis that gripped her body. Tony looked after her lovingly, patiently teaching her to communicate with her eyes, dragooning in family or hiring carers when he had to work, but still he often felt he was a bad husband to her. Impatient, frustrated, selfish. In reality, he did everything he could for her, but that didn’t stop him castigating himself. Especially when he’d been out having a good time. Then he felt callous and unworthy.
He stroked her hair, kissed her forehead and then retreated to his bedroom. Even now, two years after her stroke, the fact that they had separate bedrooms still hurt. Separate bedrooms were for couples who’d fallen out of love, for show marriages, not for him and Nicola. They were better than that.
He couldn’t be bothered to get undressed, so he settled down on the bed and flicked through Bleak House. In the early days, when they were still dating, Nicola had read passages from Dickens aloud to him. He’d been uncomfortable with it at first – he’d never been much of a reader and it felt pretentious – but in time he’d come to love it. He would close his eyes and listen to her soft Home Counties voice playing with the words. He was never happier and he would have killed now to have a recording – just one – of her reading to him.
But he never would have, and pipe dreams get you nowhere, so he settled down with the book instead. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do for now.
18
The lights of Southampton docks glittered in the distance. The port was used 24/7 and would be a hive of activity even now, giant cranes unloading the containers that arrived from Europe, the Caribbean and beyond. Forklifts would be racing up and down the quay as men shouted insults at each other, enjoying the camaraderie of the night shift.
On Eling Great Marsh all was still. It was a cold night, an arctic wind blasting up the river channel, buffeting the car that stood alone in the bleak emptiness. The driver’s door hung wide open and the interior lights were on, casting a weak light over the lonely scene.
Holding his ankles firmly, she began to pull. He was heavier than he looked and she had to use all her strength to manoeuvre him over uneven ground. The going was soft, rendering progress slow, and they left a snail-like trail behind them. His head caught on a rock as she pushed him over the lip of a small ditch. He stirred, but not enough – he was too far gone for that.
She cast around quickly, checking once again that they were alone. Satisfied, she placed her bag on the ground, unzipping it to reveal its contents. She pulled out a roll of duct tape and broke off a stretch. Pushing it down firmly on his mouth, she smoothed her gloved hand over and over it to make sure there was no breathing room. Her heart was beginning to beat faster now, her adrenalin spiking, so she didn’t delay. Grasping his hair, she pulled his lolling head back to reveal his throat. Retrieving the long blade from the bag, she cut deep into his throat. Instantly his body writhed, as his mind desperately tried to regain some form of consciousness, but it was all too late. Blood spurted up, splattering her chest and face, binding them together. She let his warm blood settle and cloy on her – plenty of time to clean up later.
Driving the blade deep into his stomach, she set about her business. Within ten minutes, she had what she wanted, bagging the bloody organ in a zippered bag. Straightening up, she surveyed her work. Where her first effort had been imprecise and laboured, this was smooth and efficient.
She was getting better at this.
19
‘So how did it go?’
Steve had been waiting up for Charlie and was walking towards her. The TV burbled in the background. Four empty cans of lager on the coffee table revealed that like Charlie he’d felt the need for a few stiff drinks.
