have worried. There was to be no joy in the task, none at all.
She rose shakily from her kneeling position as Mark handed her the book. He unfastened his dressing gown and indicated the ladder-backed chair that he had placed by his side of the bed. Kathryn handled the weighty tome and read the title: The Iliad. Her fatigue and desolation felt overwhelming. She was tired and the idea of having to plough through that particular text at that time of night felt like she had a mountain to climb.
Mark positioned himself centrally on the bed, lying face down with this head on his raised forearms, his face averted. She opened the first page and tried not to look at the plump pillow next to her husband’s head, to which her eyes were powerfully drawn.
She started to read, struggling to find a rhythm as the unfamiliar words formed on her tongue.
Sing, Goddess, sing of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus –
that murderous anger which condemned Achaeans
to countless agonies and threw many warrior souls
deep into Hades, leaving their dead bodies
carrion food for dogs and birds
— all in fulfilment of the will of Zeus.
Kathryn was not sure how long had passed. It felt like hours, but was in reality just one hour, singular. She shivered as the chilly breeze swept along the floor, rushed under the door and gathered in a swirling current around her feet and calves, causing her whole body to jerk and twitch with cold.
The raffia chair seat had started to bite into her thighs through the thin white cotton of her nightgown and was stinging her cuts. The desire to stand, to change position and ease her suffering was strong. The words started to blur. Each letter became a blackened mote on the pale page: no longer distinguishable as words, they were merely smudges and shapes that swam before her eyes, making the deciphering of each syllable and stanza almost impossible. Her head sat heavy on her neck, like a meatball supported by spaghetti; it wobbled and sought refuge by sinking to her chest. Her throat was parched, each word a dry husk. She wanted to drink, but mostly she wanted to sleep.
Her eyes were itchy and sore, and cramp crept along her forearms as they protested at holding the heavy book unsupported for that length of time. She had endured a long day, a busy day, like every day. She wanted to close her eyes, just for a second…
Bang! The two noises woke her simultaneously, followed by a sharp pain. The first sound had been the smack of her skull against the back rung of the chair and the second was the scream of surprise and fear that had jumped from her throat as she was unexpectedly wrenched from her dream. The pain was her head, protesting from being smacked with force against the wooden bar. Her breath came in shallow pants; she must have fallen asleep, just for a second.
‘Everything all right, Dad?’ Dominic shouted through the closed door, alerted by the scream.
‘Yes, son, go back to sleep. I think Mummy had a bad dream.’
The creak of the floorboards signalled Dominic’s return to bed.
I’m living a bad dream… Kathryn pursed her lips, resisting the temptation to either utter this or, worse still, scream again, scream for help, for escape.
The book had fallen shut on her lap. Mark stood over her and was holding her by the hair, keeping her head upright. He spoke softly, his face invisible, above her, slightly behind her.
‘It would not be advisable to wake the children again, Kathryn. When I said tonight you will read to me, I meant tonight you will read to me, not some of the night but all of the night, is that clear, darling?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice sounded croaky.
‘Good.’ He bent low and kissed her mouth.
‘That’s my good girl. I think maybe we should go over the last few pages, who knows how much you have missed.’
He let go of her hair and walked over to his chest of drawers. After rummaging among his underwear, he produced a silk scarf with a tasselled fringe. She stared at it, dreading what might come next.
‘Sit back, sweetie.’
She sat bolt upright.
Mark took the scarf and wound it around her forehead and under her chin. Taking the ends, he tied them to the frame of the chair. She was anchored and fast, unable to turn her head.
‘You may start reading again now, Kathryn.’
For the second time that night he lay face