him is his head tipping forward as he lights a cigarette, shoulders hunched against the chill of the night. She closes the door behind him, bites her lip against the tiny click of the latch.
On the stairs, her legs ache. Her heart starts its battering once again.
In Nicola’s room, the kids sleep. Graham is on the floor with his covers over him, as he often is. They must have been chatting or playing some game, bless them. Sometimes they play Name That Tune to get themselves to sleep, not that Graham would ever admit it.
She kisses their foreheads. She has left them alone tonight. She has thought only of herself, of her own delight. She has betrayed them, really. Put herself in danger when she is all they have. Never, ever will she let that happen again.
She steals across the landing to hers and Ted’s room. On the bed, on top of the covers, Ted lies face down in last night’s shirt, his pants and one black sock. Ugly and snoring, a stink that catches in the back of her throat. Johnny must have helped him up here. Must have. Who took off his trousers otherwise? Who put the glass of water on the bedside table?
She stares at the spare pillow; not for the first time wonders how easy or difficult it would be to suffocate him. The thought is stronger now than it has been in the past, almost overwhelming, but she’d have to be sure of finishing the job. It isn’t something she’d want to get wrong.
The digital alarm clock reads 2.15. She stands over him. He might be pretending to be asleep. He grunts, rolls onto his side. The snoring stops a moment, resumes. She steps back, a blunt pain in her chest.
She will not, cannot get into that bed. It’ll be her on the couch tonight.
Unable to tear her eyes from the rise and fall of his chest, she takes off her clothes. The sight of him has made her feel dirty. Dirty, yes, that’s what she feels. Skin thick with filth that no brush or soap could ever scrub away. She tiptoes into the bathroom and closes the door. Sits on the loo long after she’s finished peeing, staring at nothing. The rubber shower attachment is still wedged onto the bath taps where she rinsed the shampoo out of her hair this morning.
This morning, so long ago.
Jim.
She’d almost …
Through the wall comes the beast-like rumble of Ted. She finds that she’s taken off the shower hose and is running a bath, though she can’t remember deciding to do this. She’s turned the taps to slow so as not to wake him – a habit. She pours in her favourite peach bath foam. Once in the hot water, she closes her eyes and pushes her head under the bubbles. The world fades, the repulsive pig noise of her husband all but gone. The heat eases her shoulders, slackens the tendons in her neck. Memories of Jim return in flashes: his hand on her waist, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes – you cannae be sitting here on your own all night. His voice. His touch.
Tommy’s got my number … Give us a call, eh?
She sits up a little and draws up her knees. The bathroom light splits into hundreds of little stars, reflected tiny in each soap bubble as it slides down her legs. She crosses her arms and runs her fingers over her shoulders, down to her elbows. But her hands are too small to feel like Jim’s.
A creak on the landing. She curls up. The water swishes loud in the tub; she cringes at the noise. Ted. He’s woken up. He’s woken up and he’s—
The bathroom door flies open. Ted. Eyes bloodshot and wild, blind but seeing, a look full of hate aimed only at her. His nose wrinkles, his hand shoots out in front of him, a starfish of fingers. She shrieks, folds herself smaller still, arms over her head, eyes closed. The smell of whisky goes up her nose, whisky and smoke, sweat and pubs. This is it. She has not got away with it. The punishment is now.
She opens one eye. ‘Ted—’
His pink hand blurs in her face; she closes her eyes. Here it comes.
A pressure on her forehead. The heel of his hand on her nose.
‘Ted—’
Holding her fast, he pushes her down, down under the water.
The back of her head jams against the bottom of the bath. Her