Death of a Cave Dweller (29 page)

“Go ahead with what?”

“Because we don't have to if we don't want to, you know,” Maria continued, speaking faster than he'd ever heard her speak before. “The doctor said that for a woman in my position it would be perfectly possible to argue that the psychological pressure would be too great and I could have the . . . the operation.” She stopped – breathless and exhausted.

“Psychological pressure?” Rutter repeated. “Have the operation? I don't have a clue what you're talking about.”

Maria squeezed his hands, very, very tightly. “I'm pregnant,” she said. “The doctor confirmed it yesterday afternoon. If it's what you want, you could be a father in a few months' time.”

Rutter felt as if he'd been hit squarely in the chest with a sledgehammer. Maria – his beautiful blind wife – was expecting a baby! It wasn't something they'd planned. It wasn't even something they'd discussed. And it still didn't have to happen if they decided they didn't want it to.

Bob took a deep breath and tried to decide how he felt about the bombshell his wife had just dropped.

It was in the kitchen where Joan Woodend was at her most comfortable, and it was in the kitchen that she was waiting for her husband when he returned from his rock'n'roll murder in Liverpool.

Woodend pecked his wife on the cheek, and lowered himself into the chair opposite her. “Well, that's another one wrapped up,” he said.

“Yes, I expect I'll be readin' all about your exploits in the paper tomorrow,” Joan replied.

“I shouldn't be surprised,” Woodend agreed, though the thrill of seeing his name in print had long since faded away.

Joan stood up. “I'll make you some grub, Charlie,” she said. “Will a fry-up do you?”

“I don't feel like eatin' right now.”

“You don't! You're not ill, are you?”

Woodend shook his head. “No, I'm not ill. I just seem to have lost my appetite for quite a lot of things lately.” He forced a tired smile to his face. “If I feel like some food later, I'll let you know. Right now, I'd like to talk.”

With a puzzled look on her face, Joan sank back into her seat. “What's this all about, Charlie?” she asked.

“I had this discussion with Bob last night about the difficulty of balancin' home an' work, an' it got me thinkin'. We've been married for over twenty years. How much of that time do you think we've actually spent together?”

“Well, it wasn't always
possible
to be together,” Joan said, slightly awkwardly. “There was the war for a start, an' . . .”

“Forget the war,” Woodend told her. “How much time have we spent together since I got demobbed?”

“Not a great deal,” Joan admitted, “but your work takes you away from London a lot.”

“Aye, that's the point,” Woodend agreed. “Neither of us are gettin' any younger—”

“It'd be a miracle if we were,” Joan interrupted. “But you're still a fine figure of a man, Charlie Woodend, an' even though I'm a bit heavier than I used to be, I can manage to turn the occasional head on the street.”

Woodend grinned. “I've no doubt about that. But the fact is, I've been wonderin' whether I might take the same advice I gave Bob, an' get a job that will keep me in town.”

Joan frowned. “Is that what you want?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Well, I'm sure what I want,” Joan said. “Or should I say, I'm sure of what I don't want.”

“You are?”

“Most definitely. What I
don't
want is to have a great lollopin' brute like you hangin' around the house all the time, forever gettin' under feet when I'm tryin' to do the housework.”

“You don't?”

“I do not. The reason this marriage of ours has lasted so long, Charlie Woodend, is that we spend just enough time apart for us to be able to appreciate each other when we get the chance.”

“Are you sayin' that I should stick to the job I've got?”

Joan stood up again. “Indeed I am. An' now we've got that sorted out, I'll go an' make you that food I promised you.”

Woodend's stomach rumbled just at the thought of it. He could murder a fry-up, he decided. As he reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, he felt a great sense of relief surge through him, and realised that even the prospect of a desk job had weighed on him like a prison sentence.

He lit up a Capstan Full Strength and inhaled deeply. Capstans were such a bloody lovely smoke. And to think that just the day before he'd actually been contemplating switching to his sergeant's cork-tipped. He must have gone temporarily insane.

Joan, her back to him as she melted the lard over the stove, finally allowed herself the luxury of the amused smile she'd been holding back for the previous couple of minutes. Men! she thought affectionately. Most of the time they were nothin' but big soft kids.

The telephone rang in the hallway. Woodend sighed theatrically and rose to his feet.

“I'll get it,” he said. “At this time of night it could only be the Super, tellin' me to pack my bags an' ship out to some Godforsaken hole in the middle of nowhere as soon as possible.”

But he did not seem displeased at the prospect, Joan noted.

When Woodend returned to the kitchen a couple of minutes later, there was a broad smile on his face. “That wasn't the Super after all,” he said. “It was that sergeant of mine.”

Joan looked up from her cooking. “What's Bob doin' ringin' at this time of night? I'd have thought that after the last few days, you'd both be sick of the sound of each other's voices.”

“An' so we are,” Woodend agreed. “But he's just had a bit of good news, an' he wanted us to be the first ones to hear about it.”

J
ack Towers had been in custody for over twenty-four hours when Bob Rutter paid off his taxi and opened his own front gate for the first time in days. There were no welcoming lights shining in the windows of his home, but that didn't necessarily mean Maria had gone to bed, he reminded himself, because – day or night – his wife's world was one of total darkness.

He inserted the key in the lock, turned it as quietly as he could, and eased the front door open.

“Is that you, Bob?” asked a voice from the front parlour.

“It's me,” Rutter said, putting down his suitcase in the hallway and reaching for the light switch.

Maria was sitting on the sofa, her hands sedately folded on her lap. Rutter hadn't been away long, but after all the tense phone calls he had been half expecting some incredible transformation to have taken place in his wife during his absence. He need not have worried. If anything, she looked even more beautiful than he remembered her.

He knelt down in front of her, and took her hands in his. “I missed you,” he said. “And I know you don't want to hear me say this, but I was worried about you, as well.”

She didn't get angry, as she might have done. Instead she smiled the most beautiful smile he thought he had ever seen.

“You're going to have more to worry about than me in future,” she said. The smile suddenly faded, and was replaced by a look of deep concern – perhaps even of fear. “At least, you are if we decide to go ahead with it.”

“Go ahead with what?”

“Because we don't have to if we don't want to, you know,” Maria continued, speaking faster than he'd ever heard her speak before. “The doctor said that for a woman in my position it would be perfectly possible to argue that the psychological pressure would be too great and I could have the . . . the operation.” She stopped – breathless and exhausted.

“Psychological pressure?” Rutter repeated. “Have the operation? I don't have a clue what you're talking about.”

Maria squeezed his hands, very, very tightly. “I'm pregnant,” she said. “The doctor confirmed it yesterday afternoon. If it's what you want, you could be a father in a few months' time.”

Rutter felt as if he'd been hit squarely in the chest with a sledgehammer. Maria – his beautiful blind wife – was expecting a baby! It wasn't something they'd planned. It wasn't even something they'd discussed. And it still didn't have to happen if they decided they didn't want it to.

Bob took a deep breath and tried to decide how he felt about the bombshell his wife had just dropped.

It was in the kitchen where Joan Woodend was at her most comfortable, and it was in the kitchen that she was waiting for her husband when he returned from his rock'n'roll murder in Liverpool.

Woodend pecked his wife on the cheek, and lowered himself into the chair opposite her. “Well, that's another one wrapped up,” he said.

“Yes, I expect I'll be readin' all about your exploits in the paper tomorrow,” Joan replied.

“I shouldn't be surprised,” Woodend agreed, though the thrill of seeing his name in print had long since faded away.

Joan stood up. “I'll make you some grub, Charlie,” she said. “Will a fry-up do you?”

“I don't feel like eatin' right now.”

“You don't! You're not ill, are you?”

Woodend shook his head. “No, I'm not ill. I just seem to have lost my appetite for quite a lot of things lately.” He forced a tired smile to his face. “If I feel like some food later, I'll let you know. Right now, I'd like to talk.”

With a puzzled look on her face, Joan sank back into her seat. “What's this all about, Charlie?” she asked.

“I had this discussion with Bob last night about the difficulty of balancin' home an' work, an' it got me thinkin'. We've been married for over twenty years. How much of that time do you think we've actually spent together?”

“Well, it wasn't always
possible
to be together,” Joan said, slightly awkwardly. “There was the war for a start, an' . . .”

“Forget the war,” Woodend told her. “How much time have we spent together since I got demobbed?”

“Not a great deal,” Joan admitted, “but your work takes you away from London a lot.”

“Aye, that's the point,” Woodend agreed. “Neither of us are gettin' any younger—”

“It'd be a miracle if we were,” Joan interrupted. “But you're still a fine figure of a man, Charlie Woodend, an' even though I'm a bit heavier than I used to be, I can manage to turn the occasional head on the street.”

Woodend grinned. “I've no doubt about that. But the fact is, I've been wonderin' whether I might take the same advice I gave Bob, an' get a job that will keep me in town.”

Joan frowned. “Is that what you want?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Well, I'm sure what I want,” Joan said. “Or should I say, I'm sure of what I don't want.”

“You are?”

“Most definitely. What I
don't
want is to have a great lollopin' brute like you hangin' around the house all the time, forever gettin' under feet when I'm tryin' to do the housework.”

“You don't?”

“I do not. The reason this marriage of ours has lasted so long, Charlie Woodend, is that we spend just enough time apart for us to be able to appreciate each other when we get the chance.”

“Are you sayin' that I should stick to the job I've got?”

Joan stood up again. “Indeed I am. An' now we've got that sorted out, I'll go an' make you that food I promised you.”

Woodend's stomach rumbled just at the thought of it. He could murder a fry-up, he decided. As he reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, he felt a great sense of relief surge through him, and realised that even the prospect of a desk job had weighed on him like a prison sentence.

He lit up a Capstan Full Strength and inhaled deeply. Capstans were such a bloody lovely smoke. And to think that just the day before he'd actually been contemplating switching to his sergeant's cork-tipped. He must have gone temporarily insane.

Joan, her back to him as she melted the lard over the stove, finally allowed herself the luxury of the amused smile she'd been holding back for the previous couple of minutes. Men! she thought affectionately. Most of the time they were nothin' but big soft kids.

The telephone rang in the hallway. Woodend sighed theatrically and rose to his feet.

“I'll get it,” he said. “At this time of night it could only be the Super, tellin' me to pack my bags an' ship out to some Godforsaken hole in the middle of nowhere as soon as possible.”

But he did not seem displeased at the prospect, Joan noted.

When Woodend returned to the kitchen a couple of minutes later, there was a broad smile on his face. “That wasn't the Super after all,” he said. “It was that sergeant of mine.”

Joan looked up from her cooking. “What's Bob doin' ringin' at this time of night? I'd have thought that after the last few days, you'd both be sick of the sound of each other's voices.”

“An' so we are,” Woodend agreed. “But he's just had a bit of good news, an' he wanted us to be the first ones to hear about it.”