Free The Son-in-Law by Charity Norman Page B

your plans?’
    ‘Bloody Nora! Give me time.’
    ‘You’ve had plenty of time. About three years, I should imagine.’
    He looked up towards the moor. ‘First thing I plan to do is get myself up there,’ he said. ‘Just because I can.’
    Once Abigail had left, Joseph made his way downhill to where stepping stones lay half-submerged among glassy rapids. Somebody was coming towards him across the stones; he dimly registered walking boots and a swirl of claret skirt. Some part of his brain appreciated the supple ease of her movements, but he desperately didn’t want to speak to anyone, so was relieved when she merely smiled and passed by.
    He barely hesitated, gauging distances before leaping from one rock to another with sure-footed certainty. After all, he and Marie were the architects of this bridge; it had taken them a whole day. Once across, he struck up the hillside with long strides. Evening was overtaking the moors now, and the temperature had dropped still further. Sheep lifted their heads to watch him pass, mildly curious about the dogless human.
    Joseph had climbed for twenty minutes by the time he pushed his way through a patch of tangled bracken and breasted the last ridge, to be greeted by a knife-edged wind. High above him two curlews twisted and soared in the emptiness, spotlit by the last rays of sun. He could neither see nor hear any other sign of life. Even Abigail’s farmhouse was hidden from view. He revelled in the solitude.
    Spreading his hands wide, he let himself drop straight back like a doll tumbling off a shelf. Or perhaps a mother falling to her death; there was no marble fender, up there on the moor. He dropped onto a cushion of skeletal heather, and bounced.
    Hours later, he made up the bed he’d last shared with Zoe. He used the turquoise sheets she’d chosen and which cost a bloody fortune. Pressing his face into them, he caught the lingering breath of her perfume. He added every duvet he could find. Then he dug out a book and read until long after midnight, in the hope that he might then be able to sleep. It didn’t work. Sleep was a luxury.
    He’d been woken by a glowing sunrise, last time he’d slept in that bed. Zoe was pressed very close, her cheek on his shoulder, elegant fingers tangled in his hair. She’d seemed so well during that last holiday. They’d been happy—though they knew their happiness was fragile, like thin sunshine. Joseph remembered tracing the line of her face with his forefinger, adoring the high cheekbones and elfin features. He’d inhaled the warm scent of her and watched as the growing day crept up her body, gilding each contour. He had wished with all his soul that the precious moment could go on forever. He’d known it would not.
    Rain was chattering quietly outside. He lifted his wrist to check the luminous dial of his watch. Almost two in the morning. He was drifting at last. He was drifting in the darkness, between Zoe-scented sheets. The rain whispered to him.
    At two nineteen, he woke with a yell of horror. He’d just killed Zoe. She was lying on the hearthrug, her green-glass eyes wide open. Dropping to his knees, he began to pump her chest—trying to start her heart, frantically shouting her name. He knew her life was over. So was his.
    The rain was tapping on the window, tap-tappety-tap, asking to come in. It took a long time for his racing heart to slow.
    At two thirty-eight he sat bolt upright, sweating with panic.
    He’d just killed Zoe. Her eyes were wide open. He was on his knees. His life was over.
    He woke at three, because he’d just killed Zoe.
    And three eleven.
    And three thirty.
    He was in his bunk in a cell, suffocated by blackness. He must have gone blind because it was never completely dark in prison. He heard a gentle bleat, and wondered what the hell a sheep was doing in Armley.
    Or perhaps he wasn’t in Armley.
    The rain had ceased, leaving complete stillness save for an almost imperceptible trickling of the stream.