Free Dead Silent by Neil White Page B

assaulted him, mixed up the past with the present, as if she was in the room with him.
    Summer nights like these were the worst, when the sun took all evening to set over the lavender bushes in the garden, their delicate smell drifting in through the open window. And with the smells came the sounds, the sensations. He felt her touch for a moment, that spark, that excitement, her hand in his, her fingers soft and light, sitting together in the park. Then he remembered those other moments. His mouth on her breast, soft murmurs, loud moans, two bodies together.
    But then came the blood, as always. He could feel it onhis hands, and his eyes shot open as he heard the thumps, the knocking, like a desperate drumbeat, the shouts, the muffled cries.
    Mary was watching him. He glanced over quickly and he thought he saw a shadow behind her, someone moving through the door. He blinked and it was gone, and all he could see were Mary’s cold eyes.
    He clambered to his feet to go to the fridge. When he got there, he leant against the door for a moment, his forehead damp, before reaching for a beer.
    When he walked back into the room, Mary looked pointedly at the bottle. ‘Do you think you should?’ she said.
    ‘I feel like I want to,’ he replied, taking a long swig. When she shot a stern look at him, he added, ‘I’ve had a long day. No one’s buying, and I’m hot.’
    He went outside, to wait for the sun to drop lazily behind the houses, catching the duck and dive of evening birds and the buzz of midges over the laurel bush in the corner of his garden.
    He closed his eyes for a moment and let the scents creep back in again, and he was taken back to stolen hours, a country drive, the weight of her in his arms, laughing, his mouth on hers, the caress of her fingers in his chest hairs, the summer of innocence.
    He heard a sound, like a thump on wood; as he looked up, he saw Mary step away from the window. She had been watching.
    He took another pull on his beer. He knew he shouldn’t think of it, but then he felt that burn, that familiar need.
    He went back into the house and took his car keys from the hook by the door.
    ‘I’m going for a drive,’ he said, and he was met by silence as he slammed the door.

Chapter Fourteen
    I was sitting in my garden as I flicked through the newspaper articles Tony had dropped through my door. I had views over Turners Fold to distract me, the strips of grey terraced houses and small fingers of chimneys sitting between the slopes, and towards the jagged lines of drystone walls dividing up the hills, black and white dots of cattle sprinkled as far as I could see.
    I took a sip from my wine glass and noticed how Claude Gilbert’s house looked different in the old black and white photographs, the garden slightly overgrown, less formal. I smiled as I held up a photograph of Claude, the one that had spread to the nationals, his dark hair thick, a superior smirk. Did he really want to come home? I plucked an article from the bottom of the pile and saw that the picture used was the full photograph, with Nancy Gilbert sitting next to him, an austere look on her face. The photographs used later were more relaxed shots, showing her laughing and happy, as if they were meant to prick the general conscience—the public wouldn’t warm to the hunt if she was some uptight rich bitch.
    As I read the articles, I saw nothing new, just stuff that had been rehashed countless times since. I slipped the cuttings back into the envelope when I heard the hum ofcar tyres and watched as Laura’s charcoal-grey Golf crunched onto the gravel outside our gate. As she stepped out of the car, her white shirt open at the neck, I raised my wine glass. ‘It’s open,’ I said.
    ‘So I see,’ she replied, and gave me a weary smile. When she joined me at the table, a glass in one hand, she put her arm around my neck and her head on my shoulder. I could feel the collar of her stiff white shirt, and, as I reached behind and felt