Free Absent Light by Eve Isherwood Page A

and giving her a playful squeeze. He was already showing signs of a distinct beer-gut, which she took pleasure in pointing out to him.
    â€œGive a man a break,” he grinned. He lowered his voice. “Jen muttered something about you being in some bother.”
    Bit of an understatement, Helen thought. She smiled sweetly.
    â€œSo it’s true then. Someone tried to drown you.”
    â€œI was mugged.”
    Mark raised an enquiring eyebrow.
    â€œDuring the attack, I fell into the canal,” she explained.
    â€œFell? Jen said you were pushed.”
    Jen would, Helen thought. “You know Jen,” she laughed softly, “she’s a sucker for death and destruction.”
    â€œSo what do you reckon happened?”
    Helen gave a wide-eyed no idea shrug. “Wrong place, wrong time,” she said, stealing her father’s phrase.
    â€œYou’re all right then?”
    â€œNo harm done,” she smiled, disentangling herself from further conversation. She fluttered from group to group, wandering in and out of discussions on movies, the state of the economy, the vague and unconfirmed rumours of closures at yet another of the local factories, horse racing, the terrorist threat. Around ten o’clock, she balanced a plate of Chicken Gloop and rice in one hand, and a glass and fork in the other. She ate standing up while talking to a couple, whose names escaped her, about the perils of starting up your own business. Someone let George out. Exploiting every cute expression in his repertoire, he was fed a vast array of leftovers, the evidence clear for all to see as he promptly threw up on Jen’s Chinese rug. While several women squealed and headed off, Helen alerted Jen and went in search of a mop and bucket.
    Clearing up dog’s vomit didn’t phase her, though she could have done without the small gathering of onlookers as she scrubbed the carpet, especially the men who made helpful suggestions from fifty paces. Humans were endlessly fascinated by the grim and gruesome, she thought. It was that same fascination that drove motorists to slow down near fatal road accidents, to collect around a crime scene, to read with relish every sordid detail of a sexual killing over their breakfast toast and marmalade.
    She’d just finished clearing up, and helped herself to another drink, when a familiar voice spoke behind her.
    â€œYou look stunning.”
    She turned. It was Martin. She’d spotted him earlier in the evening and done her best to avoid him. He was wearing a tailored jacket that clung to his lean physique. He looked darkly handsome, sleek, like a well-groomed cat.
    â€œThanks,” she said, anxiously looking around for the attractive-looking redhead who’d accompanied him.
    â€œSarah’s in the bathroom,” Martin said with an amused smile. Helen smiled back and tried to conceal her relief. “How’s things?” he asked.
    â€œGreat,” she nodded, wincing at the heartiness in her voice. “And you?”
    â€œGood. Very good,” he added with emphasis.
    â€œI’m pleased,” she said, genuinely happy for him.
    â€œThought I wouldn’t be,” he said steadily, mouth close to hers, “but I am.”
    â€œLook, Martin, I wanted to say…”
    He put a finger to her lips. “Don’t say anything, Helen. Not now.”
    Not now? Had he heard about the mugging, too? What did he mean, she thought, nerves jangling?
    â€œThis looks pally,” a piercing voice came from nowhere, the kind of voice, Helen thought, that could strip paint. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” The woman, who she took to be Sarah, was tugging at Martin’s hand like a child trying to get its mother’s attention. Small and pretty and pale, she wore a black strapless taffeta dress exposing creamy-white arms. Helen wondered if Martin had chosen her because she was the physical opposite of herself. Funny, she