Free Death Day by Shaun Hutson Page A

before him like some sort of nubile prosecution counsel.
        'It's called caring,' he said, softly.
        She didn't move, just stood still in the centre of the room shaking gently, tears staining her cheeks. He got up and crossed to her, his arms enfolding her. She tried to push him away at first but, finally, her arms snaked up around his neck and she pulled him closer, tasting the whisky on his breath but not caring. Wanting him near to her, to feel his body next to hers.
        They stood there for a long time, locked in passionate embrace, clinging to each other in that twilight room, while outside the dark clouds of night began to invade the sky.
        
***
        
        The photo on top of the television smiled back its monochrome smile at Emma Reece. It showed a young couple on their wedding day, the bride resplendent in her white dress (though now looking somewhat sepia tinted because of the age of the photo). The young man was kissing her on the cheek. She looked across at her husband, slumped in the chair, and smiled.
        'It's hard to believe that was twenty-five years ago,' she said.
        'What's that, love?' he said, his eyes not lifting from the topless girl in the newspaper he held.
        'The photo.'
        Gordon Reece put down the paper and looked up, also seeing the picture. He smiled. 'God, I was a handsome bugger in those days.'
        Emma snorted, 'And still as modest.'
        He winked at her, 'If you've got it, flaunt it, that's what I always used to say.'
        'You used to say a lot of things,' said Emma, running a hand through her hair. 'Do you think I should have it dyed before Saturday?' she asked.
        'What?'
        'My hair. Do you think I should have it dyed before the party on Saturday?'
        He shook his head. 'Women. Why the hell can't you just grow old gracefully? If you're grey, you're grey. Who cares? You never hear me complaining about the colour of my hair.'
        'It's different for men,' she told him. 'Besides, I want to look my best for our Vera. If she's flying all the way from Australia just for our twenty-fifth anniversary, the least I can do is look presentable.'
        'She's coming to see you, not your bloody hair.' Emma pulled at the greying strands, watched by her husband who smiled benignly and shook his head. He returned to his paper.
        'It'll be marvellous to see her again after all these years,' said Emma, wistfully.
        'Yes dear,' answered Gordon, his head still buried in the paper.
        'I wonder what the little boys will think of England.'
        Gordon looked up and grunted. 'They'll probably wonder why it's so bloody cold all the time.' There was a rustling from behind Emma's chair and their three-year old Labrador bitch, Sherry, emerged wagging her tail frantically. Emma patted the dog and it stretched out in front of the fire. Gordon moved his feet to give the animal more room.
        'I think she wants her walk,' said Emma, retrieving the leash from the sideboard. There was a photo of their daughter on it and she paused to study the photo for a moment before handing the leash to Gordon.
        'She's all right where she is,' he protested, nudging the dog with his toe. The animal looked round. 'You don't want to go out, do you girl?'
        He shook his head vigorously, as if trying to convince the Labrador that he was right.
        'She needs it,' persisted Emma.
        Gordon grunted and began fitting the leash, glancing up at the clock on the mantlepiece as he did so.
        'It's nearly half past ten,' he said.
        Emma half smiled, almost knowing what was coming next.
        'So?' she said.
        'There's a match on after the news. A big game. Arsenal and Liverpool, it's…'
        She cut him short. 'Oh all right, I can take a hint.'
        Emma went into the hall and pulled down her old navy blue duffle coat and fastened the buttons. She held out her hand for