Free Untouchable Things by Tara Guha Page B

attacks her from nowhere. Blood on the floor of this room and a cascade of red hair falling to the ground. She clasps hands over her mouth and stifles the scream like she did the first time. She can’t think of this now. She promised to forget. They all did.
    She can feel the night behind her, sweeping its gaze over her shoulders and back like a hostile audience. She knows it’s unlikely that anyone will raise their gaze above their own shoes, their own thoughts of reports to finish and supper to make. But she has an urgent need to close the curtains over her vulnerability. She walks towards the window.
    Curtains still closed at midday. Something must be wrong.
    No, she won’t think of this.
    Don’t open them yet, for God’s sake.
    As her hand tugs harder at the fabric she hears the key in the lock.
    “Hey honey, I’m home.” This is Seth’s usual return call. Normally it makes her feel safe, like they’re a family. Today she starts and trembles like a trapped bird.
    “Hello.” She is flushed, guilty, caught fumbling at the window. He stops in the doorway and his eyes narrow. “Now what is my little Catherine up to over there?”
    “Sorry, I was just closing the curtains, I know you don’t like it though…” Her voice trails off.
    “I certainly don’t like it if you don’t use the cord.”
    “Oh dear, sorry, I forgot.” She perches on the piano stool, slowing her breathing.
    “Nothing broken. But can we keep them open? You know I feel penned in if I can’t see out.”
    “Of course, sorry, it was just being on my own.” She sits on her hands, which are suddenly cold.
    He walks over to her. “Now what have I told you about constant apologising?”
    “I know, sorry – God…”
    He grins. “How about you pour us a nice glass of wine and we’ll say no more about it?”
    She smiles relief, gets to her feet. “Red or white?”
    “White. There’s a Sancerre chilling in the door of the fridge. And you’ll find some cashews in the cupboard.”
    She set to, suddenly peckish and hoping they might pop out for pizza soon. Seth was in high spirits, having spent the afternoon at an auction in Hampstead out-manoeuvring a ‘crusty old twerp’ who was bidding, like him, for an Italianate sideboard, which would look divine next to the armchair and would be delivered tomorrow. He leaned back for a second, crossed his legs and sighed with satisfaction.
    “Isn’t it wonderful to win?” As she watched him, Catherine thought she felt as a mother must feel. All her earlier jumpiness had passed. He looked up, caught her eye. “Dear little Catherine. Now, what naughty things have you been up to while I’ve been away?” She quietly told him what she’d been practising, but he was barely listening. “You know, I’m absolutely starving. What would you say to Thai takeaway?”
    She smiled. “Sounds great.”
    Scene 12
    I’ve yet to understand, Mr Stanley, why you became involved with Seth Gardner.
    Involved?
    Friends with him. From what you’ve told me he doesn’t exactly strike me as your type.
    He isn’t. Wasn’t.
    But there were moments.
    Simon Rattle and the CBSO, Royal Festival Hall, May 1994. The whole place chattering with excitement. All the musos out in force, a constant process of ducking and weaving to avoid being seen by teaching contacts and ex-choir associates. He is here alone. Mahler’s second symphony, the Resurrection. No Marcus, his singing buddy, no Catherine, no need for conversation. Just him and the music. Until the distinction erodes.
    We share a love of music.
    Catherine always claims that he and Seth are ‘more similar than you realise. You talk about music in a similar way. If you could just look past him having a different background from you…’ He doesn’t care what Catherine thinks. Tonight all he cares about is this moment, this music, the first shivers of violins and rumbling basses as the funeral march begins. This time there will be no escape, no pity. He closes his