Free Refuge by Andrew Brown Page A

the required maturity of his new position as a father. Wanton sex seemed somehow out of place in a parent. But also, as that slimy body was pulled out, sucking, from inside Amanda, he became acutely aware that the swelling that had been the cause of such sensual closeness between them had suddenly become a separated entity, something that they now both owned, but which was no longer part of them. He had watched his young wife gaze at their daughter with soft eyes, filled with wonder and love, and he knew his world had shifted for ever. He did not resent the child, yet he felt keenly the loss of something only briefly held and now drifting impossibly out of reach.
    Now they summoned up their emotional responses from an internal supply pool of accessible flotsam, where the right worn-out phrase could be sought and fished out. It felt like joining dots in a child’s book: the final picture was immediately apparent and yet he predictably etched one line after another until some absent artist’s ordained creation had been completed.
    Recently, Amanda had insisted on buying two pedigree Labrador pups, complaining that she needed something to soak up her maternal energies. She showed a level of affection and concern for the dogs that left Richard feeling resentful. She kissed them on the sides of their mouths, pushing up their lips to expose pink-and-white gums. Her ice-cold demeanour would melt into little gushing sounds as they nuzzled their noses into her lap, their tails wagging frenetically. The dogs enjoyed pride of place in the living room and in the bedroom, looking up at Richard with hurt eyes when he shooed them out of the way and leaving a trail of silky hair wherever they went.
    Richard turned off the highway and made his way along the dappled avenue towards the impressively high gates of the security complex. ‘Vineyard Heights’ was stamped in big brass letters on the white pillar. The red-and-white boom was stretched across the entrance and he stopped the car. A security guard stepped out from his small cubicle, clipboard in hand.
    ‘Good afternoon, Mr Calloway, sir,’ the man said. Richard couldn’t remember the guard’s name and nodded without saying anything. The boom jerked up and he drove into the manicured grounds of the estate. On one side, young chenin blanc vines ran in regimented rows along the shoulder of the narrow estate road, stretching into the distance. The other side was shaded by massive European oak trees, their gnarled feet gripping the ground. Between the trunks Richard could see the water spraying up in the middle of an artificial lake, splattering back down on the surface like rain. An ungainly swan waddled down the slope and slid chest-first into the water, sending a platoon of smaller mallards quacking out of the way. The home-owners’ association had seen fit to introduce peacocks onto the estate; the males divided their time between showy displays and chasing after the local hadedas that strutted about, eyeing the peahens and their nests with measured intent.
    When he and Amanda had first visited the estate, the pretence of rural isolation seemed quaint. It offered an environment in which nature would be presented to their child in a neatly fenced and tamed package. But the homogenous architecture and pleasing colours had started to feel claustrophobic. The sense of fabrication and dislocation intensified over time; now Richard suspected that the estate was in essence no different from the Western compounds that he had seen in Riyad and Islamabad, a bastion of familiarity shored against the world that lurked beyond the sandbags and watchful soldiers.
    He pulled in alongside Amanda’s BMW X 3 . Someone had left the gate open and the two Labradors bounded out at the sound of his car. He swung the door open and roared at them to get away before they scratched the paintwork. The dogs turned and fled inside, their tails carried low between their legs. Amanda gave him an accusing look as