Nutshell(28)

Trudy turns to face the room. Her small, faraway voice chills me. ‘I’m frightened.’

She already sees how their plans have gone wrong, despite signs of early success. She’s shivering. Asserting her innocence isn’t viable after all. The prospect of a fight with Claude has shown her how lonely her independence could be. His taste for sarcasm is new to her, it scares her, disorients her. And she wants him, even though his voice, his touch and his kisses are corrupted by what they’ve done. My father’s death won’t be confined, it’s cut loose from its mortuary slab or stainless-steel drawer and drifted in the evening air, across the North Circular, over those same north London roofs. It’s in the room now, in her hair, on her hands, and on Claude’s face – an illuminated mask that gapes without expression at the phone in his hand.

‘Listen to this,’ he says in a Sunday-breakfast sort of way. ‘From a local paper. Tomorrow’s. Body of a man seen by hard shoulder of M1 between junctions et cetera and et cetera. Twelve hundred calls from passing motorists to emergency services et cetera. Man pronounced dead on arrival at hospital, confirms police spokeswoman et cetera. Not yet named … And here’s the thing. “Police are not treating the death as a criminal matter at this stage.”’

‘At this stage,’ she murmurs. Then her voice picks up. ‘But you don’t understand what I’m trying to—’

‘Which is?’

‘He’s dead. Dead! It’s so … And …’ Now she’s starting to cry. ‘And it hurts.’

Claude is merely reasonable. ‘What I understand is you wanted him dead and now—’

‘Oh John!’ she cries.

‘So we’ll stick our courage to the screwing whatever. And get on with—’

‘We’ve … done a … terrible thing,’ she says, oblivious to the break she’s making with innocence.

‘Ordinary people wouldn’t have the guts to do what we’ve done. So, here’s another one. Luton Herald and Post. “Yesterday morning—”’

‘Don’t! Please don’t.’

‘All right, all right. Same stuff anyway.’

Now she’s indignant. ‘They write “dead man” and it’s nothing to them. Just words. Typing. They’ve no idea what it means.’

‘But they’re right. I happen to know this. Around the world a hundred and five people die every minute. Not far off two a second. Just to give you some perspective.’

Two seconds’ pause as she takes this in. Then she begins to laugh, an unwanted, mirthless laugh that turns to sobbing, through which she manages to say at last, ‘I hate you.’

He’s come close, his hand is on her arm, he murmurs into her ear. ‘Hate? Don’t get me excited all over again.’

But she has. Through his kisses and her tears she says, ‘Please. No. Claude.’

She doesn’t turn or push him away. His fingers are below my head, moving slowly.

‘Oh no,’ she whispers, moving closer to him. ‘Oh no.’

Grief and sex? I can only theorise. Defences weak, soft tissues gone softer, emotional resilience yielding to childish trust in salty abandonment. I hope never to find out.

He has pulled her towards the bed, removed her sandals, her cotton summer dress and called her his mouse again, though only once. He pushes her onto her back. Consent has rough edges. Does a grieving woman grant it when she raises her buttocks so her panties are pulled free? I’d say no. She has rolled onto her side – the only initiative she takes. Meanwhile, I’m working on a plan, a gesture of last resort. My last shot.

He’s kneeling by her, probably naked. At such a time, what could be worse? He swiftly presents the answer: the high medical risk, at this stage of pregnancy, of the missionary position. With a muttered command – how he charms – he turns her on her back, parts her legs with an indifferent backhand swipe, and gets ready, so the mattress tells me, to lower his bulk onto mine.

My plan? Claude is tunnelling towards me and I must be quick. We’re swaying, creaking, under great pressure. A high-pitched electronic sound wails in my ears, my eyes bulge and smart. I need the use of my arms, my hands, but there’s so little room. I’ll say it fast: I’m going to kill myself. An infant death, a homicide in effect, due to my uncle’s reckless assault on a gravid woman well advanced in her third trimester. His arrest, trial, sentence, imprisonment. My father’s death half avenged. Half, because murderers don’t hang in gentle Britain. I’ll give Claude a proper lesson in the art of negative altruism. To take my life I’ll need the cord, three turns around my neck of the mortal coil. I hear from far off my mother’s sighs. The fiction of my father’s suicide will be the inspiration for my own attempt. Life imitating art. To be stillborn – a tranquil term purged of tragedy – has a simple allure. Now here’s the thudding against my skull. Claude is gaining speed, now at a gallop, hoarsely breathing. My world is shaking, but my noose is in place, both hands are gripping, I’m pulling down hard, back bent, with a bell-ringer’s devotion. How easy. A slippery tightening against the common carotid, vital channel beloved of slit-throats. I can do it. Harder! A sensation of giddy toppling, of sound becoming taste, touch becoming sound. A rising blackness, blacker than I’ve ever seen, and my mother murmuring her farewells.