ASBO: A Novel of Extreme Terror(7)

When it was halfway-full, Andrew stood up and peeled off his shirt. He caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror that was fixed on the back of the bathroom door. A deep, grey blemish of a developing bruise bloomed beneath the ribs on his right side. Gently, he ran a finger over the injury and pressed down slightly. The action was immediately met with a sharp, stabbing pain that radiated through his entire torso. Andrew’s stomach fluttered with approaching nausea and forced him to lean over the sink and take deep breaths. It took several minutes before his insides calmed down again.

Hands shaking, Andrew unfastened his jeans and let them fall around his ankles; his underwear too. Then he stepped out of the clothes and pulled off his socks using his toes, unable to bend down and pull them off by hand. Once he was completely naked, he stepped over into the bath and gingerly lowered himself down.

The warm water sent fresh stabs of pain through his ribs, but after a few seconds the discomfort subsided and was even alleviated slightly by the therapeutic heat massaging his body. He slid back against the tub and placed his head down on the spongy bath pillow that Pen had needlessly brought on one of her shopping trips. He was grateful for it now though and the softness against the back of his skull made him feel sleepy.

He would have to make up with Pen before he went to bed – apologise to her. Never going to bed on an argument was a wisdom he always abided by. Whether or not he shared with his wife why he snapped at her in the first place was something he’d not yet decided.

Don’t want to worry her.

But I don’t want to keep things from her either.

Andrew used the toes of his left foot to turn off the hot water tap and then the cold. He slid lower into the water, letting his chin touch the surface. If he could have, he would have gone completely under, accepting the warm and inviting embrace of the water like a protective womb. He settled for dunking his head under and soaking his hair. Wet, maple strands plastered his forehead when he came back up and he wiped them away with his hand.

Relaxation approached at last, the tension flowing away into the bath water. Soon Andrew would be able to think things through rationally – to decide whether or not he would call the police, tell his wife, or just keep the whole thing to himself. With a calmer mind, Andrew could at least console himself that things would work out one way or another. He was a middle-classed citizen of the UK, not some impoverished Russian on the mean streets of Moscow. There was order and civility in Great Britain. Wretched little monsters like Frankie were punished for their crimes.

He only just got out of a young offender’s home, for Christ’s sake. Is he planning on going straight back to an adult jail?

A knock at the bathroom’s door.

“Andrew?” It was Pen.

Andrew sighed, wishing that the water would swallow him whole. He still wasn’t ready to speak to his wife. But what choice did he have?

“Andrew, I ordered you some food as well. Just in case you change your mind. I’m worried about you. Is your stomach-ache really bad?”

“Yeah,” Andrew replied. “But I’ll try to eat something anyway. I’m sorry I shouted at you.”

There was a brief pause, but then an answer. “That’s okay. We all get grouchy when we’re not very well.”

Andrew suddenly felt teary. His wife’s compassion was such a contrast to the animosity of earlier events that it sent his brain into an emotional tailspin. He fought back the tears and made himself smile (although Pen would not see it from the other side of the door). “I love you, Pen.”

“I love you too, hun. I’ll see you downstairs, okay? That film is about to start and Rebecca wants you to watch it with her.”

“Okay. Be right down.”

Andrew leant forward in the bath and winced against the stiffness and pain in his ribs. He yanked the chain attached to the plug and listened to the gurgle as the drain began its suction. Then he lay back down and waited for the water to drain away around him, enjoying the sensual tickle of the water-level dropping against his skin.

When the tub was finally empty, Andrew remained there for several more minutes, not wanting to move and face the chill of the air outside his ceramic cocoon.

When he did find the willpower to get out of the bath, Andrew quickly grabbed a towel from the warming rail and wrapped it tight around himself. There was a hidden breeze in the room that nipped at his shoulder-blades in places the towel did not cover. He fought back a shiver and began drying himself, taking care not to be too rough around his ribs.