The Adulterer's Daughter: A Novel

by Sam Anthony

  “Isn’t disrupting every lesson a good reason?”

  “Apparently not. He may be thick, but he’s cunning. He knows we can’t get rid of him unless he does something really bad.”

  “Like what?”

  “Burn down the school. Rape a year 7 girl. Stab the headteacher in the face. Obviously, he’s not going to do any of those things, but a string of less serious misdemeanours would do. If he swore at a member of staff, he’d get a two-day suspension. That would be a start, at least. Enough temporary suspensions might lead to a permanent exclusion, eventually.”

  “Can’t you get him to swear at you?”

  “Don’t think I haven’t tried. He knows too well where the boundaries are.”

  “Can’t you reason with him one-to-one? Appeal to his better nature?”

  “He hasn’t got a better nature; that’s the problem. The boy has no moral compass. He’s definitely going to grow up to be a burden on society: an idle, good for nothing, junky who begets clones of himself during the brief interludes when he’s not in prison. It’s sad to say, but the world would be a better place without him.”

  Ollie yawned, stretched, and turned out the light. In the darkness, he said, “Have you considered murder?”

  ◆◆◆

  As she lay there thinking, Mia felt her husband’s hand settle on her hip. It rested there a moment and then slithered under her t-shirt, over her abdomen and came to a halt, cupping her right breast.

  “Er, did you want something?” she said.

  “I’m up for it if you are.”

  “Light on or light off?”

  “On, please.”

  Mia switched on the light, stripped off her t-shirt, and wriggled out of her knickers.

  Ollie, already naked, took her in his arms and they began to kiss.

  Chapter 3

  Saturday 21 June, 2003

  O’Connor bedroom, 11:20 p.m.

  Steve (45) was already in bed reading a psychological thriller when Fiona (44) trudged up the stairs.

  “I’ll just check on Ava,” she whispered before tiptoeing along the corridor to peek in at her daughter.

  On her return, Fiona removed her earrings, and placed them safely in the jewellery box, before retrieving her pyjamas from under a pillow and entering the bathroom to get changed.

  When did she start leaving the room to take her clothes off? thought Steve. For that matter, when did she start wearing baggy cotton pyjamas instead of silky nightdresses?

  He probably ought to initiate sex. It had been a while. Three weeks? Four? But he was tired. He just wanted to finish his chapter and get some sleep.

  ◆◆◆

  It had been a busy week for Steve. A proficient electrician, he was much in demand in the local villages, and the recent heatwave seemed to have caused all sorts of issues with the wiring in some older houses.

  He put his book down, thinking. Was this it? Was this how his life would be from now until he died? Working long days, getting called out at all hours, nothing to look forward to. No, it wasn’t that bad. He still loved his wife, although, in all honesty, he didn’t fancy her quite as much since she’d put on a few pounds. Maybe she now had a smattering of wrinkles around her eyes, and had begun to dye her hair, but she was still an attractive woman in a certain light. To him, anyway. There was no doubt he’d married up. Fiona’s family were verging on wealthy. She and her siblings had all attended private schools and had fancy jobs. He was just a sparky. The only son of another sparky and a shop assistant. The product of a run-down council estate. But look at him now. Married to a posh bird. Father to a wonderful, kind daughter. Going on swanky holidays to Scotland and Cornwall with dear friends.

  He ought to be counting his blessings, but he wasn’t. He was thinking, Is this it?

  ◆◆◆

  It had been an even busier week for Fiona. She worked full time as a solicitor in the city, forty miles away. She left home at 6:30 a.m. and didn’t return until nearly 7:00 p.m. most days, only to spend her evenings cooking the dinner, doing the washing and ironing, tidying the house, and helping Ava with her homework. At least Steve loaded the dishwasher, sometimes.

  Fiona hardly had any time for herself. She would have liked to go to the gym, read a book, get her hair done, go shopping, but she was always so busy.

  She loved Steve. He did his best. She had no regrets at all about marrying him. Not one. Did she? Of course not. If she hadn’t married Steve, they would never have had Ava. And she doted on Ava. Ava was her whole world.

  As she changed into her pyjamas, Fiona studied herself in the bathroom mirror. Her roots were showing again. Her large firm breasts were a thing of the past; shrinking and sinking inexorably. Her thighs could only be described as chunky at best. No wonder Steve rarely wanted to have sex with her anymore. Perhaps that was a blessing in disguise. She hadn’t got time for sex. But she had got time to check on Ava once more.

  ◆◆◆

  Fiona climbed into bed.

  “Ava okay?” said Steve.

  “Fast asleep. Late night for her, but she seemed to enjoy herself at the barbecue.”

  “Yeah, her and Jemima were chatting away all night.”

  “I’m glad they get on so well. How’s your book?” She pointed.

  “It’s good, but I think I’ve worked out the twist already, and I’m only on page forty-eight. Jesus, listen to that rain.”

  “Please don’t blaspheme, Steve. You know I don’t like it.”

  “Sorry, love.”

  Fiona started applying moisturising cream to her face and hands, and Steve let out a silent sigh. Sex was off the cards for tonight. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy having sex with his wife, but he liked it to be on his terms, and now wasn’t the time or the place.

  “Serena looked stunning tonight, didn’t she?” said Fiona.

  “Did she? I can’t say I noticed.”

  “I’d kill to have a figure like hers. She’s so pretty, too.”

  Steve picked up his book.

  “Night, then.”

  “Night.”

  Chapter 4

  Saturday 21 June, 2003

  McDougal bedroom, 11:45 p.m.

  “I’ve put the dishwasher on. We can tidy up the rest tomorrow.” Serena (38) exited the walk-in closet three inches shorter, minus her heels. She switched on all the lights.

  Eric (51) rolled over in bed, and responded with a grunt.

  “Everyone had a good time, didn’t they?” said Serena.

  “They were certainly impressed with your new car.”

  Serena sat on the bed beside her husband. “Oh, yes. Very impressed. Less impressed, however, with my avocado, pistachio and pomegranate salad.”

  “At least you didn’t burn it.” Eric laughed. “It’s probably best if you stick to cold dishes after last year’s fiasco.”

  “Is my cooking really that bad?”

  “No, I’m just kidding.” He wasn’t. It really was that bad.

  Serena McDougal was what is now known as a homemaker, but was then known as a housewife. She had plenty of time on her hands. Too much time. She was bored to tears.

  “Can you unzip me?”

  “Sure.”

  Serena stood and stepped out of her dress, leaving it on the floor where it lay. She turned to face her husband. “Do you like these earrings?” She waited for Eric’s head to turn towards her before unclipping and removing her bra.

  “They’re very nice. Did I buy them?”

  She slowly slid down her knickers before responding. “Erm, no, I think they were a present from my mother.”

  Serena stood naked, illuminated and brazen in front of her husband, maintaining eye contact. She raised her arms above her head and stretched languorously.

  She was flawless from head to toe. A beautiful, subtly made-up symmetrical face. A smile that could light up a room. Shoulder-length blonde hair with expensive highlights. A stunning, perma-tanned pornstar body – the result of hour upon hour of pilat
es, yoga, weight-training, cycling and jogging – of which any eighteen-year-old would be envious. And the tiniest amount of perfectly maintained pubic hair.

  It was Eric who looked away first.

  She turned her back to him and bent down to pick up her dress; stiff-legged, bending at the waist.

  Now check out my perfect arse. Can you see how flexible I am? You’re a lucky man, Eric McDougal.

  Eric, in response, studiously removed a piece of fluff from the duvet.

  ◆◆◆

  When Serena returned from the bathroom, Eric’s head was on the pillow and his eyes were shut.

  She slid into bed beside him. Naked. She always slept naked.

  “Well, goodnight, then.”

  Eric grunted.

  Please yourself, she thought.

  That night Serena didn’t even wait for her husband to begin snoring before she took out her favourite vibrator from the bedside drawer.

  Chapter 5

  Saturday 28 June, 2003

  The pub, 9:45 p.m.

  It being the fourth Saturday of the month, Steve, Eric and Ollie were sitting in the snug of the Hare And Hounds; Steve with his pint of bitter, Eric with his large glass of red wine, and Ollie with his pint of cider.

  The conversation was ebbing. There was no football to agonise over during the summer break. In cricket, the first test match against South Africa was still four weeks away. And they had already analysed to death the England Rugby Union team’s magnificent victories over New Zealand and Australia during the previous fortnight.

  “Who’s that?” said Eric.

  Ollie looked up from his pint. “New barmaid. Started last week. Moved into the cottage next door.”

  Eric gawped. “She only looks about fifteen.”

  “Eighteen,” said Ollie. “Going out with some lad in the upper sixth at Jemima’s school.”

  “Lucky bastard. She’s absolutely stunning.” Eric licked his lips.

  “Hadn’t noticed,” said Steve.

  “How can she afford to live next door when she’s only eighteen? I didn’t have the money to get my own place till I was nearly thirty.”

  “Ron’s let her have it rent-free.”

  “Ron who?”

  “Ron the landlord.”

  “What? Our Ron?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That fat, bald chap over there polishing glasses? Are we definitely talking about the same Ron?”

  “Yep.”

  “The same guy who hasn’t bought anyone a drink since 1986?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “The one who shortchanges his customers at every opportunity?”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “And he’s letting her have the place rent-free. But ... why?”

  “I think I know the answer to that one. What a rack!” Eric crossed his legs. “Do you think they’re real?”

  “Of course they’re real. That’s what teenage breasts look like.”

  “It’s been way too long since I’ve had a go on a breast that points outwards instead of downwards,” said Steve morosely.

  “Seriously, though. Look at those boobs.”

  Ollie chuckled. “I said she’s eighteen, Eric. That’s too young, even for you.”

  “Are you saying she hasn’t got a nice rack?”

  “No, I’m saying that I’m not staring at her and salivating, like you are.”

  “Don’t be such a bloody prude. There’s nothing wrong with looking.”

  “As long as that’s all it is.”

  “Don’t worry. You know I’m a happily married man.”

  “Of course you are. A fancy house, a swanky car, a trophy wife, and no kids. What’s not to be happy about?”

  But Eric didn’t look happy. His hungry eyes followed the new barmaid until she left the room.

  “Right, we can’t put this off any longer. Over to you, Steve?” said Ollie.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s your turn to choose the conversation topic tonight.”

  “Ah, yes. I thought we could have a deep dive into household waste recycling.”

  “Have a what?”

  “A deep dive.”

  “That’s not an expression.”

  “It is.”

  “It isn’t, mate.”

  “Well, it should be. We’re going to dive deeply down into the pros and cons of the matter.”

  “That’s a split infinitive, right there,” said Eric. “It should be ‘dive down deeply’. And to be honest, the ‘down’ is redundant. You can’t exactly dive upwards.”

  “You’re missing my point,” said Ollie. “He shouldn’t be saying ‘deep dive’ at all. He should be saying something like ‘in-depth analysis’ or ‘detailed examination’.”

  “Well, I’m going to keep saying ‘deep dive’ moving forward, until it catches on.”

  “I’m sorry … ‘moving forward’?”

  “In the future.”

  “If you mean ‘in the future’, just say it.”

  “I prefer ‘moving forward’. It’s quicker.”

  “It isn’t quicker, they’re both four syllables. Why don’t you say ‘from now on’? That’s only three syllables.”

  “It’s three words, though. ‘Moving forward’ is only two.”

  “It sounds ridiculous.”

  “Well, I like it. And I’m going to keep saying it until everyone does.”

  “Never going to happen, mate.” Ollie shook his head. “Get on with it, then.”

  Steve looked from Eric to Ollie and back to Eric. “How many tonnes of municipal waste do you think we produce every year?”

  “Us three or …?”

  “In the whole of the U.K.”

  “I don’t know, a thousand?” said Ollie.

  “More.”

  “Ten thousand?”

  “More.”

  “A billion?”

  “Now you’re being ridiculous. The answer is thirty million tonnes.”

  “That sounds like a lot.”

  “It’s a fucking lot. And what percentage of that do you think ends up in a landfill?”

  “It can’t be much. I see bottle banks all over the place, and there are metal and paper and food recycling skips at the local tip, too. Forty?”

  “Not even close. Roughly eighty percent of all household waste ends up in a landfill, and only twelve percent goes for recycling and composting.”

  “Twelve percent? That’s shit. What happens to the rest?”

  “Huh?”

  “The other eight percent.”

  “No idea. They probably dump it in the sea or shoot it into outer space or something.”

  “How much actual volume of trash are we talking here?”

  “Enough to fill the Royal Albert Hall every hour of every day.”

  “Jesus!”

  “I know, right? We need to do more. Every time we recycle a glass bottle rather than make a new one from raw materials, we save enough energy to power a 100-watt light bulb for an hour. Every year we could save five million tonnes of carbon dioxide emission just through recycling. That’s equivalent to the energy that would be saved by a twelve percent reduction in traffic.”

  “I’m sure most other countries must be worse than us,” said Eric.

  “Nuh-uh. We’re way down the list. In Belgium, they recycle sixty-two percent of household waste. Forty-five percent in Switzerland. They make our measly twelve percent look pathetic.”

  “Well, why aren’t we doing something about it?”

  “We’re supposed to be. In 1990 we set ourselves a target to recycle twenty-five percent of our waste by the year 2000, and we’re still only managing twelve. At the current rate, we won’t meet our target till about 2014.”

  Eric shrugged. “Can’t we just burn it all?”

  “We could. However, incinerators are increasingly unpopular due to health concerns about the release of dioxins, heavy metals and acid gases.”

  “So burying it is the be
st option as far as health is concerned?”

  “Nope. Carcinogens are often found in properties close to landfill sites.”

  “There aren’t any landfills around here, are there?”

  “No, the nearest one is fifty-odd miles away.”

  “That’s all right then. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  “You say that now, Eric, but you might not be so relaxed about it when all the landfills are full, and they start digging a massive pit at the bottom of your garden.”

  “So, what’s your point?” Eric said.

  “We need to do something about it. We can’t just keep digging humungous holes all over the countryside and burying all our shit. It’s time we begin to recycle more.” Steve put his pint down with a thump, sloshing beer onto the table. Ron, the landlord, was too cheap to buy furniture that was level, and a river of pale ale dribbled its way onto Eric’s trousers.”

  “Bloody hell!” he said, getting to his feet and brushing at his legs.

  “Sorry, mate.”

  “I’m going to the gents.”

  The barmaid appeared from nowhere with a cloth and wiped the table dry, if not clean.

  Steve and Ollie pretended not to watch her perfect breasts jiggling from side to side as she did so.

  When she’d gone back behind the bar, Steve jumped to his feet and said, “I’ll get this round, then.”

  “But it’s not your turn, mate.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m feeling generous.”

  Chapter 6

  Wednesday 2 July, 2003

  Public footpath, 9:15 p.m.

  Ollie and Serena stood leaning against the old wooden gate while Lord and Stumpy dashed around checking up on their favourite smelling spots.

  “What a beautiful sunset,” said Serena.

  Ollie turned to face her. “It really is.”

  She smiled. “It’s one of those rare, perfect evenings: stimulating to all the senses.”