The Adulterer's Daughter: A Novel

by Sam Anthony

  “Yesterday.”

  “Yesterday? Where was I? Why didn’t you come and find me?”

  “I was in my study. The thing is, I seem to able to make myself hard when I’m on my own, but when I’m with you …” He trailed off.

  “That reminds me,” said Serena. “What’s in that locked file on your computer?”

  All the blood drained out of Eric’s face. Gone was the golden tan.

  “What locked file?”

  “I’ll show you.” She led him into the study and nudged the mouse to bring the screen to life. “This one. What’s in it?”

  “Nothing. Just boring work stuff. Confidential patient information.”

  “Show me.”

  “I can’t. I … I’ve forgotten the password.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Serena, I sw…”

  “Don’t even think about swearing. Delete it.”

  “What?”

  “Either show me what’s in it or delete it.”

  “But …”

  “Now!”

  Reluctantly, Eric reached for the mouse, right-clicked and deleted the folder. “There. It’s gone.”

  “Empty the wastebasket.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Just do it.”

  He complied.

  “Good. Now, together we’re going to figure out a way to sort out your erection problem. I’ll help you. We’ll begin by making an appointment to see the doctor.” She tapped him on the chest as she said, “You are going to fucking well get me pregnant if it’s the last thing you do.”

  “I understand,” said Eric.

  Serena held out her hand and uncurled her fingers to reveal the memory card from the camera.

  “And I’m keeping this. If you ever do anything stupid like this again, I’m showing these photos to Ollie and Steve.”

  Chapter 20

  Thursday 4 September, 2003

  Public footpath, 8:52 p.m.

  “Good shit, mate?”

  “Yes, thank you, old chap. I needed that, I can tell you. I love the way steam rises from it on a chilly evening.”

  “Do you ever feel guilty about our owners picking up our poop?”

  “Oh, my word, isn’t it awful? Sometimes I feel so bad I sneak off and do it in private, in a bush or behind a tree. Why do they do that? It’s a disgusting habit.”

  “I know, right? There’s simply no need for it. Once I’ve kicked a bit of grass over the top, you can barely see it.”

  “Exactly. What do you think they do with all that faecal matter when they get it home?”

  “Add it to their collection. I reckon Serena must have a couple of tonnes of the stuff by now.”

  “Humans are weird.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “If they’re that desperate to collect poop, why don’t they do some themselves. I mean, cats do it, foxes do it, birds do it, cows and sheep do it. Why not humans? You see them eat, but you never see them poop.”

  “I have a theory about that.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I reckon they convert it into gas. My owner lets out gas all the time. At least twenty times a day. And several times a week she disappears into the farting room and fills it with the most godawful stench you can imagine.”

  “The farting room?”

  “Yeah. The smallest room in the house with that weird white seat.”

  “Oh, you mean the water-bowl room. Where they keep a bottomless supply of water for whenever I get thirsty and the bowl in the kitchen is empty.”

  “Wait, there’s water in there?”

  “Of course there is, old chap. That’s what it’s for. Ah ….”

  “What?”

  “I seem to have made something of a faux pas.”

  “I don’t know what that means, mate. My knowledge of language is strictly limited to English and Australian.”

  “I inadvertently made a tactless remark about your tiny little legs.”

  “They’re not tiny, just a bit shorter than average.”

  “Indeed. But because you’re … vertically challenged, you may not have seen that there’s water in the great white drinking bowl.”

  “I had no idea. I thought it was just some sort of game my owners were playing. He’d put the seat up, have a piss, and leave it up; she’d shout at him and put the seat back down again. They’ve been playing the same game for as long as I can remember.”

  “How do you win?”

  “It’s a never-ending game. There’s no ultimate victor, but you can be in the lead. He’s in the lead if the seat is up more than down and she’s in the lead if it’s down more than up.”

  “Bizarre. It makes ...”

  “Cat!” Stumpy interrupted and charged off down the hill.

  “Go get her, old boy.”

  “Little help, mate?”

  “No chance. You’re on your own.”

  Stumpy trotted back sheepishly ten minutes later.

  “Any luck?”

  “Nah. Little blighter jumped over a wall.”

  “Why didn’t you follow?”

  “With these slightly shorter than average legs?”

  “Ah, good point. Probably for the best.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember I told you I can run like the wind?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, when I was a pup, I chased a cat and actually caught it. Worst mistake I ever made.”

  “How come?”

  “That’s how I got this scar on my nose. They’re vicious bastards when you get them cornered. Hissing and spitting and scratching. Stay well clear of cats, that’s my advice. Bark from a safe distance.”

  Chapter 21

  Sunday 7 September, 2003

  Ava’s bedroom, 11:12 a.m.

  Jemima and Ava were in Ava’s bedroom listening to music at full volume, while Steve and Fiona were out on a rare joint excursion into town. They had already plaited each other’s hair, and were considering what to do next when Ava finally plucked up the courage to ask the question.

  “A girl in my year is having a party next Saturday. You always look so stylish, Jem. Can you help me choose something to wear?”

  “Of course. Show me what you’ve got.”

  Jemima went through Ava’s wardrobe, one item at a time, discarding the rejects on the bed as she went. “No. No. No. God, no! No. Erm … no. No. Absolutely not. No. Yes!”

  “Really?”

  “No, I’m kidding. You can’t wear that in public. No. No. No. And no. Is that everything?”

  “Those are my best clothes. I guess there are some more in the basement, but they’re bagged and labelled ready to go to the charity shop.”

  “Oh, Ava, you must never throw away any clothes. If you wait long enough, they always come back into fashion.”

  “But they don’t fit anymore.”

  “That’s not a problem. We can always make shorts out of an old pair of trousers, or sew a couple of blouses together to make something trendy.”

  “I guess so. Let’s go, then.”

  Ava led Jemima down to the basement.

  “I’ve never been down here,” said Jemima. “Please tell me there aren’t any spiders.”

  “There aren’t any spiders.”

  “Really?”

  “No, there are spiders everywhere, but they’re very friendly.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  It was dingy and dusty, full of old junk, but there was a well-worn path through the middle.

  Ava rummaged amongst a deep pile of bin bags. “This is the one.” She hoisted the bag onto a table.

  Jemima tore it open and rejected every item of clothing again, holding each one by her fingertips in case anything with eight hairy legs was lurking within. She looked at her friend’s woeful face.

  “How about I lend you something of mine?”

  “Oh, that would be so kind.”

  They were on the verge of leaving the
basement when Jemima pointed into the gloom. “What’s behind that door?”

  Ava, who tended not to wear her glasses when she was with her friend, peered myopically in the direction of Jemima’s finger. “Where?”

  “Over there, at the end of this pathway.”

  “No idea. I’d forgotten it was even there. That door’s always locked. I assume it’s just the entrance to a boiler room or maybe an old coal cellar.”

  Walking closer, Jemima said, “Why’s it got three locks? Sturdy ones, too. You don’t need three locks to protect a coal cellar.”

  “Good point. But I’ve never seen this door open, so there can’t be anything useful in there. It’s probably been locked for years.”

  “I don’t think so. Everything down here is covered in dust but look at the door handle. Clean and shiny. Someone has turned that handle recently. And look at the locks.”

  It was hard to make out in the dim light, but Ava could see what Jemima was pointing at. On each lock, at the centre of the tarnished metal, shiny scratch marks could be seen where keys had recently slid in and out.

  “You’re right. Each of these locks has been opened within the last few weeks. How strange.”

  Jemima giggled. “Perhaps this is where your parents keep your long lost older brother – the mental one with the hideous deformities – gagged and chained to a wall. Have you ever noticed them bringing scraps of food down here?”

  Deadpan, Ava replied. “No, we keep him locked in the attic.”

  “Perhaps your mum is a Russian spy, and this is where she hides all her disguises and her radio transmitter for sending secret messages to Moscow.”

  “Have you met my mum? That seems unlikely.”

  “Perhaps it’s full of freezers where your dad keeps the bodies of the people he murders.”

  “Have you met … actually, that is a possibility.”

  “Perhaps it’s where your parents keep their expensive wine collection.”

  “Trust me; there is nothing expensive in our house. Look at my clothes.”

  This was meant to be a joke, but Jemima just nodded.

  Ava tried the handle. It turned easily, but the door wouldn’t budge due to the three robust locks.

  Jemima knocked on the door and shouted. “Hello! Is there anyone in there? Ava’s freaky disfigured crazy brother, can you hear me? Bang on a pipe if you need to be rescued.”

  Silence.

  “Do you know where the keys are?”

  “Not a clue. Mum and Dad have identical sets of keys hanging in the hallway upstairs. Mum’s on the left hook, Dad’s on the right. A front door key, a back door key and a car key. That’s it.”

  “Perhaps they’re down here somewhere.”

  The girls searched the obvious places in the basement: shelves, ledges, nooks, drawers, taking great care not to touch anything for fear of dislodging a lonely spider. They had no success.

  “Well, the keys must be somewhere,” said Jemima. “Your mission, before we meet again, is to search this house from top to bottom until you find them. I’ve got to know what’s in that room.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing exciting. Like I said, no one ever goes in there.”

  “We’ll see about that. I saw this in a spy movie.” Jemima pulled out a single red hair from her head, licked it and placed it delicately over the door handle. “That hair will stay there for weeks unless someone turns the handle. I want you to come down here every day to see if it’s gone. Okay?”

  “Must I?”

  “Yes. Now, let’s go to my house and find you some nice clothes for the party.”

  Chapter 22

  Monday 8 September, 2003

  The health centre, 10:55 a.m.

  “I really don’t know why we’re doing this,” Eric said as he locked the car and headed, hands in pockets, towards the ugly new health centre.

  Serena linked her arm through his. “Yes you do. I think a doctor can solve your … our problem.”

  “But I’m a doctor.”

  “Darling, you’re a surgeon. We need to see a GP. Someone who’s used to dealing with issues of this type.”

  “Issues of this type! If you mean impotence, why don’t you just say it?”

  “You’re not impotent, darling. This is merely a temporary malfunction. There are all sorts of treatments we can try before I divorce you and find myself a new husband. A handsome young stud who can go all night.”

  Eric stopped walking, crestfallen. His shoulders slumped and his head dropped.

  Standing in front of him, Serena took Eric’s face in her perfectly manicured hands, and made him look at her.

  “I’m teasing, you dope. I love you, Eric. I’ve loved you since the day we met. Nothing can change that. It doesn’t matter if we never have sex again,” she lied. “But I want to have a family with you. A baby. Two. Three.” She smiled coquettishly. “Obviously my preference is to do it the old-fashioned way, but if we have to employ other methods to get your sperm into my eggs, we can do that. But that will only be a last resort. First, let’s get Mummy’s Best Friend working properly again.”

  Eric laughed. “Mummy’s Best Friend?”

  “That’s what I call him,” she lied again. “Didn’t you know?”

  “Not Mr Floppy?”

  She kissed him. “Never. Now, let’s get in there and get you fixed.”

  ◆◆◆

  The forty-five-minute hiatus in the waiting room was uncomfortable. Everyone studying everyone else, trying to figure out what was wrong with them.

  Eric leaned towards his wife and whispered. “Genital warts.”

  She frowned, not understanding.

  He nodded at the old lady sitting next to the fish tank.

  Serena smiled and shook her head. She moved her lips nearer till they were tickling his ear and whispered back. “Rugby injury. She’s a prop forward.”

  They were both wrong, for the old lady was, in fact, Mrs Maureen McDonald, getting a check-up for the injuries sustained during her recent assault. The dentist had sorted her teeth, but her nose was still swollen and the black rings around her eyes were now a deep emerald green.

  ◆◆◆

  Eventually, Eric and Serena were summoned by the receptionist and led down a long corridor to the end office.

  “Good morning, Mr and Mrs McDougal. Come in. Take a seat. Now, what seems to be the problem?” said the doctor; a spotty young man who barely looked old enough to drive, never mind make life-or-death diagnostic decisions.

  Never one to beat about the bush, Eric blurted, “I’m impotent.”

  The doctor nodded as if this was something he heard ten times a day. “We don’t call it that anymore, Mr McDougal. It’s now known as Erectile Dysfunction because that’s all it is. Your erection, temporarily, isn’t functioning properly. We’re going to figure out why and fix it.”

  “I think you can probably call me Eric seeing as we’re going to be talking about such an intimate subject.”

  “As you wish. When’s the last time you had an erection, Eric?”

  “Last night.”

  Serena put her hand on Eric’s thigh. “Last night? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It was three o’clock in the morning and you were fast asleep.”

  “You should have woken me. We could …”

  The GP interrupted. “This is excellent news. It means everything is working properly down there, so your problem is psychological rather than physiological.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Eric. “What’s changed? Why can I only get hard when I’m asleep?”

  “It’s called nocturnal penile tumescence, and it’s perfectly normal. On average, a healthy man has three to five erections during a full night’s sleep, with each one lasting about half an hour. They occur during REM sleep – the phase when we dream – when specific areas of the brain are activated. Sometimes we wake up while they’re happening, as you did last night.”

  “But why won’t it happen during the day when
I’m awake? I mean, look at my wife. Just look at her. Now imagine her naked. She’s stunning.”

  The doctor could not disagree and crossed his legs to ease his discomfort.

  “And yet this useless appendage just lies there like a dead slug.” Eric nodded towards his lap.

  “May I ask if you’re able to make yourself hard when you’re on your own? Do you masturbate in private, for example?”

  Eric glanced at his wife.

  “I’m not leaving,” she said. “Just answer the man.”

  “I used to be able to.” He sighed. “With the right … visual stimulation. But not anymore. Not since …” He trailed off.

  In the uncomfortable silence, the doctor looked from Eric to Serena and back again.

  “Tell me about your lifestyle. Do you smoke?”

  “No. Never have.”

  “Drink?”

  “A little.”

  “How much is a little?”

  “I sometimes have a glass or two of red wine after work if I’m not on-call.”

  The doctor looked at Serena.

  “He has a bottle of wine most evenings, maybe more at the weekend.”

  “I see. What about exercise?”

  “I try to squeeze in a round of golf when I can, but I’m a busy man and the hours can be irregular. You know what it’s like in our line of work.”

  “I do indeed.” The doctor checked Eric’s notes. “You’re a surgeon, I believe.”

  “Yes, cardiothoracic.”

  “I should imagine that could be rather stressful.”

  “On my feet, holding someone’s heart in my hands for six straight hours. What do you think?”

  “What’s your diet like?”

  Eric smiled at Serena. “I love her dearly, but my wife is a terrible cook, so I tend to eat in the hospital canteen.”

  “Healthy meals? Plenty of fruit?”

  “Usually a burger and chips or pizza.”

  “Okay,” said the doctor. “There are some obvious initial things we can try to help solve this problem. From now on I want you to ensure you eat a healthier diet, cut right down on the alcohol consumption, get plenty of sleep, try to reduce your stress and anxiety whenever possible (I hear good things about meditation and yoga), maybe lose a few pounds, and exercise daily.”