The Adulterer's Daughter: A Novel

by Sam Anthony

  Ava forced a laugh. “Me? Of course I do. Erm, … what about Drew?”

  “I’ll get him an invitation too. You can keep each other company.”

  “Oh, wow, Jem. That would be awesome.”

  “Just leave it to me.”

  Lord barked. “Ladies, this is boring. Can’t we go and call on Stumpy?”

  They ignored him, so he lay down on the grass with his nose in a rabbit hole.

  Jemima took a second cigarette out of the packet and lit it at the fourth attempt. “So, what’s the news from your house? Have you found the keys to the secret room yet?”

  “No, and I’ve looked everywhere.”

  “You can’t have. They must be in a handy hiding place so your parents can get quick access when they need to feed your mutant brother. Is my hair still on the doorknob?”

  “It was this morning. I’m really not convinced anyone ever goes in there.”

  “Don’t give up so soon.” Jemima inhaled another shallow puff of acrid smoke, and blew it into her friend’s face. “I’ve got to know what’s inside.”

  Ava took a subtle step backwards, causing Lord to yelp when a hundred and ten pounds of teenage girl descended onto his magnificent tail.

  “Oh, I say; can’t you look where you’re going?” He stormed off in high dudgeon.

  “I’m so sorry, Lord,” Ava called after him.

  “Don’t worry about it. He’ll live.” Jemima flicked the last two inches of her cigarette into the undergrowth. “This is boring. Shall we go?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, and Ava found herself sheepishly following along behind.

  Lord waited until they were nearly out of sight before he broke into a trot in pursuit, his tail between his legs.

  ◆◆◆

  The lighted cigarette came to rest against a twist of tinder-dry bracken (Pteridium aquilinum) where it smouldered for a few seconds, producing wisps of smoke. A fieldmouse (Apodemus sylvaticus) popped her head out of a hole to investigate the unusual smell, before a tiny flame sent her scurrying back deep into the burrow. The flame came perilously close to a larger clump of potential fuel before a gust of wind snuffed the life out of it.

  Chapter 26

  Friday 19 September, 2003

  Public footpath, 9:12 p.m.

  “God, I needed that! Well done, stud.” Serena condescendingly patted Ollie on the bottom. She looked up at the stars. “Wow, what a beautiful clear sky.”

  “Is it?” Ollie couldn’t see as his head was still buried in Serena’s neck while he regained his breath. He kissed her on the ear. “This is my favourite time of year, you know.”

  “How come?”

  “It’s dark enough for us not to be seen, and it’s still dry enough for us to be able to lie on the ground.”

  “Hmm,” Serena responded. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that as soon as the damp weather starts, you always go on top and I have to walk home with a soggy arse.”

  “Are you sure? That doesn’t sound very gentlemanly of me.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I reckon, in a couple more weeks, we’re going to have to revert to standing up.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not really; we’re just limited in terms of the number of positions available to us.”

  “I don’t mind as long as you make me come.”

  “What’s my success rate?”

  “With you on top? About fifty percent. Standing up? Maybe thirty.”

  “That’s not good.”

  She rubbed the back of his head. “It’s better than nothing.”

  Serena resumed her study of the constellations, and Ollie thought about getting up, but he was too comfortable and drowsy to make the effort.

  “Ouch!” Ollie smacked his right buttock. “Something bit me.”

  “Yeah, right. If you want me to get a bit rough with you, you only have to ask. There’s no need to spank yourself.”

  “I’m serious. I definitely felt something.”

  “Stumpy!” she called. “I’ve told you before about biting strange men.”

  “I was nowhere near,” barked Stumpy. “What’s she going on about, mate?”

  “Don’t ask me, old chap. When those two start getting jiggy, I get as far away as possible. It’s just nasty.”

  “Shall we go and have a splash in the stream?”

  “It’s very muddy at the moment where the cows have churned up the ground.”

  “Exactly. Let’s see who can get the muddiest. I’ll race you.”

  Stumpy sprinted away on his little legs and Lord followed sedately behind.

  Chapter 27

  Saturday 20 September, 2003

  Fairfax bedroom, 10:40 p.m.

  “How on earth have you managed to get mosquito bites all over your bottom?”

  Ollie walked into the bathroom and twisted to study his rear in the mirror.

  “No idea, but they’re itching like buggery. Do me a favour?”

  “What?”

  “Can you square them off for me?”

  “Can I what?”

  “Square them off. Use one of your fingernails to scratch a square around the outside of each bite. Don’t touch the red bit whatever you do, but get as close as you can to the inflammation.”

  “Why?”

  “If you scratch mosquito bites, they itch more, but if you square them off, they itch less,” Ollie said, as if it was the most obvious aphorism in the world.

  “What an unusual technique. I’ve never heard of it. Are you sure it’s a thing?”

  “It works for me.”

  “There’s some antihistamine cream in the kitchen. Wouldn’t you rather use that?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll stick with my tried and tested method.”

  “Come here, then.”

  Mia studied the most inflamed of the protuberances.

  “Does it have to be a square?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can I do any regular polygon? A pentagon or a hexagon, for example.”

  “Bloody maths teachers. No! It has to be a square.”

  “How come?”

  “Squares itch less.”

  “Are you sure? Have you tried an equilateral triangle?”

  “Don’t be daft! It’s common knowledge that squares work better than any other shape.”

  “I don’t think it is, babe. I’ve never heard that.”

  Mia leaned in closer to her husband’s hairy arse-crack. “Can’t you do it yourself?”

  “I usually do, but I can’t see these. As you’ve spotted – no pun intended – they’re beyond my visual range, on my cute, shapely bottom.”

  “Maybe you could do it by touch?”

  “That’s too risky. What if I accidentally nick one? It would itch for hours. Help me out here, love. I’d do it for you.”

  “You wouldn’t have to. I’d never let a mosquito get inside my knickers. I still can’t figure out how this happened to you.”

  “Listen, if you do this one little thing for me, I might let you have a go on The Destroyer afterwards.” Ollie winked.

  Mia laughed. “Oh, you might, might you? That’s so generous.” She sighed dramatically. “Lie on the bed, then.”

  “Which way?”

  “Face down.” She paused.

  It was a long pause. So long that Ollie thought the conversation was over. Then she added, “Initially.”

  Chapter 28

  Wednesday 24 September, 2003

  Edith Shufflebotham’s house, 2:50 p.m.

  Edith Shufflebotham (73) was on the phone. She sounded rather aggressive, which was misleading, as in real life she was a shy, petite woman.

  “S-H-U-F-F-L-E-B-O-T-H-A-M. Shufflebotham.”

  “But you said Shufflebottom. S-H-U-F-F-L-E-B-O-T-T-O-M.”

  Edith sighed. “It’s spelt shuffle botham, but it’s pronounced shuffle bottom. Just like Higginbottom or Sidebottom.”

  “How are you spelling Sidebottom?”


  “S-I-D-E-B-O-T-T-O-M. Sidebottom.”

  “But that’s different. There’s no ambiguity. Sidebottom doesn’t have a haitch, so it’s clearly pronounced ‘side bottom’.”

  “It’s not ‘a haitch’, it’s ‘an aitch’.”

  “No, it’s ‘a haitch’.”

  “Young man, I can assure you it’s pronounced ‘an aitch’. I’m looking at it right here in my dictionary, in between ‘aisle’ and ‘ajar’. A-I-T-C-H. Aitch.”

  “I’ve been saying ‘haitch’ my whole life.”

  “Then you’ve been saying it incorrectly.”

  “But everyone says ‘haitch’.”

  “Then everyone is wrong. But I suspect you’re just referring to your social circle. Educated people say ‘aitch’.”

  “Are you saying I’m thick?”

  “No, no. You misunderstand. I’m saying you’re ignorant. From the Latin ignoro, meaning ‘I do not know’.”

  “That sounds worse. I reckon I’d rather be thick than ignorant.”

  “It’s possible you are both.”

  “So, it’s Shufflebottom?”

  “That’s how you say it, but it’s spelt with an aitch and it looks like it says Shufflebotham.”

  “I think I understand what you’re saying. It’s like that cricketer: Ian Bottom?”

  “Are you referring to former England and Somerset all-rounder Ian Botham?”

  “Oh, make your mind up, lady. Ian Botham, Shuffle Botham. It ought to be the same.”

  Edith sighed again. “Yes, I know it looks like it ought to be pronounced Shuffle Botham, but it’s not. I should know. It’s my husband’s family name, and we’ve been married for fifty-two years. Dennis is one of the Staffordshire Shufflebotham’s. He can trace his family tree all the way back to John Shufflebotham’s marriage to Anne Wilkynson in 1582.”

  “Impressive. So you aren’t really a Shufflebotham?”

  “Well, I wasn’t born a Shufflebotham, if that’s what you’re asking. And I don’t possess the Shufflebotham genes as such. But I’ve been an honorary one for fifty-two years. My maiden name was Cockshot.”

  “I see.”

  Edith thought she could hear giggling and whispering on the other end of the line.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yes, sorry. Where were we? I’ve completely forgotten why you called me.”

  “I just rang to inform you that you’ve been putting the wrong middle initial on my gas bills, and then we both went off on a tangent when you started calling me Mrs Shufflebotham instead of Mrs Shufflebottom.”

  There was a pause. “Just a sec, my computer keeps freezing.”

  “I’m in no hurry.”

  “Here it is. Edith E Shufflebotham … bottom!”

  “Yes, that’s the wrong middle initial. It should be ‘Edith Y Shufflebotham’.”

  “Y for …?”

  “Yvonne.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Yvonne.”

  “How are you spelling that?”

  “Y-V-O-N-N-E.”

  “You’re shitting me!”

  “Just change it, will you?”

  “I’ll see what I can do, Edith.”

  “That’s all I ask.”

  Without another word, Edith hung up the phone and put on her coat. She walked to the front door and shouted up the stairs. “I’m popping to the shop, Dennis. Do you want anything?”

  “Twenty Benson & Hedges, please, love,” came the reply.

  “Darling, you haven’t smoked for fifteen years.”

  “Haven’t I?”

  “No.”

  “Do I still eat cheese?”

  “Yes.”

  “A pound of mild cheddar, then.”

  “Right, you are. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  Edith Yvonne Shufflebotham didn’t even make it to the end of her garden before a black arm wrapped around her neck, forestalling any screaming, and dragged her into the shed.

  “Good afternoon,” an educated voice drawled in her ear. “I’m going to release the pressure on your neck a little now. It’s very important that you don’t scream. Do you understand?”

  Her head locked by the strong arm beneath her chin, Edith was unable to open her mouth to speak or nod her head, so she grunted an ‘Mmm’. She was beginning to see stars when the pressure eased slightly and she was able to take in a much needed breath.

  “Well done.”

  “Who are you? What do you want?” she croaked.

  “I’m your friendly neighbourhood mugger, and I want your money.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean ‘why’? I don’t ask you why you want money. What gives you the right to ask me?”

  “There must be easier ways to get money than robbing middle-aged ladies in garden sheds.”

  “Middle-aged! Lady, you must be at least eighty.”

  “I’m seventy-three.”

  “Well, you look older.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “No, fuck you! And what makes you think that seventy-three is middle-aged?”

  “Middle age is the interval between young adulthood and old age. I’m prepared to admit that I’m no longer a young adult, but I’m nowhere near old age. I do pilates you know.”

  “Big whoop, lady. I do weight-training. I can bench press sixty kilograms for ten reps. Check out these biceps.”

  “I … can’t … breathe.”

  “Impressive, huh? Pilates! Why are we even talking about my magnificent muscles? Give me your handbag.”

  “No.”

  “Okay, let’s try it like this.” The attacker reached into a pocket with his spare hand and removed a brown object about six inches long. Edith heard a click and glimpsed a flash of cold steel. “Give me your handbag or I’ll stab you in the leg with this very sharp, not very clean knife. Is that any clearer?”

  Edith swallowed and tried to nod. She held up her bag and he took it.

  “What kind of pathetic bastard steals from a defenceless woman?” she spat.

  He released her neck and put his hand over her mouth. “That’s enough talking now.” Roughly pulling her head back, he said, “Can you feel that?”

  She blinked.

  “That’s my knife at your throat. I recommend you keep very, very still.”

  She complied.

  Edith could feel his hot breath on the back of her neck. She could feel the knife pressing harder and harder against her throat. She heard him gasp, and then he held up the blade in front of her face.

  “See that? That’s your blood.”

  She felt him release her, but she didn’t feel his elbow come into violent contact with the side of her head. In fact, she was oblivious to the blow until she woke up fifteen minutes later; opening her eyes to the sight of an empty handbag discarded on the floor, just inches in front of her bleeding face.

  ◆◆◆

  Because she hadn’t laid eyes on him during the attack, the police learnt nothing new from Mrs Shufflebotham about the mystery man assaulting elderly ladies in the village, except that the assailant was an occasional user of a gym. When asked if his hands had any sort of odour, she replied, without hesitation, “Lavender.”

  ◆◆◆

  Reluctant to show her bruised face around the village, Edith remained in the house for three weeks. Dennis Shufflebotham had to wait a long time for his cheese.

  Chapter 29

  Saturday 27 September, 2003

  The pub, 8:39 p.m.

  “The usual, Eric?”

  “No, just a cranberry juice for me, thanks.”

  “Eh? Are you feeling all right, mate?” Steve put his hand to Eric’s forehead. “I think you might have a fever.”

  Eric swiped the hand away. “Bugger off! Serena’s got me on a health and fitness regime. I’m swearing off the old vino for the foreseeable future.”

  “Just wine or all alcohol?”

  “Everything.”

  “Nooooooooooo! That’s horri
fic.”

  “It’s not just booze; she’s changed my diet too. I’m not allowed fatty foods, sugar in my tea, salt, processed food or anything with the slightest hint of flavour. From now on, it’s kale, spinach, apples, avocados, carrots, tomatoes, oats, chilli peppers and coffee.”

  “Chili peppers and coffee?” said Ollie, bemused.

  “How come?” said Steve, at the same moment.

  “We’re trying for a baby.”

  “I thought you’d been trying for ages.”

  “Now we’re really trying. We’re pulling out all the stops, to use an organ metaphor.”

  “Oh, is that what it means?” said Steve.

  “Uh-huh. You pull out all the stop knobs on a church organ to get the loudest possible noise.”

  “Speaking of organs and knobs,” Ollie interjected. “Is everything okay with yours? This new diet sounds a bit drastic.”

  “Yeah, no problems at all in that department. Serena just thought it would increase our chances of getting pregnant if we both improved our physical health. To be honest, this is more for her than for me. I’m just going along with it to be supportive.”

  Steve nodded. “I see. And what’s the significance of the chilli peppers and coffee?”

  “Hopefully, the chilli peppers will spice up Serena’s libido, and the coffee is supposed to improve blood flow.”

  “Why does Serena need better blood flow?”

  “Buggered if I know, mate.”

  “I bloody hate kale,” said Steve, making a face.

  “Well, you should still eat it. Kale is one of the most nutrient-dense foods on the planet. And it’s loaded with antioxidants.” Ollie nodded. “It could stop you getting cancer. I get through tonnes of the stuff.”

  “I don’t think eating a bit of rabbit food is going to protect me from The Big C.”

  “It’s worth a try. Barney’s rabbit isn’t impressed with kale, to be honest. He prefers bell peppers and cucumber.”

  “You don’t actually like it, do you?”

  “Nobody likes it. I agree with the rabbit. But it’s nutritious and health-giving. And if it can delay my cancer by a couple of years, it’s no hardship.”