Dead in the Water

by Wilfred Jules

  She arrived home at eleven past the hour and set to work immediately. She had to clean the worktop a little first and started to work on the lasagne. She had researched a recipe on the internet and worked according to that. It was actually harder work than she had anticipated. She did not have a lot of experience in the kitchen after all. Most of the time they cooked simple things or had food delivered. The sauce needed to cook for an hour. She set it to simmer on low heat and jumped into the shower, taking care not to ruin her hair or make-up. Then she put on some fresh underwear. She selected the black lacey one, that she found rather racy but she knew turned him on. She put on just a tiny bit of perfume, Tresor from Lancome, which her friend Joss had bought her for her birthday last year. Then the azure little dress that dropped just above her knees. It had been literally months that she had worn a dress. When she had last visited her parents at Christmas, she thought. She looked at herself in the mirror. Not bad, she thought. The dress looked perfect on her small but wiry frame. Her raven black hair dropped in elegant curls down to her shoulders now and her big brown eyes were set off nicely against the relative pallor of her skin by the eyeliner. She refreshed the Shisheido Ginza Red lipstick she had bought for just nineteen pounds. She put on her new Nike white sneakers to complete the girly look. She found herself grinning at her image in the mirror. Her colleagues should see her now! They would not recognize her for sure.

  She remembered just in time to don an apron to avoid ruining her dress by spilling something on it, the continued with the lasagne. She first made the cheese sauce, stirring, grating cheese, whisking and stirring again. Hard work indeed. She finally boiled water, added the pasta sheets and cooked them for a few minutes until they were soft. She looked at her watch. Seven thirty-eight. Perfect timing. She switched on the oven, took the saucepan from the cooker and layered the lasagne in a large baking dish. Then she put it in the oven where it would need about twenty minutes. It was seven forty-seven by now. It would be ready by eight-ten. And Tony would be home by eight. Excellent.

  She had time to set the table in the lounge using the white linen tablecloth friends from Belgium had sent her. She hunted for the special pasta plates her mother had given her for last year’s Christmas and the crystal wine glasses from Bohemia. Another gift from a Czech friend. She uncorked the wine, lit a few candles for the table and arranging a few more randomly across the lounge to create a more intimate atmosphere. Finally, she put on a CD of the music of Ennio Morricone, the great Italian movie soundtrack composer, poured herself a small glass of the Barolo already and settled in a chair to wait. It was seven fifty-eight by now. Perfect.

  *

  He was a little late. At ten past eight, Ianthe got up to switch off the oven and left the lasagne in to remain hot. They could eat then as soon as he arrived. Not everyone was so obsessed with time as she was, she scolded herself. When he had texted her he would be home by eight, he must have meant around eight. For normal people, eight would probably mean between eight and eight-fifteen or even eight-thirty. She could not really say he was late before then, she told herself. All right, after having lived together for a few years he might be expected to know her fascination with time, but had she really ever told him that clearly? He always told her she expected him to be a mind reader. How could he know how important it was to her? And why was she so fixated on time anyway? Why could she not be more relaxed about it? What was a few minutes in view of eternity, right? No wonder her preoccupation got on his nerves. She admonished herself she would need to change that and understand time meant something different for most people. And Tony was Italian, too. Mediterranean people are more relaxed about time. About everything really. And she had read somewhere that they were among the happiest people in the world. There was a village somewhere in Italy that counted the most octogenarians in the world, she knew. Longevity was the result of a Mediterranean lifestyle. So how could she blame anyone from wanting to pursue that, right? She promised herself she would change her ways. Starting immediately. Become more patient, stoic even. That sounded good to her.

  At eight-thirty she wanted to call him. She managed to stop herself and waited until eight-thirty-one to text him, asking if anything had happened and if he had a new ETA for her. No reply. She tried reading a magazine but was unable to focus. At eight-fifty-one she called him. The phone rang but he did not pick up. She left a message trying not to sound too anxious. She watched the seconds tick by and sent another text at nine sharp. Again no reply. Then she just sat there. Feeling more miserable by the minute.

  At nine-twenty-two she heard him open the door. Relief washed through her. At least he was not hurt or anything. She got up from her chair when he opened the door to the lounge and entered. He was obviously surprised at seeing her wait for him there, at the set table, the candles and everything.

  “My, my, what’s all this?” he said. “We’re not expecting company, are we?”

  He slurred his words a little she was dismayed to hear. He must have been in the pub.

  “Just you and me. Thought you’d be home by eight really,“ she tried to say breezily.

  “You and your stupid obsession with time. Jesus, I never said eight, surely.”

  “I must have misunderstood. No worries. I made a lasagne. We can eat immediately.”

  “Lasagne from Tescoes I bet. No thanks. Not that hungry anyway.”

  “I made it fresh,” she protested. “Indulge me and have a bite at least.”

  He grumbled a bit at that but sat down and poured himself a large glass of the Barolo while she went to fetch the lasagne. She quickly microwaved it for a minute before bringing it in to make sure it was hot again. She served a portion on his plate and put one on hers as well. While she poured herself another glass of wine, he started eating immediately. After two or three bites however he pushed the plate away.

  “You don’t like it?” she asked, her voice quavering.

  “You let it dry out completely. Don’t think I didn’t hear you microwave it, too. Lasagne should be fresh or not eaten at all, you dumbo. Useless cook you are. But that isn’t news, is it. At least you remembered I like this wine. Although you almost managed to ruin it, too. It’s a bit too warm. I’ll throw the lasagne in the bin. There must be some crisps left.”

  He got up, took his plate and walked to the kitchen. Ianthe followed him with her plate as well. This had not gone at all the way she had imagined it.

  “I did spend quite some time preparing the lasagne,” she tried.

  “And you were still able to ruin it all right,” he laughed. “Don’t think I didn’t see you also splashed out on a new dress and new shoes. And is that lipstick? You know I don’t like that. Who did you tart yourself up for like that? Planning to go out, are you?”

  He went back to the lounge and she followed.

  “I thought you’d like it,” she said miserably. “You told me you’d be home by eight and I thought we’d have a nice evening together.”

  She failed to see his arm coming when he pushed her so hard she stumbled backwards and crashed into the lounge table.

  “Are you telling me I’m lying you bitch? I never told you I’d be back by eight. And so what anyway, it’s a free world.”

  She struggled to get up but he shoved her down on the carpet, hard.

  “Tony, please don’t do this. We need to talk and …”

  He hit her again, on her chest. Then blows started to rain down on her ribcage and shoulders. She tried to fend him off but her strength failed her. Her training did not kick in. Her futile attempts at warding him off just made him angrier. He grasped the neck of her dress and tore it, exposing part of her bra. He looked down at her with glassy eyes. She just lay there. He lifted her new azure blue dress and raped her.

  *

  The sun probing through the curtains woke her. She was confused. Her whole body hurt. Her mind was numb. Slowly, reality crept back on her. The evening that she had pictured so idyllically had become a horror. After Tony had had
sex with her on the floor of the lounge, she had managed to drag herself to bed. He had finished the wine, followed her then, and had wanted to have sex again. She had just let him. She did not want him to hurt her anymore.

  He was not there now. She heard him in the kitchen, rummaging. She wanted to take a shower, but not with him there. He had said he was going away today on a business trip, had he not. When would that be? She did not have the strength to even look for her watch and see what time it was. She pushed herself up against the wall a little. Then he entered the bedroom. Relieved she saw he was all smiles.

  “Good morning, sleepy-head. It’s Sunday, and a beautiful day it is. Made you breakfast!”

  He disappeared, then came back carrying a serving platter with breakfast. Two eggs, sunny side up the way she liked it, bacon, sausage, baked beans and two kinds of toast. A steaming cup of Earl Grey with milk next to it. He had outdone himself all right. Even though she did prefer black coffee in the morning.

  He put it on the bed next to her. Then he sat down at her feet, looking sheepish.

  “Look,” he said, “I need to run off in a second, but take your time and finish breakfast at your leisure. I’m really deeply sorry about last night. I had an incredibly stressful week at work. Then they asked me to come in and talk to a client in Japan on a Saturday, which is really very frustrating. After I had a few drinks in the pub to settle and totally lost track of time. I’m so sorry I hurt you, baby. It was the booze, it was. Please forgive me. I’ll never do that again. I promise. Never ever. I love you, Ianthe, you know that.”

  Ianthe just nodded and closed her eyes. She wanted to shut it all out. She felt dead tired. He was very sorry, that was clear. He held her hand. Then he kissed her lightly. She felt herself kissing him back. She did love him after all.

  *

  She heard the door of the apartment close behind him. She waited until she was certain he would not return immediately, then dragged herself out of bed and went into the bathroom. At least this time there were no visible markings on her face. With a painful grimace she took off the T-shirt she had worn in bed. There were bruises all over her torso and upper arms. Nothing that could not be hidden easily. Good. She was horrified someone would find out Tony had hit her. She stepped into the shower and made the spray as hot as she could bear. She slid to the bottom of the stall and let the water cascade down on her, piping hot. She stayed under that cleansing waterfall for what must have been the best part of an hour and until the boiler had run out of hot water. She came out again, still not feeling quite clean and dried herself on her thin bath towel. She could have taken Tony’s fluffier towel, but she could not be bothered. And she did not feel like touching anything that was his. She slid into her bathrobe, worn like almost everything she owned, and went back into the bedroom. For a second she thought about curling up in bed again but she realized if she did that she would not get out for the whole day. Instead she busied herself taking the breakfast he had arranged for her back to the kitchen to throw it into the bin. She had no appetite whatsoever. She took her Seiko Astron from her nightstand and putting it on her left wrist suddenly realized that quite against her nature she had not looked at the time all morning. It was just after eleven already she noticed. She continued to clean the kitchen. Her body continued to hurt. She worked in a haze.

  When there was nothing more to clean, she sat down at the kitchen table and picked up yesterday’s newspaper that had gone unread. She turned the pages listlessly, hardly registering the titles of the articles that were screaming their messages at her. On page thirty-seven one title caught her attention: “Battered model bares all”. She started reading. A gorgeous young girl with a successful modelling career was interviewed by the reporter about the abuse she had suffered both psychologically and physically at the hands of her boyfriend. After the abuse had started it had never finished again, she said. She still felt deep down he loved her, although if she was thinking about it objectively, he was probably just in love with himself. He was like a spider to whose web she was drawn irresistibly, again and again. Each time accepting apologies, declarations of undying love and gifts. Finally, she said, she had worked up the courage to go to the police and leave him. Even now, she did not want him to be prosecuted and she did not trust herself to be alone with him as she felt she would not be able to resist his olive charm and probably drop all charges. But staying would probably result in her violent death in a future not too far away. A staggering 1.6 million women every year become victims of domestic abuse just in the UK, largely by the hands of their partner or ex-partner, she read. And almost all of these women experience feelings of shame as if they are to blame, at least partially.

  Ianthe put her head on her arms on the table and cried. The sobs shaking her body. She cried until she could cry no more. Then she got up and went to the bathroom to wash her face. At five to twelve she got dressed and decided to go for a walk at Devil’s Dyke to try clear her head. You have to get a grip, girl, she thought.

  *

  DS Ben Armstrong opened his eyes to the sound of plates and cutlery. For an instant he was confused as to where he was. Then he remembered. He had been in The Cricketers last night with Nathan, chatting away until late. They had both been drinking, but not heavily. He had moved from single malts for starters to red wine, a Malbec from Argentina. They had shared a bottle. Then they had shared another bottle, a Rioja Tempranillo from Spain. Nathan had proven to be quite the wine buff, an interest they had in common it appeared, although Nathan seemed to know a lot more about it than Ben, who considered himself to be a dilettante. He was more of an expert in malt whiskies and he had Nathan taste the velvet smoothness of the Jura Seven Woods. When Ben had handed Nathan his glass, their hands had touched. And suddenly it all came together for Ben and he bent his large frame over the table between them and had kissed Nathan full on the mouth. It had appeared to be the most natural thing to both of them. After that they had talked less and looked at each other more, until Nathan had taken the initiative.

  “Come,” he had said.

  And they had walked the twelve minutes to Nathan’s home on Chapel Street in nearby Kemptown where Nathan had proven to be the most tender lover. There had been only an extremely brief moment of awkwardness first when Ben had started to explain it was the first time, but Nathan had put a finger on his lips and nodded that he knew and understood and that there was nothing to be scared or anxious about. Ben had felt completely at ease and had simply surrendered to the night.

  Ben got out of the king-size bed and put on his boxers and T-shirt in the twilight that bathed the room through the heavy curtains. He noticed it was already a few minutes after ten in the morning. Not his habit to sleep this long on a Sunday. But then it had not been an ordinary night, had it? He smiled at the memory. He looked around. The bedroom had been decorated quite sparsely. Not what he had expected. Nathan’s taste in clothes was outrageous, but his bedroom was sophisticated and polished.

  He opened the bedroom door and through a small corridor where he admired a few tasteful aquarelles he reached the main living room with the open kitchen where Nathan was busy preparing breakfast. He heard Ben open the door and turned around with a big but also slightly nervous smile on his face.

  “There you are. I hope me making breakfast didn’t wake you. Sleep well?” he asked in a rush.

  Instead of answering immediately, Ben went over to him and kissed him, feeling him relax at once.

  “Slept wonderfully. What about you?”

  Nathan served him a full English breakfast, and coffee which he made with an impressive machine. They continued their chat from last night, no awkwardness between them. Ben felt utterly at home and at peace and was totally amazed at those feelings. Just before eleven he thought he should call DCI Ianthe Seymour to let her know what Nathan had told him about Brandon Nicholson being gay. She did not pick up her phone though. Which was strange, he thought. Then again, everyone has the right to a quiet Sunday with their loved one
s. And it was not that urgent, was it?

  He agreed with Nathan to go for Sunday roast at two pm at ‘The Shepherd and Dog’ in Fulking. He had been there before, and they tended to serve a genuinely nice BBQ for Sunday Roast. He had to go pick-up his car anyway. The garage would cost a fortune already, no doubt. He went to take a shower first. He stood under the rain shower spray smiling. He was happy.

  *

  At ten thirty am exactly as agreed DC John Ryan rode his Harley up to Moira Kelly’s address on Bristol Gardens. He rang her mobile to let her know he was there, then climbed off the bike and looked at it. He had risen early to chase friends who might have a passenger seat for his bike that he could borrow. And a helmet, too. Fortunately, as its secretary, he had the member list for the Sussex Coasters Harley Davidson club at home. The second person he called on the list could refer him already to another member who might have just what he was looking for. And indeed, Floyd Winmore of Chichester did not only happen to have a passenger seat and foot pegs that would fit his forty-eight but he also had a spare helmet he was pleased to part with for a very reasonable price. John had raced over to Chichester in record time and with the help of Floyd had installed the seat and foot pegs. Then he had raced back to shower and get ready.

  Right now however he realized he had forgotten to tell Moira he did not have a car and would come by bike. He could hit himself for that oversight. Perhaps she did not have any suitable clothing for a motorbike. It would indeed still be quite cold riding it. The door to the building opened and Moira appeared, wearing a canary yellow jacket that fell down almost to her knees. She was all smiles again as he was.

  “I was hoping you would come with the Harley,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to ride one, but I can’t possibly afford it on my wages. I don’t have the right outfit either but I brought my sailing jacket. It isn’t very warm but it will keep out all the wind and rain if there is any. I hope you brought a helmet though.”