The Actuary's Wife

by K T Bowes

  “I know it’s hard, Em. Trust us; we do this all the time.”

  “I can’t live like this,” she sighed. “I hate it.” She wiped her lips with the back of her hand and Christopher sidled across to put his arms around her.

  “It’ll be ok,” he whispered. “I won’t cock it up, I promise.”

  “Ok.” Emma nodded against his chest. She pushed him away with a guilty backward glance at the doorway. “How do you usually package this stuff?”

  Christopher shrugged. “You got any bubble wrap and a padded envelope?”

  Emma grinned. “Scared you might smash it before you get there?”

  “No!” Christopher sneered. “Course not!”

  Emma fetched bubble wrap from a storage room in the cellar, unable to resist popping the delicious air filled bubbles as she handled it. Christopher fiddled with parcel tape, his big thumbs becoming entangled in its stickiness as he wrestled with the scissors. “Stop doing that!” he snapped as Emma enjoyed another series of satisfying pops.

  “Get out of the way,” she laughed, pulling the tape from his wrist.

  “Ow!” he squealed as hair clung to the glue. Emma giggled as she unintentionally waxed his wrist and part of his forearm.

  “Big baby!” she snorted.

  Ray’s presence brought with it an awkwardness which made Emma feel irrationally guilty. It translated as a fit of giggles and communicated itself to the Irishman. Christopher possessed the uncanny ability to enjoy himself whilst maintaining a convincingly straight face, leaving Emma weeping tears of genuine mirth like the resident moron. Ray seated himself at the kitchen table to watch their antics, making the atmosphere worse.

  “Please go!” Emma snorted. “I need to do this by myself. You’re making it harder.”

  Christopher pulled a face at his hairless wrist and set Emma off again. “Fine!” he said, faking anger and winking at her behind Ray’s back. “We’ll do the final checks. Wake the Actuary when you’re done and ask him to meet us at the van. Tell him to put some clothes on first.”

  Emma gulped, reading the expression in the Irishman’s eyes and wondering if he had her bedroom bugged. “What van?” She dried her damp cheeks on her sleeve.

  Exasperated, Christopher glared at her. “Just do it, Em!” He followed Ray from the kitchen but poked his head around the doorframe, deliberately startling Emma. “Hey, use that tape to do your moustache,” he advised, jerking his head towards the parcel tape. Emma raised her fingers to her top lip, her eyes wide with embarrassment as she felt for hairs.

  “There’s nothing there,” she replied, mystified. She huffed as Christopher’s dark head disappeared and she heard him chortling along the corridor. “Idiot!” she grumbled, irritated by his ability to ruffle her so easily. She ripped off a strip of tape and stuck it over her top lip.

  “What’re you doing?” Rohan’s blonde hair stuck up like a crest and a pink line bisected his cheek from the seam of the pillow. He wore neat slacks on his bottom half and fumbled his buttons into their holes with fingers which operated like sausages from tiredness.

  “I’ll do it,” Emma offered. She pressed the buttons home and ran her fingers down the strong chest. Rohan’s eyes crossed as he stared at the sticky brown tape over Emma’s top lip and she stepped back and ripped it off on the way to the dustbin. It hurt enough to make her wince. “Christopher said I had a moustache,” she said, sounding sulky.

  Rohan smiled and bit his bottom lip. “Come here,” he ordered. Emma sashayed across to him, feigning shyness and he took her in his arms and ran his smooth face along hers. He smelled of aftershave and Emma sighed.

  “You smell lovely,” she whispered. “Let’s go upstairs and forget about all this.”

  “I wish,” Rohan replied. “I need to find Hack.”

  “He said they’d be at the van,” Emma said and Rohan kissed her and retreated from the room. She heard his heels clicking along the hallway in his smart shoes. “Don’t mind me,” she muttered crossly. “Don’t bother telling me what van you’re talking about. Even Ray knows more than me!”

  She surveyed the identical plaques, both damaging with the truth they carried. Emma shook her head and touched her counterfeit with a tentative graze of her finger. Apart from its plaster composition, it looked realistic sitting next to the real thing. She fingered the bubble wrap in her other hand and popped a few of the plastic bobbles in concentration. Emma reached for the scissors and spent the next few minutes sealing the plaque into layers of protective wrapping and slipping it into the padded envelope. She placed the other one in the library safe, following the instructions memorised from Anton’s will. It nestled on top of her and Nicky’s birth certificates, hidden even from her husband. Emma closed the safe with a click of metal on metal, twisting the ancient dial and sealing the space behind the bookshelf. She pushed a faded copy of The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe upright again and the structure swung back with a hiss, resuming its place as a solid bookcase.

  Emma spun on the spot, her eyes raking the floor to ceiling shelves, some glass panelled and others openly displaying their literary wares. Her fingers ached to touch them all and sense their history through the fragile spines.

  “Miss?” Ray’s low tones made her jump. “You ok?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Emma replied, facing the doorway and searching his face for signs he might have seen her sleight of hand. “I need to catalogue everything in the house, including the books in here. Some are terribly old.” She sighed. “It’s a huge job. I feel tired just looking at this house sometimes.”

  Ray ventured into the room and touched Emma lightly on the shoulder. “I can fetch and carry for you, miss. It’s no bother to do whatever you need; I know this job’s more than just a grounds-man, for now.”

  Emma smiled. “Thanks, Ray,” she said, gratitude making her brown eyes twinkle. “I will need help. I should get more staff but it’s impossible to know who to trust.” The task overwhelmed her and it showed in the pallor of her face as the colour drained away. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a trustworthy sister?” she asked, smiling at the futility of her own joke.

  “Sorry, no.” Ray shook his head in sympathy. “Someone will come along, miss; like I did. Have faith.”

  Emma nodded. The grandfather clock in the library chimed the ninth hour and her blood pressure increased, sending an unhealthy surge of blood to her head. “Christopher hasn’t slept,” Emma panicked, desperate to delay the men’s departure.

  Ray smiled a sad, tight lipped expression. “Some men don’t, miss. War ruins it for us.” His dark eyes flashed and Emma saw into his soul for a fraction of a second, viewing the darkness of loss and human misery. It shocked her into speechlessness and she recognised the black thing which stained her husband’s heart often, making him uncommunicative and sombre as he receded into himself for restitution.

  “Falklands?” she asked softly and Ray nodded, adding a shrug to shroud his emotions once again.

  “Amongst others.” He jerked his head towards the door. “You coming to wish them luck?”

  Emma gulped and fought the tears which pricked behind her eyes. “They’re leaving already?”

  Ray nodded and walked with Emma to the front steps. Farrell followed, his claws clicking on the floorboards and his nose batting Emma’s thigh to remind her he was there.

  Rohan and Christopher had morphed into the Actuary and Hack, businesslike as they said their goodbyes. Emma kissed her husband and hugged her friend, her heart leaden in her breast. She wrapped her arms around herself and watched as two vehicles moved down the long driveway in the darkness, brake lights pausing for the gates and then moving onto the main road. The dog kept pace on the lawn, barking happily as he chased the vehicles to the gate, the cattle grate making it impossible for him to follow them onto the main road.

  Market Harborough created a semicircle glow against the black sky, its night lights reflecting like a dome of safety. Emma moved back over the threshold to her mansion, s
ickness working its way up her gullet in a flurry of terror. And guilt.

  Chapter 39

  “I switched it.” Emma’s brown eyes flickered with a heady mix of guilt and fear and her fingers beat a nervous tattoo on the front of her sweatshirt.

  “You did what?” Disbelief stamped its mark on Ray’s face and his jaw dropped open, revealing neat, straight teeth underneath his moustache. “After all that work to replicate it, you switched it back?” He stood up, placing his mug of tea on the table with care.

  Emma mentally questioned the rationale behind the ex-soldier’s anger. “Are you angry because we got stuck with the fake, or because you wanted to see if the Jamesons fell for it?” Emma chewed her bottom lip and looked at the floor. “Or is it because all that hard work is wasted?”

  Ray shook his head and grabbed her by the shoulders, his grip firm. “Neither, miss! It’s because you changed the rules of the game and your husband and Hack have no idea!”

  “I know,” Emma said, her voice wavering as she struggled to keep her feet still. “We have to stop him.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “I love history and it’s a sacred job being a guardian of the truth. It’s also a terrible responsibility sometimes.” Emma’s words caught in a sob and her eyes sought the clock over the mantel. “But I love Rohan more. I couldn’t risk someone checking and realising it’s fake. What if the client has an archivist or art expert standing by before he accepts it? Things went wrong last time and Rohan got stabbed in the back.” Emma’s wide, tearful eyes blinked up at Ray and she watched his resolve crumble. “I can’t lose him again,” she pleaded, the memory of his blood pooling in the bottom of the shower driving her to act.

  “I get it,” Ray said gruffly. “I get it.” He snatched Emma’s car keys from the table and ran for the door. “Although why the bloody hell you didn’t say something two and a half hours ago, I’ll never know!”

  “I’ll get the fake,” Emma shouted, running for the library and skidding on the floorboards.

  Outside the front door, Emma gripped the plaster replica wrapped in her jacket. She dropped the door keys repeatedly, fighting with Farrell who seemed keen to join their nighttime adventure. Exasperated, Ray seized the keys and let the dog out. “Let him go,” he insisted. “Guard!” he told the spaniel and Farrell gave an excited woof and stuck by Emma’s leg.

  “Not me, the house! He wants to come with us,” Emma wailed, standing on the frozen gravel in her socks, trainers in hand.

  “Well, he can’t!” Ray snapped, pressing the key fob and jumping into the driver’s seat of the ‘Girly Car.’ “Get in!”

  “It’s raining!” Emma protested, opening the boot. “I need my umbrella.”

  Ray fired up the car with a few choice swear words as Emma put her finger to her lips and let Anton’s faithful dog into the boot. She touched the carpeted floor with her forefinger and the dog leapt in and buried his nose to the surface in obedience. Emma shook her head and pressed her lips again as Ray shouted at her. Farrell became a statue, so still even the metal links on his collar made no sound.

  “Steady!” Emma wailed as Ray gunned the engine. She banged her forehead on the dashboard lacing her trainers, feeling the grittiness from the gravel under her toes. “I haven’t got my seat belt on!” She kicked the umbrella further into the foot well.

  Ray acted furious, tearing into the Northampton Road and fighting the vehicle out of an accidental skid. His moustache covered his tight lips and he shook his head numerous times, glancing sideways at Emma and swallowing his rebuke.

  Emma’s heart beat like a drum in her chest and sickness pooled in her gullet as the car blasted through the southern gateway to the small town. “Slow down!” Emma gasped, clinging to her seat belt to keep it from tightening against her belly and locking. “You’ll attract attention.”

  Ray slowed to the legal speed limit and it felt as though they walked the last few miles to the epicentre of Market Harborough, their urgency crippled. Emma fidgeted, wanting to see Rohan, but terrified at the same time. The ex-soldier’s eyes darted left and right as he looked for hazards Emma couldn’t comprehend. “He’s gonna kill me,” Emma groaned.

  “I damn well would!” Ray snapped and she pouted and watched darkened houses spin past the car window.

  Emma tipped sideways to peer at the clock on the dashboard, groaning as the digital display tipped onto eleven forty-five. Ray took side streets and skirted the old church, raking the parked cars with his eyes. St Dionysius stood like a beacon in the centre of town, snuggled next to the old schoolhouse which teetered on its mediaeval stilts. Floodlit from every angle, the church glowed against the night sky, offering a deceptive sanctuary. The empty streets were deathly quiet but for the sound of raucous revelling in a nearby pub.

  “Look for the van!” Ray hissed, slowing to a crawl.

  “What van?” Emma wailed and he shook his head in disappointment.

  “It’s a white transit, kinda like a painter’s van. I can’t remember what it says on the side but Hack’s got the tech set up in it.”

  “I didn’t know he had a van,” Emma whispered, searching wide-eyed for a large, white vehicle.

  “There’s a fair bit you don’t know, miss,” Ray said, his tone softening. “Me and you are gonna comb that place and inventory every nook and cranny in it.”

  Emma nodded and clutched the counterfeit plaque to her chest, feeling the seat belt cut into her neck. “I don’t see a van,” she said, surveying the darkened street on either side. “Do you?”

  Ray shook his head, concentrating on cruising along Adam and Eve Street and keeping his speed low. “No. They can’t be far away.” He drove towards the start of Roman Way and past the rear of Church Square.

  “The lights are on inside the church,” Emma breathed. “That’s not normal.”

  “Ok, don’t panic,” Ray reassured her. “Captain Andreyev can’t be far away.”

  “There, look!” Emma squeaked and Ray jumped and swore, following the line of Emma’s finger with keen, dark eyes. “It’s the Chinese people’s car!” She turned to Ray with terror in her face. “They’ll kill him and Christopher. It’s a trap!”

  “Calm down!” he hissed, keeping the car moving and grabbing Emma’s arm with his left hand to stop her hurling herself from the moving car. A line of slender, black-clad bodies slipped from the parked vehicle and morphed into the darkness. “Don’t be a fool!” Ray snapped. “What can you do against all of them? I counted four and they move like they know what they’re doing. You’re no good to your husband dead, woman!”

  Ray moved the car back towards Church Road, circling St Di’s and taking them left onto the main road. Emma became frantic, engaging in a tug of war with Ray and begging him to release her forearm. A low growl issued from the boot of the vehicle and Ray’s jaw dropped open. “You brought the bloody dog!” he squeaked in amazement swerving over the centre line.

  “Get off me!” Emma wailed. “You’re fired!”

  “Shut up!” Ray’s words contained urgency and silenced her with immediacy. “Who are they? Look, that group over there.”

  Emma stared through the windscreen, at first seeing nothing. Ray kept the car rolling and Emma gasped at the sight of Mikhail’s spiteful face lit up by the headlights. “Look away,” Ray hissed and Emma bowed her head, preventing the small knot of pedestrians identifying her in the darkened car. Mikhail raised his hand to limit the glare of the headlights as he crossed in front of the moving vehicle with his customary arrogance.

  “It’s Rohan’s uncle,” Emma panicked. “He’s got two men with him.” She tried to twist in her seat to get a better look and Ray growled at her.

  “Turn round!”

  “But Christopher!” Emma wailed. “We have to help him!” Her eyes widened in horror as Ray gunned the gas pedal and the car sped forward. “No!” she demanded. “Go back!”

  Ray stopped the car at the junction with the main street and glared at Emma in the
reflected light from the church. “We do this my way, miss, or I drive you home right now!”

  “No!” Emma whimpered. “You’re meant to do what I say!”

  “No, I don’t; you fired me remember?” Ray shrugged as though he didn’t care and turned left, driving past the front of the church and sending Emma into a paroxysm of misery. Unable to obey any longer, Farrell leapt over the back seat, nosing his way from under the parcel shelf and scrambling free. He shot through the centre, over the gear stick and hurled himself into the foot well by Emma’s feet. His wet nosed kisses caressed Emma’s fingers and his furry head felt comforting on her thigh. The guttural growl warned Ray to mind his manners. “This is a disaster!” the man breathed. “A total bloody disaster. Women in combat is a horrible idea.”

  “Go back,” Emma begged. “Please go back to the church?”

  “Where’s the damn van?”

  “I don’t know, I can’t see it,” Emma panicked, fondling Farrell’s long ear to calm her frenzied fingers. He whined and licked his lips, sensing her turmoil and fixing his deep brown eyes on her face. “There!” she screamed and the dog barked. “There’s Rohan’s Mercedes!”

  Ray swerved and swore. “We’re looking for the bloody van, miss!” He indicated and turned left into St Mary’s Road and circled left into Adam and Eve Street again.

  “Try Factory Road,” Emma said, her voice urgent. “It’s a dead end which leads to the theatre. They might have parked there.”