Читать книгу Waiting For Michael - Kathy Sr. Sampson - Страница 5

When a woman is at home alone and suspects an intruder is on the premises, there are a number of options open to her: she can beat a hasty retreat to seek help from a neighbour; she can call the Police, always assuming there is a telephone handy; she can pick up the closest weapon and parade around the house shouting, "I know you're there and if you don't leave right now, you'll be sorry!" - or she can freeze.

Immediate problem solved, Estelle froze. Calling the Police only remained an option because it was a conditioned reflex and was instantly dismissed as inadvisable, perhaps dangerous. An investigation at this time could draw attention to Michael, maybe hinder his getaway. If, however, the intruder was Michael, it required little imagination to guess how he would react after the Police had apologised to him and left. He would be less than understanding.

But it couldn't be Michael, could it? He was in Bangkok and not due to return until Friday evening. Why would he change his plans and not say anything?

On second thoughts, he might do just that. Michael, it seemed, was going out on his own, leaving his wife, his country, skipping out on his business partner, maybe even the syndicate he worked for or with, assuming that such an organisation did exist which was more than a possibility. Knowing Michael, he was probably hopping off with a good slice of their loot. If all of this, or even a part of it, was true, he wouldn't be able to trust anyone but himself. No wonder the need for a false identity!

Estelle knew she was only guessing, but these things had to be considered. She wanted him out of her life, quickly, painlessly. Any action of hers which jeopardised that ambition was tantamount to suicide. So, no Police. No outsiders.

Neither did she see herself as the local Neighbourhood Watch Champion - aerobics with Jane Fonda might be good for the waistline, but this was real life and she knew from past experience that it tended to hit back, generally very hard.

In need of reassurance, a previous wishful thought was some comfort: what if the intruder had already left? Maybe it was Michael, maybe not, but if the house was now empty, she was getting herself into a stew over nothing. A lengthy pause to listen confirmed all seemed quiet. The only obvious sounds were from traffic on the nearby highway and her own restricted breathing. Apart from that, the house was as silent as the grave.

Smart choice of words, Estelle! She began to rise, slowly, cautiously, the mail still clutched tightly in a clenched fist. Then she was slipping off her shoes and tip-toeing along the hall towards the lounge. Why don’t you just leave? pleaded an astonished inner voice. “I can’t,” she whispered aloud, “I have to know.” A few more steps and she was hissing: “Oh, God, Jason. If only you were here!”

She’d made it to the phone and paused. He's just a seven-digit number away, nudged memory, then added his words: "... anything at all, phone me - day or night..." This was the kind of 'anything' he had meant.

She placed the mail on the small table, began reaching for the receiver, then hesitated. To do, or not to do? Unable to decide, she made a tight fist to reset the nerves, opened her fingers and tried again. The hand refused to go any lower as if there was a string attached to it from the ceiling. Was this the puppeteer on high trying to keep her from making what might be a huge mistake? Or was it something closer to home? There was an undeniable need to involve Jason in her life, make him a part of it. Above all, a longing to hear his voice, right at that moment. But if her fears proved to be imaginary, far better that she convince herself of it than drag Jason over on a wild goose chase.

Leaving the phone, she went into the lounge. There was a great deal to be said for open plan - very few doors to creak as they were opened and it was possible to see into rooms without actually entering them, and be able to dash through from one to the next without delay if need be. Conversely, doors were quite handy barriers to shut behind a person if they were being pursued. It was too late to worry now: the house was built, she was in it, and so too was her prospective attacker - maybe.

The lounge was as she had left it - comfortably empty. So, too, were both the dining room and the kitchen. Each of these discoveries generated a little more confidence until she was on the verge of feeling normal again - at least, as normal as could be expected under the circumstances.

She continued to search the rest of the house, finally arriving at the very satisfactory conclusion that she was definitely alone. All that lingered was that unnerving, nauseous feeling whenever privacy has been invaded. Whether by her own husband or another, she didn't know, but it was, nevertheless, unsettling.

Taking her nervous disposition to the point of becoming a phobia, she went around the house checking locks and latches, and even went so far as to pluck some hairs from her head, licked them, then stuck them across the gaps between all of the outside doors and their frames. Maybe it would work, maybe not, but they did it in the movies.

During the next half hour, a continuous routine was established - checking rooms, windows, doors, locks, and hairs, paying special attention to this last device. Far from easing tension, the frequent patrols exacerbated it. A slight detour to the cocktail bar seemed a desirable cure. Taking the glass into the kitchen, the next intended port of call, she drowned the splash of vodka with orange juice. A sip or two later, she was padding along the hall to examine the security of the front door when the phone rang - right behind her!

Estelle gasped. Her heart stopped. She jolted. A third of the drink slopped out of the glass. Some splashed the wallpaper, but most of it ended up on the carpet. Unaware of this, she stood trembling, mildly alcoholic juice dripping from her hand, eyes wide and staring at the phone which continued to herald an incoming call, daring her to answer.

It's a phone, she told herself. What harm can a phone do you? It can blow up, was the condescending reply. It happens all the time. Maybe the phantom intruder planted a bomb!

The imagined threat was terrifying - ridiculous, but terrifying. Despite the self-reassurance, she bent to peer under the resonating instrument, not really knowing what to look for, expecting there might be some sign of tampering. It appeared quite innocuous, just like any other phone. Finally, the warbling stopped.

Estelle caught her breath. She listened, hoping to hear nothing, praying there would be no ticking. Then it dawned that some bombs were designed to stop ticking just before they went off! A nervous glance in the direction of the front door confirmed it was probably too far to reach in time. Plus, it was latched, dead-locked, and haired!

The phone started up again. After two warbles and when no explosion had rocked the house, she reproached herself for being stupid. The third and fourth warbles provided the opportunity for a determined swig of the drink, then her hand was swooping for the receiver and had gathered it up before the fifth had finished.

No bang. No blinding flash.

"Yes?" she hissed testily, and waited.

"Estelle," said a man’s voice. "What's wrong? It's me - Jason."

She let out a huge, relieved sigh. "Oh, Jason__!" It almost came out - Darling - but she managed to stifle herself just in time. "__It's you.” Had that expressed too much relief? Another quick sip of the drink and she tried again. “Nothing's wrong."

"It doesn't sound that way. I knew I shouldn't have let you go home alone. I'm coming over."

"No!" Calm down, Estelle. "Honestly, Jason, there's nothing the matter. It was a nice surprise. I wasn't expecting to hear from you until tomorrow."

"I wanted to catch you before you went to bed," he explained. "I don't suppose you'd consider changing your mind about leaving now before Michael gets back?"

It might be too late for that, she thought. He could already be here. "I can't, Jason. I told you why. I want this over with. A couple of days and it will be. I realise it must be hard for you, having to take a back seat, but it will be worth it. I promise you." Oh, no! That sounded like a promiscuous come-on and brought an embarrassed flush to her face.

Jason hadn’t picked the double-meaning and the assurance brought no comfort. "Okay, if you're sure. But it's going to be a hell-of-a wait."

"Just think of all those chipped teacups," she said, adding a chuckle.

"I'm thinking," he said. There was a long pause. "I had an idea after I left you tonight. It's about the field trip. Is there any reason that you know of why you shouldn't pack for it now?"

"My clothes and stuff, you mean?"

"Clothes and whatever else ladies cart around with them when they go on holiday."

"You're beginning to sound like a chauvinist."

"I'm serious, Estelle," he insisted. "If you packed now, tonight, would that be a problem?"

"No, but I don't see why__"

"Will you do it, then? Please. For me? Maybe I'm being an old woman, but if your bags are packed and you have to leave quickly for any reason..."

"I can't see why I'd need to," she lied, glancing towards the front door, trying to see if the hair was still attached or whether it had fallen off, "But I'll do it - for you. And I'll put it in the car, ready."

"What about Michael's luggage when you collect him from the airport? Won't he get suspicious if he sees your case in the car?"

"No way," Estelle retorted with certainty. "Lord and Mighty Emilio Michael Ventura wouldn't dream of putting his custom-made, genuine Italian leather suitcase in the boot - might scratch the rolled-gold monogram!"

"Did you say Emilio?"

"Michael's first name. He doesn't particularly like it - says it sounds too ethnic - so he only uses it when officialdom dictates."

Jason snorted derisively. "Except when he goes under the name of George Truscott."

"Yes," said Estelle quietly as the thought brought her back down to earth, "Except then."

There was a voice in the background, female, then the phone went quiet as the mouthpiece was muffled. In a second or two, he was back. "Sorry, Estelle - visitors. Fran says it's someone wanting to join the field trip."

"Fran?" Estelle's jealousy stirred unpleasantly.

"My Sister."

"Oh, yes, of course." Kicking herself inwardly, she relaxed again.

"I'm sorry, Estelle," he repeated apologetically, "But I'll have to go. You're sure you'll be alright?"

"I'm going straight off to pack," she assured him, "Then I'll put the case in the boot of the car, and after that I'll probably go to bed." Alone, she thought dismally. Still, at least it wouldn't be with Michael.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow, then." The disappointment was plainly obvious.

"Look forward to it. 'Bye, Jason." She waited for his farewell and for the line to click before adding softly: "Darling." Then she hung up.

One last circuit confirmed that there was not a hair out of place which, in turn, suggested that defences had not been breached, not since she'd locked up, anyway. This was cold comfort since the mystery intruder had a key, maybe even a set of them, and could come and go as he pleased.

It could be a she, Estelle reminded herself. It seemed unlikely, probably because she was still convinced that Michael had, for some reason, returned home early from Bangkok. But until this could be confirmed absolutely, and to preserve a sense of fairness which the bastard in no way deserved, she decided to think of him, or her, as the spectre.

If it existed at all, it had been very careful. Nothing in the place, with the exception of the front door lock, had been disturbed. Not that could be seen, anyway, and this posed another problem - what had it been doing there? The burning question was finally answered in the bedroom.

She went there to pack. Her case was in the back of the walk-in robe where it usually was - where it had been since their honeymoon two years previously, because that was the last time she'd been further than Serpentine Falls where Michael had taken her on their first wedding anniversary in a moment of weakness. The valise was tan, Italian leather like his, but had no monogram, presumably for the same reason that it was smaller - a spouse ought not to be encouraged to have ideas above her station. There was just a chance that he might have been considerate of the weight-factor, but it was unlikely. Not that it mattered at that point in time because it was empty.

Having taken it out, the back of the wardrobe looked conspicuously bare. It took a moment or two of puzzled gazing to realise why. Then she remembered Michael's second case. He'd bought it six months previously and his explanation that he wanted it so that he could save having to use his good one all the time seemed logical. Since that day, however, it had sat alongside hers, unused. Now it had gone!

I'm sure it was there the other day, she thought, I know it was because it fell over against my leg while I was trying to get my dress disentangled from the hanger. When was that exactly - last week before Michael left? No, Estelle, she warned and the spectre was suddenly a very real threat once more. It was YESTERDAY. It fell on you yesterday, AFTER Michael had gone. His spare, plastic, K-Mart case which he DIDN'T TAKE WITH HIM when he left for Bangkok was here this morning, but now it's GONE!

There was something else. Pushing it upright, it had felt heavy as if full of clothes. At the time, the discovery hadn't been regarded as significant and she'd been in too much of a rush to worry about it, but now it all seemed to tie in with Michael's plan to become George Truscott and effect a moonlight flit. George wouldn't want to draw attention to himself, certainly not carrying expensive leather luggage bearing the initials E.M.V. He'd use a cheap plastic case, just like the one that was no longer in the back of Estelle's robe!

She stumbled out, pulling her empty case with her. It was looking more and more like Jason was right - staying in the house alone wasn’t a good idea. But there was little choice. She had to turn a blind eye to whatever was going on, the way she had always conveniently passed off all of Michael's strange goings-on. She couldn't afford to concern herself with any of this. It was his game. She was just a pawn and, with this in mind, resolved to stay very quiet, particularly docile, doing everything expected of her and nothing more for the next two days.

Except for packing. That she would do, if for no other reason than to please Jason. About to put the suitcase on the bed, the spectre reared its invisible head again. The bed cover had been disturbed! There were wrinkles around a slight depression where someone might have sat, or maybe placed a heavy object - like a cheap plastic, K-Mart suitcase!

She shivered and turned slowly, inspecting the order of things in the room, trying to ascertain whether anything else had been moved or displaced. A triangle of white linen hanging from a closed drawer caught her eye. The drawer was the bottom one of the small chest on Michael's side of the bed. Stepping up to it, she knelt and pulled out the drawer.

The material was the corner of a handkerchief. That same morning it had been laid neatly on top of the other items - she'd made sure of it herself because she didn't want Michael to know she had been nosing around in his belongings. Because under the neatly-folded handkerchiefs and vests, right in the bottom beneath the paper liner was the passport in the name of George William Truscott.

Holding up the pile of material with one hand, she slid the other down the inside of the drawer, hooked up the paper with her nails, and felt beneath. Despite knowing what to expect, she still caught her breath. The passport was no longer there!

Estelle sank back on her heels. Her heart was pounding once more and beads of moisture were forming on her brow. Her glazed stare saw nothing material, just the spectre growing clearer, taking on the shape of a man she knew only too well. It had to be Michael! It simply had to be. Who else would have come for George Truscott's suitcase and passport? Apart from Estelle, Jason and the department of immigration, Michael was the only one likely to know such a person even existed!

The packing didn’t take long. It was certainly not attended to with her usual care, but then, she was hardly herself at the time. She was a stubborn, independent woman who should have listened to the only man she loved, and ought to be, at that very moment, sitting in his lounge on the sofa with his Sister, talking about the forthcoming trip. Well, that was a stupid mistake which was being rectified. Then, she would be leaving!

Once out of the bedroom and lugging her suitcase, Estelle was into damage control. Lights were left burning, doors ajar. There was no last-minute check of personal appearance. Not intending to be seen, not wishing to be, it was irrelevant. Even the precautionary hair guarding the side exit to the garage was ignored when the door was unlocked. Haste was everything. Oversights could be rued later.

The light was still on in the garage, probably from when she came home. A bit extra on Michael’s power bill – good! By the time she had unlocked the boot, tossed in the case and closed it again, she was breathless and her head was swimming. Now she paused for a quick re-think. Was there something that had been missed? Did it matter if there was? She decided not and was heading for the driver's door when the overhead light died. The garage should have been in darkness, but it wasn’t. There was still a glow coming from the street-lamps. Ergo, the roller-door was open.

Goose bumps erupted. She spun, stared at the partially-open door, pulse quickening. This time it couldn’t be her fault. An automatic device activated the motor somehow – another example of Michael’s foibles. So, the door had shut itself, after she’d parked the car. Since then, someone must have opened the door manually, just enough for a person on foot to enter... or leave! A man carrying a cheap plastic suitcase and a passport!

That seemed to confirm it - Michael had definitely been and gone. He had returned secretively when he knew Estelle would be attending her night class. He had let himself in, taken the suitcase and the passport and ducked out through the garage... Why would he bother to do that? Why not just leave the same way he’d entered – through the front door? Maybe that had been his original intention, which was why he’d left it unlocked.

But - a shiver ran down her spine - what if he was running late and she’d arrived home while he was still in the house? In order to remain unseen, he’d have to wait his chance to sneak out through the garage. Logic was a wonderful thing, except when the conclusions reached made one sick to the stomach.

All the time she was performing her paranoid-spy routine, Michael must have been there, inside, watching, waiting, desperate to keep his early return to the country a secret. One he might even have been prepared to kill to protect!

The mere thought caused her to feel weak in the knees and she had to lean against the car to prevent herself from falling. She sagged there for a few seconds, bringing her breathing under control. A sharp object was pressing into the palm of her hand – the car keys – a reminder of her intended dash for freedom. Until then it was the only sensible option. Now this – the open roller-door. The spectre had left the building. All evidence pointed to it. There was no longer a need for rush and panic. Was there?

Plagued by indecision, she hammered a fist on a thigh hard enough to cause pain. That was reality, a physical assault on the senses. This… this other airy-fairy clap-trap was all in her head, the product of pure assumption. What were the facts, just those pertinent to the current situation? There was an unlocked door, rain on the carpet. The case and passport were missing. Most importantly, the garage door had been left open. Someone other than her had been there, but now they’d gone, which was all that mattered.

The plan, paranoid or not, was still on. Whether the mystery visitor was Michael was irrelevant. Indeed, had it been him, it was even more essential that she play the innocent so that he didn’t know she suspected. Estelle must keep her nerve and continue to go through the motions as if nothing more than a few strange, yet inconsequential things had happened.

It was decided, then. A deep breath was almost convincing until it was exhaled with a shudder. Moving to the wall beside the car, her fingers pushed a button. A motor started up. The roller door closed. There was a moment of panic as she found herself in darkness.

Less than a minute later, Estelle was back inside, trembling somewhat as she locked the side door and replaced the hair on the frame with a fresh one. Finally, after switching out the lights, she went to bed.