Читать книгу Waiting For Michael - Kathy Sr. Sampson - Страница 6

Estelle slept soundly that night, less surprising than might have been expected because, when the body and mind are subjected to excessive trauma and excitement, internal chemistry has a way of producing its own sedative. Unfortunately, although the new day awoke bearing promise, within minutes a former paranoia was also stirring from slumber to corrupt optimism with its own unnerving agenda.

Rooms were entered warily. The smallest of sounds made her jump. Each time they were in view, exit doors were regarded with suspicion and although she tried to kid herself that the preoccupation was a hang-over from last evening and unlikely to bear fruit, sweet or otherwise, it was becoming obsessive. It was plainly obvious that reassurance was the only cure, so she did the rounds. The hairs were still attached. Nobody had entered the house while she had been asleep.

This encouraging discovery raised spirits and needed something to top it off. There seemed no better way of celebrating than with a good breakfast, so Estelle made a bee-line for the kitchen. Choices of fare were plentiful, the mere thought of most nauseous. The coffee machine provided a temporary remedy and while waiting for it to perform its noisy procedure, she revived the positives by anticipating the end of all her troubles when she finally went to meet Jason in Kalbarri.

Hopes and dreams took centre stage and lingered through the pouring of the first coffee. Actions necessary to perform the various functions were easy, tried and tested, nothing to worry about. They’d been done before, a thousand times. But Kalbarri….? She wasn’t even sure where it was, could barely remember what Jason had told her – only that it was a long drive. Could she make it on her own? Was she crazy to try? Wouldn’t it be better to bail out right now and join Jason’s convoy? He said he’d phone before leaving, so the option was still open.

A glance at the wall clock brought a frown. He’d said he wanted to make an early start, but it was hardly that. Maybe something had gone wrong. He could have had problems and forgotten to phone. Surely not?

By the time she was on her third cup of coffee and he still hadn't called, Estelle was worrying fit to burst. When the phone eventually burbled into life, she snatched it up in near-panic, pulse racing, breathing constricted. "Are you alright?" she asked hurriedly, not even attempting to mask her concern. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten."

"How could I do that, Estelle?" He sounded hurt and extremely weary. "I'm sorry it's so late, but things haven't gone quite according to plan. It's like the start of the gold rush out there," he grumbled, full of misgivings. "I was under the impression most of them were making their own way, but I was wrong. There are six cars blocking driveways up and down the street, and seventeen people, all milling about, making enough racket to wake the dead. Old Mrs. Teasdale's driving a Morris Major that doesn't look as if it will make it past Midland. She's brought her budgie along! Can you believe that? I need you with me, Estelle. If you don't come I can't vouch for my sanity."

She knew he didn't mean to make her feel bad, but the effect was the same. "Keep thinking of Sunday, Jason. By then it will all be over."

"That's four days!" he moaned. "A lot can happen in that time."

"It won't," she stated categorically. "I won't let it. I'll be fine, Michael will have gone, and you won't have to weave baskets - I promise. Take your wagon train and have a good time. How far is it, by the way?"

"Almost seven hundred kilometres. It's a very long drive on your own."

"You won't be on your own - you'll have lots of company, including Mrs. Teasdale, and her budgie."

"I was thinking about you." Jason had gone very quiet.

Here was the option, perhaps the last chance to exercise it. Yes, or no? She took a deep breath and glanced around the kitchen at the normality, the tedium it suggested, a reminder of those patterns in life so often ignored because they never change. Not unless someone interferes with them. Only then do they become a conscious issue. Although disagreeable, the path she must continue to tread was clear – make no waves, no changes. "Don't worry about me. I intend to take it very easy. Just make sure the tent you said I could use is set up and waiting. I've never been camping before and I'd hate to make a fool of myself."

"You could never do that, Estelle," he said gently and typically Jason, being nice again.

The rest of the day dragged terribly with only the memory of his words to carry her through until he eventually called at eleven that night. She had been watching the phone like a hawk since early evening, worrying that it was getting so late, but then she remembered the delayed start and the distance to be covered. No doubt Mrs. Teasdale and a few of the others would want to stop at every available ladies room on the way. Jason confirmed as much, this and the utter shambles which had ensued when they were forced to make camp after dark with only the courtesy lights of the caravan park and a few strategically-placed car headlamps to guide them.

Once he'd hung up, Estelle sat alone, brooding. If only she could have been there to share in the confusion and experience the excitement of his nearness, even in the midst of bedlam. But her time would come.

Friday was the longest day imaginable. She spoke to Jason for ten minutes in the morning - another surprise call - and was decidedly miserable after he'd hung up because she wasn't sure when she would next hear his voice. It could be as early as that same evening, assuming Michael failed to show up at the airport.

That being the case, she would ring Jason at the caravan park to give him the 'good' news and confirm that she would be leaving for Kalbarri on Sunday. He would argue, of course, saying that there was no reason for her to stay, not with Michael as-good-as gone. But Estelle had decided something. It was necessary to actually see him leave. She had to be at Perth Domestic, watching from the safety of the crowd as George Truscott boarded the Sydney flight, taking the misery which was Michael with him. It was the only certain way of ending the nightmare.

But that was ‘if’. For now, it had to be played by the original rules, the same way it always was when Michael flew in from overseas – even though he already had. Estelle was ready to leave for the airport in good time and, although still very nervous, she had managed to summon a sense of anticipation. Then she heard the phone. The initial thought was to let it ring, but, unlikely though it was, it could be Jason with a few words of much needed comfort and support. She snatched up the receiver.

The voice wasn’t Jason’s. Immediate disappointment regressed to disquiet as she recognised the caller. It was Keith Dunbar, Michael's business partner. The man was a creep of the first order, self-opinionated and insincere with a voice to match. He was to be regarded as dangerous, perhaps more so than Michael because much about him was unknown. He was certainly the last person she needed to talk to. As it happened, he just wanted to know if Michael was still arriving on the scheduled flight. There seemed no harm in telling him. In fact, there was a possibility that his call was instigated by Michael to check up on her. So, she feigned pleasantness and was in the midst of explaining that she was about to leave for the airport when the phone went dead - not so much as a 'thank you', or 'sorry to have troubled you'! Estelle was then forced to sit for a while to rid herself of the shakes.

She left the house late, tense at first, becoming calmer into the drive, feeding on the reassurance that Michael wouldn't be there. This was merely going through the motions, a charade for the benefit of whoever might be watching, a parting gift for Michael to ensure his master-plan went off without a hitch. By the time she reached the airport, the con-job was complete and a girlish anticipation was taking hold.

She parked, then walked casually into the terminal, playing the part as rehearsed by gazing wide-eyed at the TV flight monitor, displaying a look of eagerness tempered with that brand of anxiety which any loving wife who mistrusted aircraft would show.

Once the plane had landed, she moved to the appropriate arrival gate, knowing full well that at least ten minutes would elapse before the first of the passengers cleared customs and began to filter through. She eased her way to the front, every so often standing on tip-toe to get a better look at the new arrivals.

It would be necessary to wait until the last had disappeared into the night before painting the finishing touches of the concerned, dutiful-wife portrait. First would come the anxious enquiries regarding a husband who had failed to arrive as scheduled. To this would be added growing distress with a dab of anger for moral support. The situation might even call for a tear or two during the perplexed shuffle to the car. Underlying this, and hopefully undetected by anyone, would be a bubbling euphoria waiting for the right moment to burst free. It would be such an amazing experience, a___!

"Oh, My God! Michael!!!" she heard herself whispering.

He was lumbering through the gate towards her, weaving a somewhat unsteady line with his trolley which was as much a means of transporting his Italian leather suitcase and bag of duty-free’s, as it was support for his sad personage. Michael was undeniably home, and drunk as usual.

Estelle felt faint. This wasn't possible! He couldn't be on his original flight - he was already here! Michael seemed as unaware of this fact as he was oblivious of most of his surroundings. He did, however, spot Estelle and acknowledged her presence with a nod of his head and a scowl which said: "Good, you're here. Just as well."

She extended a limp wave and a smile which quivered at the extremities. Everything was going wrong. The wonder cure had failed and the disease survived unabated. There was nothing left but to go with the flow and, maybe later, something might occur which would help to salvage the ruins of what had been a good plan. Although unknown to him, the treachery she continued to foster brought on a wave of irrational guilt. In a rather hasty act of penance, she attempted to push his trolley for him, only to be repulsed by an irritated shove and a sour grunt.

They continued the trudge across the parking area, a funeral march in slow, moody silence. If nothing else, it confirmed he was tired, a small bonus. That might help to mask his awareness of her dismay and if he slept all the way home as he generally did, it would give her time to digest the indigestible.

At the car, Estelle unlocked first the passenger door, then the rear door on the same side and swung it open. Michael glared. "Why'd you do that? Do you want me to sit in the back, for Christ's sake?" Although his speech was slurred, his indignation was clear enough and it was very obvious that he was primed for an argument.

A cloud of spirit-laden breath wafted over her and she tried not to recoil visibly. "No, Michael. It's for your case."

"What's the matter with the boot, then?"

Wasn't it typical? Any other time...! "Nothing, Michael. It's just that you always put your case on the back seat."

"Well, a man can change his mind, can't he?"

Her heart was beating its way up into her throat. "Of course you can." If he sees my case, he'll start asking questions. Then he'll probably go berserk. My only chance is to do it myself. She stepped up to him and bent to take his case.

"What'd'you think you're doing?"

"Putting your case in the boot where you said you wanted it. You must be tired__"

"Don't you mean pissed? That's what you mean, isn't it?" He slapped her hand away, picked up the case, heaved it effortlessly onto the back seat and slammed the door. "Bloody woman!" he snarled as he flung himself onto the front passenger seat. "Just get in and drive!"

Dazed and confused, Estelle was unable to think clearly and drove automatically, drawing on the experience of frequent trips, mostly the same as this one. Michael seemed unaware of her pre-occupation as he continued to berate and insult her. She tried to respond in ways that wouldn't aggravate him further because she was already in enough trouble. God only knew what would befall her when he discovered his suitcase and passport were missing!

It would be comforting to believe that he expected them to have already been collected as arranged – by Keith Dunbar, probably. If so, he might just check to make sure, then collapse on the bed and sleep until morning, knowing that everything was set for him to assume the identity of George Truscott when he was good and ready. This extremely flimsy hope was based on the premise that many of her former assumptions had been wrong. And it was foreseeably too convenient with more holes than last month's pantyhose.

As if reading her thoughts, he asked whether anyone had called. She gave him a brief run-down of messages people had left, purposely omitting the last call taken. His next question was laced with accusation. "So, Keith didn't get in touch, not once?"

Estelle’s heart skipped a beat. He would find out anyway, so she had to tell him about Dunbar’s call without making it seem that she’d tried to keep it from him. “Yes, sorry. I forgot. He caught me as I was leaving.”

Anger became tangible and built as he took in the details of the brief telephone conversation. He appeared stunned. Estelle hadn’t been looking at him, hadn’t dared, but the prolonged silence was so unexpected that she had to check to see if Michael hadn't, perhaps, passed out - it was too much to ask that he'd had a heart attack and died! He was, unfortunately, very much alive and staring through the windshield with his mouth open. Then his head snapped around and he was glaring at her, eyes wide and glistening. "Nothing else? That was all he asked?"

"He didn't say any more, just hung up."

Michael went quiet again, then hissed: "Bastard!"

My sentiments entirely, thought Estelle, but she was fairly certain that their mutual dislike of Michael's business partner was for very different reasons. Silence filled the car once more, as oppressive as the one between warbles while waiting for the imaginary bomb to explode in the phone. Finally, he broke it with an order. "Pull in there!"

There was no need to ask: "Where?" His arm came across to indicate a tavern on the right. She braked hard and signalled, then had to wait in the centre of the road until the traffic cleared, a delay which Michael blamed entirely on her lack of road sense. Finally, she was able to drive into the car park.

Michael had the door open before they were stationary. He unclipped his seat belt and leered at her. "I only need to go to the dunny, so don't go giving me that puritanical, temperance look!" Climbing out, he added: "I'll be five minutes. Keep the car running!"

The slam of the car door still ringing in her ears, she watched him stagger across the bitumen and in through the door of the public bar. It seemed to confirm that he merely needed to use the toilet – under any other circumstances, Michael wouldn't dream of rubbing shoulders with the hoi-polloi. She pulled into a marked bay and waited.

He was out in ten minutes, not five, but Estelle had no intention of arguing the point. As he approached, he looked strange and she couldn't think why, then she noticed his waistcoat. There was a bulge of material on the right-hand panel, as if he had missed a button-hole when doing it up. As he came closer, the initial observation proved to be correct. This was puzzling because his dress was relatively neat when he'd arrived at the airport. If he just wanted to go to the loo, why the need to undo his waistcoat? It didn't make sense. So, what was new?

They drove out of the pub car park. Michael said: "Move it!" So she did. Deciding it was time for a cigarette, he fumbled the pack out of his pocket, but managed to drop it on the floor. Only too used to his short fuse, Estelle offered to pull over and pick them up for him. "I can manage!" he snapped, far more aggressively than might have been expected, even for an obnoxious drunk. "You're here to drive, so bloody do it! And keep your flaming eyes on the road! You nearly killed us back there!"

Did not, she thought, but remained silent, keeping a furtive eye on him as she drove. Seemingly far less capable than he had claimed, he rummaged around on the floor for a considerable time, then rose, wheezing and breathless. Instead of lighting a cigarette, he returned the pack to his pocket, then leaned his head against the window and went to sleep. Funny, she thought. Don't knock it, Estelle: asleep is better than abusive.

He was still snoring when they arrived home. Estelle had to nudge him and he awoke with a start. No sooner had he gathered those few senses remaining to him, than he was out of the car and heading for the side door of the house, searching his jacket for keys as he went. He was in so much of a rush that he not only forgot to take his suitcase, but also his duty-free bag. For Michael, to forsake what in the past had been almost a ritual, was tantamount to sacrilege. Drunk, or very drunk, he never forgot his duty-free's, never! “Bugger!” Now he’d dropped his keys.

With Michael becoming more irritated by the second, Estelle’s continuing safety was fragile. The soft light from the street was welcoming. Should she embrace it now while he was grovelling on the floor, run before all hell broke loose? But that would only alert him to something very wrong that he didn’t know about yet. And how far could she get on foot? The decision would have to be made quickly - the roller door would close by itself in less than a minute. Another warning bell rang in Estelle's head. If she didn’t go now, she would need to soon enough. The door had to remain open to preserve any chance of escape. And it would come to that, no doubt of it. Judging by his reaction to Keith Dunbar’s phone call, he still expected his case and passport to be there. And when he found they weren’t...?

“Put the light on damn it!” he snarled. “I can’t see a bloody thing!”

The sudden bark made her jump. Her hand dived for the light switch, flicked it, but nothing happened. She’d forgotten about the dead bulb, something else he’d blame her for. But it did give her an idea. Fingers skipped to the door power switch, flicked it off. Then they were back to the one that operated the light – on, off, on, off... ”It doesn’t seem to work,” she started, then was adding: “Maybe it’s the fuse.”

Michael had somehow managed to retrieve the keys and had worked one into the lock. Ignoring his wife’s words, he jerked the door open and lumbered into the house. “I’ll bring your things, shalI I?” she called after him. No reply. A quick glance at the open roller door seemed to impart a sense of pending freedom, confirmation that her decision to disable it was wise. At least one part of her plan was in place. Much of the rest hadn’t been formulated yet. It all depended on Michael.

She was going for his suitcase and the duty-free's when he bellowed. “Estelle! Bloody get in here!”

The voice was easily loud enough to hear, but there was little doubt that it was from deep within the house. Her hands were outstretched in the direction of the car and had frozen in mid-air as if casting a spell. “ESTELLE!!!” Obviously it wasn’t working. Forget the case and booze - just look after yourself! The street looked even more appealing now. Not yet. Then she was darting into the house.

It was all perfectly scripted, this film noir, too predictably sinister. Where else was there to go but the bedroom? She arrived on cue, breathless, heart pounding and hovered nervously in the doorway. The heavy silence waited for effect. When he finally spoke, it was in a voice which was unexpectedly quiet, knowing. "Where is it, Estelle?” He was beside the walk-in robe, fists clenched at his sides, rage fettered but seething. “Where the bloody hell’s my case?"

Lips flapped and eyes blinked rapidly as she played for time. "Oh, sorry, Michael. It's still in the car.” Worth a try, maybe, if it gave her the second or two she needed. I'll go and fetch it for you." She had psyched herself up to make a dash for it, but he beckoned her with a finger, a demeaning gesture warning of dire consequences if it was ignored. Despite being the worst thing she could do, she felt herself moving into the room towards him.

He was leering, self-satisfied with his power over her. "Quit screwing around with me, Estelle. You know the one I'm talking about. It was in back of the wardrobe next to yours. Now they're both gone. What d'you think you're playing at?"

"I... I d-don't know what you..."

His face shocked her into silence. The smugness had vanished. For a moment it appeared as if he was going to explode. Then a vagueness descended as if something had just occurred to him which was far more important than the loss of his precious suitcase. His arm shot out and an extended finger pointed at her. “Don’t you move!” Turning, he blundered to the cabinet beside the bed and stooped to grab the bottom drawer.

Estelle couldn’t breathe. Neither could she make herself run. This part had to be witnessed, despite knowing how it would end, perhaps in the hopes that divine intervention might produce a quiet miracle. Maybe George Truscott's passport would re-appear in the bottom of the drawer and Michael wouldn’t murder her.

His hand plunged beneath the pile of material. With a bestial growl, he dragged the contents out savagely and turned the drawer upside down. When he didn't find what he was looking for, he pulled out the next two drawers, tipped them out, then tossed them aside. With the final one in his hand, he stood up, emptied it, then threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a splintering crash and flew apart. So much for miracles.

"You sneaky, interfering bitch!" He had begun to advance on Estelle, slowly at first. "You couldn't leave it alone, could you? Had to poke your silly little nose in. Well, you've done it this time."

Estelle's every move as she backed up was being tracked and duplicated by Michael. His hands were claws at his side, and the fingers were flexing continually, exercising, preparing for action. "Michael, I..." The time for displays of innocence and naivety were past. The situation had been grossly underestimated. There was a price to be paid and he intended to claim every last cent. "Don't, Michael. Please!"

He backed her along the hallway and into the dining room, eyes glinting with insane pleasure as she stumbled against the table. She felt her way round it, panic barely restrained, never daring to turn away from him. He reached the first of the chairs and flung it sideways into the front of the china cabinet. Estelle flinched and gasped at the sound of smashing glass. Michael enjoyed that. "You're going to tell me what you've done with my things, Estelle," he warned smugly. "I guarantee it."

"I d-don't know w-where they are, Michael."

"Then I suggest you try to remember. Otherwise you can look forward to a long, painful night!"

"Honestly, Michael__!"

"Are you DEAF?" he roared as he dived for her.

Estelle almost made it clear, but he managed to catch hold of the back of her dress, spinning her off course and into the door frame. He stumbled against her, hands groping and clawing. Terrified, she brought a knee up into his groin. He doubled over and started to gag. She snatched the opportunity and surged into the lounge.

Barking a shin on the coffee table, she continued to hop her way through to the entrance hall and limped hurriedly to the front door, whimpering and sobbing. It was locked! Damn! Damn! The side door would have been a better option, the sensible one. But who was thinking? Then it didn’t matter because he was there, blocking her escape.

He too was limping, stooping slightly, eyes bloodshot, voice a series of panting growls issuing from lips moist and dripping like those of a rabid dog. He coughed. "Last chance," he rasped as he continued to lumber towards her. “Where are my things?” A metre away, he began to straighten. A hand reached out.

"Michael! No, Michael! For God's sake__!"

"Too late for him - and you," he snarled as he lunged for her.

His hand glanced off her cheek, making head and senses reel. Another blow sent her toppling to the floor. A warm void rolled in, whispering promises of everlasting safety and comfort. Consciousness began to fade and with it any good reason to survive. A small inconsistency crept in to mar the perfection, a sensation of growing pain which incited dissension and panic. Her own voice broke the spell, a howl to pierce the deepest slumber. Her hand went to her scalp, could feel his clenched fist - he was pulling her along by her hair! "Bastard!"

"Believe it!" he snarled. "You’ll be calling me a lot worse before I’ve finished. You're a stupid, lying Bitch, Estelle, and very soon you're going to wish you'd never been born!"

He meant it, every word of it. Nothing was more obvious, and it was probably this thought which gave Estelle the courage and strength to do what she did next. As he was dragging her past the telephone table, she grabbed for it and pulled with all her might. The table swung around and toppled. There was a yelp from Michael. The hand grasping her hair had suddenly gone. A second later there was a heavy thump followed by a howl.

Estelle rolled and stood, all in a single movement. There was no time to think, just run - and she chose the wrong way, right past where Michael was lying. A hand shot out and clamped around her ankle. Air burst from her lungs as she landed flat on her face. Michael released his grip and began clawing his way up her legs, making it impossible to drag herself free.

Flesh was pinched and bruised as he turned her over, then he was straddling her stomach. "I want my stuff, Estelle." A swinging backhand smacked across her cheek. "And you are now going to tell me where it is." He sat, rocked sideways to fumble in a trouser pocket and withdrew a cigarette lighter. “In fact...” Fingers gathered in the open panel of her dress and tore it down. The lighter flicked on. It was the kind that gave off a blue flame and roared like a blow-torch, taunting, threatening. “...you’ll be begging to tell me.” Nails raked flesh as he hooked up the bra strap.

If the memory of pain was insufficient motivation, the dread of a higher level not yet experienced was overpowering. There was an object in her hand - the telephone receiver. Her grip tightened on it. The bra strap slipped off her shoulder and was being dragged down. The lighter flame ignited again and moved closer. Gritting her teeth, she lashed out with every single ounce of strength she could muster. If there was a sound, it was secondary to a stabbing pain as the force of impact transferred to her wrist, jarring it, knocking the plastic receiver from her grasp.

She rolled, wriggled and heaved herself from beneath Michael who had become a ton weight. Not dead weight, surely? Please God, not that! Freedom might have been won, but it meant nothing if one prison had merely been exchanged for another. She had to see, had to know.

Michael was laying face down on the hall carpet, blood trickling from a gash on his temple, soaking into the light-coloured pile. He looked dead! But it wasn't a heavy blow, not as heavy as some he’d inflicted on her. Then again, he had always used his hands, never a blunt instrument. That particular object had broken in two and only half of it remained visible. She must have struck him harder than she thought!

Estelle advanced cautiously, ready to dart away if he should even twitch. He continued to lay still. Kneeling, she extended a trembling hand towards him, not wanting to touch him, stifling a whimper as fingers contacted flesh clammy and lifeless. There was no pulse. The fingers walked and pressed, walked and pushed harder. Was the procedure just like the hairs across doors, a Hollywood lie? Then she could feel a tickling on the back of her hand, warm breath fanning soundlessly, yet unmistakably from his nostrils.

Releasing the breath she had been holding, Estelle pulled the hand away and rose quickly. "Thank God," she was whispering on her way through to the kitchen. Snatching her handbag from the table, she swept on to the side door and out into the garage. The open roller-door yawned, a sight both welcoming and heavy with foreboding. What had just been endured might be nothing compared to the unknown that awaited. Teeth sank into a lip as her eyes darted one last time at the entrance to the house. A long blink later, she was throwing herself onto the driver’s seat.

The key turned, the engine fired. She sat for a moment, foot pressed hard on the brake pedal, eyes closed tightly in prayer. “Please be there, Jason,” she murmured softly. Then Estelle’s little blue car was creeping tentatively into the night.