Читать книгу The Devil's Whelp - Vin Hammond Jackson - Страница 14

"Sounds nice." Del Presswood mumbled the response automatically, not meaning a word. What the hell did he care about the landscaping around a backyard swimming pool? Admittedly, the cab driver was just making pleasant conversation and it cost nothing to humour him, but if people didn't insist on bragging about what they had and how great it was, then maybe his own life would seem less like an object lesson in failure.

"Which way now?" The taxi coasted to a standstill at the T-intersection and the driver waited patiently.

Del tried to get his bearings. Everything appeared different at night and it was almost impossible to read street signs, if you could find them at all. "Left," he said. The cab pulled away again. After a short distance, Del realised that he should have said 'right'. It didn't matter: all roads led to Rome and he wasn't exactly looking forward to the reception when he got back.

He watched a couple of dogs getting it together on a front lawn and envied them for a moment. They seemed to be enjoying themselves with no thought for the consequences of their actions, or the future in general. Then he remembered how that same attitude had been responsible for the mess he was in now. It wouldn't have been quite so bad if he knew that he could go back and change it, but he was fairly sure that if he were able to re-live the past three years, he'd make the same mistakes all over again. He began to feel nauseous and said: "Drop me off on this next corner, will you?"

The driver pulled up and the two of them went through the usual ritual of payment and the exchange of polite courtesies. Then the cab was moving off, the driver waving, Del waving back, everything for the sake of appearances. One time, he ought to pay at the start of the journey, or say: "You're a lousy driver and I hope your cat dies," but whenever these rebellious notions came to mind it was always too late.

The wind was bitterly cold. He kind-of hitched his shoulders up the way people do and felt a warm buzz around his body. He didn't know why that should be. Perhaps it made the hairs stand on end. The sensation didn't last, however, so he quickened his pace, hoping to generate some heat that way. When he felt even colder, he began to wonder if it was retribution for being indecisive.

The walk wasn't helping the way he'd thought it might. It was the middle of the night. The streets were deserted. No-one with half a brain would be out, unless, of course, they needed space, like him. The solitude should have brought him back to reality when, in fact, it was driving him deeper into make-believe. He just kept picturing unlikely situations - he'd say: "Hi, hon, I'm back. I missed you." She'd run up, throw her arms around his neck and reply: "And I missed you, my darling." Now, that was about as far-removed from reality as you could get.

He would have to face the truth sometime - their marriage was on the rocks: when a woman started talking divorce instead of simply going home to mother, she expected more than an apology and a bunch of red roses. Not that he had given Sally either. Carnations, maybe, and a: "Surely to God we can work this out?" His only other contribution had been to watch her digging in her heels and then follow suit himself. That was how their last skirmish had ended, with neither of them prepared to give an inch to break the resulting stalemate. He'd appealed, of course: "Be reasonable, for Christ's sake!"

Sally probably figured she was: "Get a nine-to-five job like any normal person." It wasn't intended as a suggestion, and in case he was under the mistaken impression that she might not have been serious, she'd added: "Or find yourself another family!"

The ultimatum had been impeccably timed, delivered just as he was climbing into the cab to leave for his last shift. The driver hadn't helped matters any. "I always thought my missus was the only Godzilla." he'd commented after they'd pulled out of earshot. "I never realised two of them had escaped."

Del had managed to restrain his true feelings. At least, he didn't talk about it to anyone, but he'd gathered that something must have showed because after just one day back on the rig, the men began treating him like an unexploded bomb, and were probably glad to see the back of him. That wasn't good: the toolpusher of a drilling crew ought to command respect, not fear. Maybe the same thing was happening at home, he thought. Maybe Sally was retaliating because she was afraid of him. After a few more minutes of walking, the idea seemed ludicrous - Godzilla II was afraid of no man.

He reached the house, frozen to the marrow and stood by the gate looking along the path to the front door. It didn't seem like home, merely an expensive hobby he had neither the time nor the money to pursue with any conviction. Once, he'd thought of it as their love nest, Utopia - he was young and stupid three years ago - now he only stayed for the sake of his son, Danny. A boy needed his father, certainly better guidance than his mother was prepared to offer. There was never a more pertinent example than the child's bike which had been left neglected and rusting on the front lawn. Two months ago it had been brand new, his present for Danny's third birthday; now it was ready for the tip. He couldn't blame the kid - Danny wasn't old enough to know any different. Sally was the problem.

He walked to the door and eased his key into the cylinder. The latch stuck when he tried to turn it - another one of those jobs he'd been going to do for so long it was laughable. He jiggled the key until it finally worked. He was good at that - jiggling - except, he was far better with mechanical things than he was with situations and people.

The front entrance led straight into the lounge. He closed the door quietly behind him and glanced habitually at the time on the illuminated panel of the VCR. She would be asleep. He stood in the dark, acclimatising himself, noticing how the shadows had changed since he was here last - she'd been re-arranging the furniture again. He tried not to groan out loud. Suddenly, his jaw was set and he was grinding his teeth. There was an unfamiliar smell about the place. It took him a moment or two to track it down and recognise stale pipe tobacco. Perhaps it meant nothing, but he had a nagging suspicion that he was no longer the only jiggler in Sally's life.

He tried to tell himself it didn't matter, that it was to be expected. A woman with a bastard for a husband who was only there one month in two needed more than a kid and a framed 8 x 10, to remind her that she was still a woman. Then he started to think about his needs and he stopped making excuses for her. He could feel his anger rising and the answer seemed to be a beer. It was 3.30 in the morning, he was freezing his nuts off and he couldn't think further than a cold beer! Presswood, he said to himself, you really are pathetic!

Accepting the self-analysis with a shrug, he trudged through to the kitchen. As he was pulling a can of Fosters from the fridge, he noticed a jar of mustard pickle on the shelf. Del hated the stuff and Danny lived on tomato sauce, so unless Sally was pregnant again, it had been bought for someone else. The jiggler smokes a pipe and likes mustard pickle, thought Del. He only hoped his rival was a pretty-boy because he'd be able to fix that, unlike everything else.

He started to slam the fridge door; then stopped himself - let Godzilla sleep. Maybe she'd fall into a coma and he could sell her for medical research! He stood in the darkness, sipping beer from the can. It was too cold to taste of much and each gulp that went down caused shivers, but he continued to drink because he was a hard-as-nails oil man who could take whatever life threw at him. Well, almost. He put the beer on the draining-board and went across to switch on the light.

There was mail on the table. He sat down and began flicking through the envelopes. They were mainly bills. It was significant she hadn't opened them, the same way she had no intention of paying them either. Del pushed them to one side and picked up the airmail letter. Failing to recognise the writing, he flipped it over to read the sender's name.

He frowned. Who in hell was Agnes MacFarlane? It had a certain ring to it, but he couldn't think why, so he re-checked the front. It was definitely addressed to him. He opened it. The paper was ruled both sides and had apparently been neatly removed from a school exercise book. This Agnes must be careful with her money, not like some people he knew. There was also something about the script which was flowing and decorative, beautiful, in fact. The writer had used a broad-nibbed fountain pen. So, there was still pride in communication after the ball-point!

It only took a paragraph for him to discover who Agnes MacFarlane was. He'd never met the woman, only her son, Eddie. They'd been together on a rig off India, just after he and Sally.... well, some time ago, anyway. He looked up from the letter and stared at the fridge, trying to remember Eddie. He could picture freckles and masses of ginger hair, and the boy's peculiar, guttural Scottish accent, but little else. He couldn't even recall his face. Wasn't that awful? He'd worked with someone for nine months and couldn't put a face to their name!

By the end of the second paragraph, he was beginning to wish they'd never met. The woman was paranoid. She was insisting that something terrible was going to happen to her boy; that she'd had premonitions, that she'd phoned the Company, and they wouldn't listen and now she was asking for his help!

It was ridiculous! Del was in charge of the drilling crew, sure, but Eddie was a diver. He used them to help keep the show on the road, no more. They were the responsibility of the diving supervisor. Why didn't she pester him instead?

Agnes mentioned her reasons next - Eddie had talked a lot about Presswood. By the sounds of it, the youngster had set him on some kind of pedestal. Wasn't it always the way? You tried to keep a low profile, do the right thing by people, and they tied you to a pole and held you up for the world to chuck rocks at you!

He was tempted to throw the letter straight in the garbage, but he read through to the end, just in case there was something else she had tacked on that might change his opinion. There was just more of the bleeding-heart routine and: "Please help me. Signed, Agnes MacFarlane." That was it.

He left the letter on the kitchen table and returned to the lounge, switching off the light as he passed. He'd already made up his mind to spend the rest of the night on the couch, so he turned on the gas heater. Sure, it was wasteful, but he paid the bills, and he wasn't game to risk making a noise getting the spare blankets from the cupboard outside Sally's room.

There! - He'd even stopped thinking of it as their room. Now it was Sally's. Next he'd lose claim to the hallway and the kitchen. Wouldn't it be a bastard if he had to walk all the way down to the park to use the public toilets and maybe wash in the duck pond!

Kicking off his shoes, he curled up on the couch and fidgeted for a while as he waited for the room to warm up. He felt like a bum reduced to sleeping under bridges and would most likely end up as one when her solicitor got through with him. There wasn't much doubt that she'd already considered that option, had probably exercised it the day he'd left for the rig. From what he'd heard - and that was considerable since at least half of the guys on any one shift were experts in being taken to the cleaners by ex-wives - he'd be better handing over the lot without a struggle and hope she'd toss some back out of sheer cussedness.

It was a sickening thought and now that reconciliation was out of the question, he couldn't make it go away. He guessed he'd have to take the whipping; then touch his forelock and say: "Thank you, Ma'am. It was a pleasure being crucified by you." All he could do to soften the blow was make a few moves of his own before her legal wheels really started to roll.

He'd already made that decision - he hadn't altogether wasted his entire shift. He intended to see John Stanley about it today, as soon as the Company office opened. In the meantime, he'd go through the motions of a man trying to see the woman's side of it. He wondered if he ought to pay a hire fee for using her couch, maybe leave five bucks on the coffee table. She'd probably take that as an insult - better make it ten.