Divorcing Jack Read Online Free PDF Page A

Loyalist flute band records. The Pride of Whitehill and the Wellington Young Defenders. Bandsmen in silly uniforms with embarrassing plumes on their caps sat in rows on the cover like psychedelic soldiers.
    Margaret came back into the lounge, carefully closing the door behind her. I held up the flute band records. 'Lapse in taste here, I think.'
    'Oh, for God's sake. I forgot they were there. Not mine. They're my da's, I brought them with me by mistake when I moved in here.'
    'Well, what's he doin' with them? Is he mad?'
    'Where we used to live, they came round the doors with them. You more or less had to buy them or you'd get a brick through the window. They were raising money for new band uniforms.'
    'Quieter ones, I hope.'
    'Guns for the boys, I presume.'
    'I dare say.'
    Margaret knelt beside me. She selected a Cocteau Twins record and slipped it onto the turntable. I'd seen them once in concert, a lot of years before. All syrupy guitar and high-pitched vocals. The sort of music you should buy on CD, then smash. Still, I was in no mood to argue, with throbbing nose and closing eye, and besides, as she sat back she collapsed into my arms and she kissed me long and soft. I tried moving my hands, but she pinned them behind my back. I didn't struggle.
    We came apart with the pinging of the microwave. She jumped up and ran into the kitchen. I heard a low groan and a minute later she appeared at the door with the pizza neatly cut onto two plates. She said: 'I think I may have had it in for too long.'
    She was right. It was like eating a discus.
    We made love on the floor. It was nice. We had a bit of an argument about the lack of a condom. I volunteered to use my sock. She thought that idea was: a) disgusting; b) stupid. Socks weren't watertight, or whatever. She said, 'You wear a sock, not only will I have a baby, but it'll come out wearing a bloody jumper.' We compromised on my withdrawal. I didn't. We British don't withdraw from Ireland.
    Later, in bed, she said, 'What are you going to do about the wife?'
    I shook my head. I didn't know. There was a knot in my stomach; I didn't know whether it was guilt or satisfaction. We both drifted off to sleep.
     
    I woke in the morning with a frightening headache, the sort of throbbing that demands that you wash your hair in Lemsip. My first thought was: oh shit. My second: get me out of here.
    Margaret was still sleeping. We'd neglected to close the curtains and the sun was streaming in through the window. She'd thrown her half of the continental quilt off her some time during the night and her pale body gleamed like a baby's. I reached out to touch her, but pulled back. It was madness.
    She began to stir. Her eyes opened, fluttered, closed, opened. 'Hello,' she said. Her voice croaked.
    'I'll get you some water,' I said. My voice croaked worse. I got out of bed and pulled my suit trousers on. They were a crumpled mess and they smelt of smoke and beer and there was a gravel scrape down one leg. I went into the bathroom, used the toilet, opened the window and looked at myself in a small round mirror that was attached with some Blu-Tack to the window frame. It was at the wrong height for me. I bent into the sink and washed my face in cold water. Still half bent, I examined my face again in the mirror. One eye was black and mostly closed. There was a hint of dried blood round my right nostril that the water had failed to dislodge and a slight bruise on the bridge of my nose. My hair was dank and tangled, but I didn't much mind that as long as I still had some.
    There was a box cabinet on the wall to my left. It was mostly filled with make-up, but I found some paracetamol and swallowed four and a mouthful of water from the tap. I straightened up slowly, trying to close my throat to make sure they didn't come up again. They didn't.
    I went downstairs and into the kitchen. Snarling greeted my entry. Patch sat in a brown wicker basket in the far corner in front of an elderly twin-tub washing