Down Cemetery Road Read Online Free PDF Page A

‘I can’t see whose house it is.’
    ‘We’ll only be in the way,’ Mark snapped.
    Rufus reached out and caught Wigwam’s sleeve, whether in comfort or prohibition, Sarah had no idea. There was another rupture from the emergency scene, and uniformed men danced back from sliding rubble.
    ‘I can’t bear this,’ she said.
    ‘Let’s go inside.’
    They straggled back in, Gerard alone reluctant. Perhaps he got a kick out of other people’s tragedies; more likely he wanted to finish his cigar. Sarah found two inches of it squashed upright on the gatepost next morning, like the offering of a particularly acrobatic poodle.
    All were subdued, and at least two of them deeply upset by what had happened. So Mark approached the matter in best masculine fashion, producing the brandy he held back for private emergencies; he and Gerard made the most of this one, though everybody else declined. Rufus never touched spirits. Gerard wasn’t surprised. Other than that, an armistice had been declared, which lasted until the dinner guests called it a night. It had gone twelve, to Sarah’s surprise. She thought she’d been excruciatingly aware of every minute, but the last hour had passed her by entirely.
    The thank-yous rang phony in her ears. Half her guests, she never wanted to see again; the other half she wished she’d not invited. Mark, come to that, was scoring small in the Good Husband stakes. So pleading a headache, she retreated to the kitchen almost before they were out the front door. At the back of the house, she could pretend the noise outside was a party. That way all she had to grieve about was the fact that she hadn’t been invited.
    She could hear Mark heading upstairs. Once he’d have been in to clear up. Now it seemed this was her domain; he’d cancel his subscription to the Guardian before using the phrase Woman’s Work, but he’d justify not helping nevertheless. Hard day at the office; long journey back; had to stand all the way from Padding-ton. Plus she’d been pissy with his guests, which was hardly the way to further his career. And underneath that, no matter what kind of day he’d had, no matter what she’d said to whoever, there’d be that nasty little jingle that she heard all the time these days, although he’d yet to say it aloud:
    – It’s not as if you do anything else. Is it, Sarah?
    She stacked dirty dishes. Fifteen minutes’ work here, but she was tired. The morning, she thought. She’d do it in the morning. Then a sudden, unwanted vision attacked her of them both being blown away in their sleep, and morning never coming. But that wouldn’t happen, not twice in the same street. Not two gas accidents so close, though she might just get the boiler checked while she had accidents in mind –
    Gerard, remember, had been sure it was a bomb.
    Something moved outside the back door, shocking her from her thoughts. Probably a cat, she quickly decided. Which it was. Moving closer she could make it out, sitting on the patio, grooming itself; a familiar local black, the opposite of a stray in that about six different households fed it. No way was she joining in. But she stood and watched it for a while, until it became too difficult to focus on the world beyond her own reflection, chopped and multiplied in the dozen glass panels that made up the back door. See yourself as Picasso sees you, she thought. In her case, heavy. Lifeless shoulder-length hair. A smidgin over-made-up this evening . . . This woman has low self-esteem . Which didn’t make her wrong, Sarah thought bitterly. Let’s get Mark’s opinion on the subject, shall we?
    He was not available. The cat was subjecting her to pretty close scrutiny though; its eyes reflecting the kitchen’s glow, its gaze steady and unforgiving, and it seemed to Sarah that it was weighing her according to some feline scale; checking out her potential for survival on the other side of the glass, where the wild things were. She didn’t rate highly.