Transgressions Read Online Free PDF Page B

mother’s money had come through probate, and she had been so certain that she asked the owners if she could phone Tom from there and persuade him to come straight over on his way back from work. They offered the asking price that very evening. The couple who owned it had lived there for twenty-five years and were selling only because it was too big for them now that the family had grown up and gone. They liked her, she could tell, saw a future rolling out before her like a carbon copy of their own: finding the right house, having the children, fussing and fighting as they watched them grow up, and then, suddenly, having to readjust as they found themselves alone again. She had been charmed by the image then, could almost share their sense of vision of herself.
    And it would have been the perfect house for it. It was one of those mid-Victorian properties at the end of a terrace, financed by the speculative proceeds of the ones that came before and much grander than its neighbors, the builder showing off his success in bricks and mortar. It was built around a glorious staircase that spiraled up into the darkness from a wider than average hall, a house where all the rooms were generous ones, even up to the attic space under the eaves where, it seemed to her, a translator might work, happy and undisturbed, as the baby went down for its morning nap, content in the proximity of its mother.
    But it was not to be. Maybe it was the very perfection of the image that had turned it barren. Although the house itself had not been to blame, she was sure of that. In fact, as the relationship had started to deconstruct itself and the thought of children receded, so the house had become a kind of surrogate dependent, wanting them, needing things, growing, responding to love and affection. And money. Like a child, it had proved expensive. It had gobbled up the remainder of her mother’s money within the first two years, what with redoing the roof, decorating the attic, even creating a new kitchen with a warm wooden floor and wide countertops. The final alterations had cost so much it had caused them to take out a joint mortgage, a statement of alternative commitment that came too late to save either of them. Without him she now paid it all herself. But still she never thought about selling. The house was her home, and she loved it. If money got tight later she’d get herself a lodger, some French or Spanish student who would appreciate the house’s specialness and remember it in years to come. No. This was where she was staying. And it would take more than a few mislaid CDs, even if they had been spirited away by malice, to turn her against it.
    Gently she eased Millie off her lap. She put her back down on the chair and turned off the light in readiness for going upstairs. But before she could close the door the cat curled its way between her legs and bounded up to the landing above, and was looking down at her. Clearly tonight they were going to sleep together.
    “Oh, well,” she muttered. “As of now I haven’t had a better offer.”
    Together they mounted the curling staircase to her room. It was 2:10 A.M. by the clock. On the bedside table the receiver was buzzing angrily, British Telecom’s way of telling you you’re out of contact. She replaced it and this time it stayed silent. She went over to the window. The world outside was silent. The light of a half moon had opened up the garden to a series of shadows. On the back wall something was moving, but it was too dark to see what it was. Black against black. Poor Millie. She was either going to have to find the will to fight back or admit defeat. The cat had curled herself up at the end of the bed. It seemed she had already made her choice.

 
     
    three
     
 
    W hen the state stops paying the garbage collectors, the garbage stops being collected.
    The street was awash in litter. Some of it would be recycled. Most of it you wouldn’t want to use again. Like the condoms and the