“On a lonely road at night.”
“Exactly.”
“On a lonely motorway.”
“Yes! You stop on the hard shoulder, if you get out—Jesus,” Colette slapped the wheel, “they just drive into you.”
“Or suppose a man stopped to help you. Could you trust him?”
“A stranger?”
“He would be. On a lonely road at night. He wouldn’t be anyone you knew.”
“You’re advised to stay put and lock your doors. Don’t even put your window down.”
“By the rescue services? Is that what they say?”
“It’s what the police say! Alison, you drove yourself around, didn’t you? Before me? You must know.”
She said, “I try to imagine.”
For think of the perils. Men who wait for you to break down just so they can come and kill you. Men hovering, monitoring the junctions. How would you know a sick car, to follow it? Presumably, smoke would come out of it. She herself, in her driving days, had never thought of such disasters; she sang as she drove, and her engine sang in tune. At the least whine, stutter, or hiccough, she sent it her love and prayers, then stuffed it in the garage. She supposed they were fleecing her, at the garage; but that’s the way it goes.
She thought, when me and Colette bought the car, soon after we got together, it was quite easy, a good afternoon out, but now we can’t even buy a Balmoral without Colette nearly driving us off the road, and me thinking of ways to stove her skull in. It shows how our relationship’s come on.
Colette careered them to a halt in the Collingwood’s drive, and the handbrake groaned as she hauled at it. “Bugger,” she said. “We should have food-shopped.”
“Never mind.”
“You see, Gavin, he didn’t care if I was raped, or anything.”
“You could have been drugged with date-rape drugs, and taken away by a man who made you live in a shed. Sorry. Garden building.”
“Don’t laugh at me, Al.”
“Look, the man back there asked us a question. Have we given a thought to our hardstanding?”
“Yes! Yes! Of course! I got a man out of the local paper. But I got three quotes!”
“That’s okay then. Let’s go in. Come on, Colette. It’s okay, sweetheart. We can have a cheese omelette. I’ll make it. We can go back. We can shop later. For God’s sake, they’re open till ten.”
Colette walked into the house, and her eyes roamed everywhere. “We’ll have to replace that stair carpet,” she said, “in under a year.”
“You think so?”
“The pile’s completely flattened.”
“I could avoid wearing it, if I jumped down the last three steps.”
“No, you might put your back out. But it seems a shame. Only been here two minutes.”
“Three years. Four.”
“Still. All those marks rubbed along the walls. Do you know you leave a mark? Wherever your shoulders touch it, and your big hips. You smear everything, Al. Even if you’re eating an orange, you slime it all down the wall. It’s a disgrace. I’m ashamed to live here.”
“At the mercy of shed merchants,” Al said. “Ah dear, ah dear, ah dear.”
At first she didn’t recognize who was speaking, and then she realized it was Mrs. McGibbet. She urged Colette towards the kitchen by slow degrees and consoled her with a microwaved sponge pudding, with hot jam and double cream. “You seriously think I’m going to eat this?” Colette asked; then gulped it down like a hungry dog.
They went to bed all tucked up safe that night. But she dreamed of snapping jaws, and temporary wooden structures. Of Blighto, Harry and Serene.
nine
It was about 2 A.M.; Colette woke in darkness, to the screeching of garden birds. She lay suffering under her duvet, till birdsong was replaced by the long swish of waves against a shingle beach. Then came some twitters, scrapes, and squeaks. What’s it called? Oh yes, rain forest. She thought, what is rain forest anyway? We never had it when I was at school.
She sat up, grabbed her pillow, and beat it. Beyond the wall the croaking and chirping continued, the twittering of strange night fowl, the rustling of the undergrowth. She lay back again, stared at the ceiling: where the ceiling would be. The jungle, she thought, that’s what we had; but they don’t call it the jungle now. A green snake looped down from a branch and smiled into her face. It unravelled itself, falling, falling … she slept again. A need to urinate woke her. Al’s sodding relaxation tapes had reached the waterfall track.
She stood up, dazed, passing her hand over her hair to flatten it. Now she could see the outlines of the furniture; the light behind the curtains was brilliant. She crept into her en-suite and relieved herself. On her way back to bed she pulled aside the curtain. A full moon silvered the Balmoral, and frosted its pent.
There was a man on the lawn. He was walking around it in circles, as if
