Blood At The Root

Banks shrugged. “It’s only been a couple of weeks,” he said. “I’ve been busy. So have you. Give it time.”

“I know. But that’s not it. We’re always busy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Work. Yours. Mine. Oh, that’s not the real problem. We’ve always been able to deal with that before. You’ve never expected a dutiful little wife staying at home all day cooking and cleaning, ironing, sewing buttons on, and I thank you for that. But even that’s not it.” She took one of his cigarettes, something she did so rarely these days that the gesture worried him. “I’ve been thinking a lot since the other night, and I suppose what I’m saying is that I feel alone. I mean in the relationship. I just don’t feel I’m part of your life anymore. Or that you’re part of mine.”

“But that’s absurd.”

“Is it? Is it, really?” She looked at him, frowning, black eyebrows crooked in the furrow of her brow. Then she shook her head slowly. “I don’t think it is, Alan. What was Saturday all about, then? And the other night? I think if you’re honest with yourself, you’ll agree. This house feels empty. Cold. It doesn’t feel like a home. It feels like the kind of place that two people living separate lives use to sleep and eat in, occasionally passing one another on the landing and saying hello. Maybe stopping for a quick fuck if they’ve got time.”

“That’s not fair, and you know it. I think you’re just feeling depressed because both the kids have grown up and flown the coop. It’ll take time to get used to.”

“Next thing you’ll be saying I’m feeling this way because it’s that time of the month,” said Sandra. “But you’re wrong. It’s not that, either.” She thumped her fist on the arm of the chair. “You’re not listening to me. You never really listen to me.”

“I am listening, but I’m not sure I understand what I’m hearing. Are you sure this isn’t still about last Saturday?”

“No, it’s not about last bloody Saturday. Yes, all right, I admit I was angry. I thought for once you might just forsake your sacred bloody opera to do something that I thought was important. Something for my career. But you didn’t. Fine. And then the other night you go and put your opera on the stereo. But you’ve always been selfish. Selfishness I can deal with. This is something else.”

“What?”

“What I’ve been trying to tell you. We’re both independent people. Always. That’s why our marriage worked so well. I wasn’t waiting and fretting at home for you to come back from work. Worrying that your dinner might get cold. Worrying that something might have happened to you. Though, Lord knows, that was something I never could put out of my mind, even though I tried not to let on to you too much. And if I was out and there was no dinner, if your shirt wasn’t ironed, you never complained. You did it yourself. Not very well, maybe, but you did it.”

“I still don’t complain when dinner’s not ready. I made a bloody processed-cheese omel-”

Sandra held her hand up. “Let me finish, Alan. Can’t you see what’s happened? What used to be our strength – our independence – now it’s driving us apart. We’ve led separate lives for so long, we take it for granted that’s how a relationship should be. As long as you’ve got your work, your music, your books and the occasional evening with the lads at the Queen’s Arms, then you’re perfectly happy.”

“And what about you? Are you happy with your gallery, your photography, your committee meetings, your social evenings?”

Sandra paused a long time, long enough for Banks to pour them both a stiff Laphroaig, before she answered. “Yes,” she said finally in a soft voice. “That’s just it. Yes. Maybe I am. For a while I’ve been thinking they’re all I do have. You just haven’t been here, Alan. Not as a real factor.”

Banks felt as if a hand made of ice had slid across his heart. It was such a palpable sensation that he put his hand to his chest. “Is there someone else?” he asked. On the stereo, Fiordiligi was singing quietly about being as firm as a rock.

Suddenly Sandra smiled, reached out and ran her hand over his hair. “Oh, you sweet, silly man,” she said. “No, there’s no one else.” Then her eyes clouded and turned distant. “There could have been… perhaps… but there isn’t.” She shrugged, as if to cast off a painful memory.

Banks swallowed. “Then what?”

She paused. “As I said, I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, and I’ve come to the conclusion that we should go our separate ways. At least for a while.” She reached forward and held his hand as she spoke, which seemed to him, like the smile, an out-of-place gesture. What the hell was wrong?

Banks snatched his hand back. “You can’t be serious,” he said. “We’ve been married over twenty years and all of a sudden you just decide to up and walk out.”

“But I am serious. And it’s not all of a sudden. Think about it. You’ll agree. This has been building up for a long time, Alan. We hardly ever see one another anyway. Why continue living a lie? You know I’m right.”

Banks shook his head. “No. I don’t. I still think you’re overreacting to Tracy’s leaving and to Saturday night. Give it a little time. Maybe a holiday?” He sat forward and took her hand now. It felt limp and clammy. “When this case is over, let’s take a holiday, just you and me. We could go to Paris for a few days. Or somewhere warm. Back to Rhodes, maybe?”

He could see tears in her eyes. “Alan, you’re not listening to me. You’re making this really difficult, you know. I’ve been trying to pluck up courage to say this for weeks now. It’s not something I’ve just come up with on the spur of the moment. A holiday’s not going to solve our problems.” She sniffled and ran the back of her hand under her nose. “Oh, bugger,” she said. “Look at me now. I didn’t want this to happen.” She grabbed his hand and gripped it tightly again. This time he didn’t snatch it away. He didn’t know what to say. The icy touch was back, and now it seemed to be creeping into his bones and inner organs.

“I’m going away for a while,” Sandra said. “It’s the only way. The only way both of us can get a chance to think things over.”

“Where are you going?”

“My parents. Mum’s arthritis is playing her up again, and she’ll appreciate an extra pair of hands around the place. But that’s not the reason. We need time apart, Alan. Time to decide whether there’s anything left to salvage or not.”

“So this is just a temporary separation you have in mind?”

“I don’t know. A few weeks, anyway. I just know I need to get away. From the house. From Eastvale. From you.”

“What about the community center, your work?”

“Jane can take over for a while, till I decide what to do.”

“Then you might not come back?”

“Alan, I’m telling you I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. Don’t make it harder for me. I’m at my wit’s end already. The only sensible thing is for me to get away. Then… after a while… we can talk about it. Decide where we want to go next.”

“Why can’t we talk now?”

“Because it’s all too close here. That’s why. Pressing in on me. Please believe me, I don’t want to hurt you. I’m scared. But we’ve got to do it. It’s the only chance we’ve got. We can’t go on like this. For crying out loud, we’re both still young. Too bloody young to settle for anything less than the best.”

Banks sipped more Laphroaig, but it failed to warm the icy hand now busy caressing the inside of his spine. “When are you going?” he asked, his voice curiously flat.

Sandra avoided his eyes. “As soon as possible. Tomorrow.”

Banks sighed. In the silence, he heard the letter box open and close. Odd, at that time of night. It seemed like a good excuse to get out of the room for a moment, before he started crying himself, or said things he would regret, so he went to see what it was. On the mat lay an envelope with his name typed on the front. He opened the door, but it was quiet outside in the street, and there was no one in sight.

He opened the envelope. Inside he found a plane ticket from Leeds and Bradford Airport to Amsterdam Schiphol, leaving late the following morning, a reservation for a hotel on Keizersgracht, and a single sheet of paper on which were typed the words: “JASON FOX: SHHHHH.”