Heathen/Nemesis

handbag. Had to be a reason why she had two letters from him, and a photo.

There had to be a reason other than the most obvious one, that they were involved somehow.

Involved.

What a pleasing euphemism. It sounded so much more civilized to say that Christopher Ward, her dead husband, had been involved with another woman. So much more civilized than saying he was having an affair.

Was that what she was trying to deny now?

First his death, now his infidelity.

For now she had only nagging doubts, doubts which became more tangible the more she considered the matter. She got to her feet and wandered out of the kitchen, holding her mug of tea, snapping off the lights as she went. She walked into the hall, her footfalls soft on the carpet as she headed for the sitting room. She pushed open the door, flicked on the lights and the room was illuminated.

It seemed no more hospitable than the kitchen had done.

Over the fireplace hung the framed covers of three of Ward’s books.

He’d written fifteen novels in the last twelve years, each one a massive bestseller. Two had been turned into badly-made and unsuccessful films, but he’d been well paid for the rights; Ward had washed his hands of the adaptations and continued writing.

How long ago had he met Suzanne Regan?

Donna sat in the chair where he always used to sit and where he would never sit again.

Never.

She gazed across the room at the television and saw herself reflected in the blank screen. There were videos beneath the set, her husband’s chief form of relaxation.

When he was alive.

Donna felt a tear roll down her cheek.

Had he described the house to Suzanne Regan?

Donna got to her feet and walked out of the sitting-room, leaving it in darkness. Back across the hall she walked, to the dining-room with its large dark wood table and its bookcases where Ward’s own books were displayed. She took one from a shelf and turned it over, studying the photo on the back, running one index finger over it. He had been an attractive man, It was hard to believe that this was the same man whose face she had seen earlier, gashed and bloodied by the crash. She studied his features carefully, the steely blue eyes, the shoulder-length brown hair.

Was that what had attracted Suzanne Regan?

Donna replaced the book, still crying softly, aware that she would never see that face again in life, never feel the touch of his hands. The unbearable chill seemed to close tightly round her, like a freezing glove.

It followed her into every room.

In the bathroom she touched his razor and ran her thumb across the blade, scarcely aware that she cut the pad. She watched blood well up from the small gash, forming a globule before running down past the first knuckle.

Every room she walked into and looked around, she picked out the objects which were Ward’s, objects which made her think of him even more strongly. And the more she thought about him, the stronger the pain became. The chasm in her soul expanded with every recollection.

She paused at the door to his office.

Her hand quivered over the door handle.

She couldn’t enter it.

The memories were piled high in there, as high as the copies of his manuscripts. As high as the filing trays, filled with their letters and notepads.

She closed her eyes and pushed the door open.

In the dull light from the desk lamp she gazed around. One half of the room was occupied by two huge bookcases, the other by his desk. On part of the desk sat a typewriter, an old portable manual model. Ward had never invested in a WP; he’d never found the need to fill his room with technological gadgetry. He wrote long-hand, then typed. It was as simple as that.

Beside the typewriter were loose sheets of notepaper with hastily scribbled notes. She saw a dictionary, a thesaurus, the pocket tape-recorder she had bought for him one Christmas. The filing cabinets and drawers remained shut, their secrets hidden from her.

Donna noticed that the small clock on the desk had stopped, its hands frozen and still.

Like Chris.

She flicked off the light and closed the door behind her, walking into their bedroom. The effort of getting undressed seemed too great; she sat down on the edge of the bed, her head bowed as if under some enormous weight. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, her quiet sobs loud in the stillness of the bedroom. Grief she thought she had expended at the hospital now seemed to crowd in on her. She fell back on the bed, her legs drawn up to her chest, and lay in that foetal position, her body quivering as she cried.

The darkness outside was impenetrable but it was radiant compared to the gloom in her soul.

And she knew this was only the beginning.

Eight

A dream.

It had to be a dream.

She heard the sound but thought it was part of her subconscious. The persistent two-tone bell.

She sat up quickly, her eyes wide and staring, red-rimmed. It was no dream. Daylight poured in through the open curtains of the bedroom. The ringing of the doorbell was virtually unabated now, occasionally interspersed with the banging of the brass knocker.

Donna put both hands to her face and felt the stiffness in her neck and shoulders, the beginning of a headache.

The ringing continued. And the banging.

Donna finally swung herself off the bed and moved mechanically across the landing and down the stairs. She paused beside the front door, she put one eye to the spy-hole and recognised the figure outside. She pulled open the door.

‘I thought there was something wrong ...’ Jackie Quinn began. Then, as she looked at Donna, she realized that there was. Something terribly wrong.

Donna stepped away from the door, allowing Jackie into the hallway.

‘Donna, what’s wrong? What is it? You look terrible,’ Jackie said quickly, shocked by her friend’s appearance.

‘What time is it?’ Donna mumbled quietly.

‘Sod the time,’ Jackie rasped. ‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s Chris,’ Donna said, tears already forming in her eyes. ‘Jackie, he’s dead.’

The two women embraced, Donna clasping her friend to her with a strength born of desperation. Jackie could feel tears soaking into the shoulder of her blouse, could feel Donna trembling helplessly in her grasp. And she too felt that awful sense that someone had punched her in the stomach, knocked the wind from her. Shock struck like a clenched fist.

Jackie guided her weeping friend towards the kitchen and sat her down, keeping her hands on Donna’s shoulders, stroking her hair repeatedly. She found herself looking into eyes that bulged in the sockets, eyes criss- crossed by veins.

Eyes without any semblance of hope.

At twenty-eight Donna was a year older than Jackie, but her face might have belonged to a person of forty. Beneath her puffy eyes the skin looked bruised, the lids themselves swollen. Her nose was red, her cheeks untouched by make-up. Her hair was unkempt, tangled like intertwined lizard-tails. Two nails were broken on her right hand and another chewed down as far as the tip of the finger. Her face was tear-stained and Jackie could see