A wedding picture.
Robin looked so handsome in his officer’s uniform – his broad, strong shoulders and clipped blond hair.
Of course, to her eyes, he had looked handsome all his life. Except, perhaps, right at the end. The cancer he had fought against so bravely had finally taken its toll, leaving him as just a gaunt, hollowed-out shell of the man she had married forty-odd years ago.
Next to the photograph was a table lamp with its delicate shade of coloured glass. This had been one of the few items Margaret had insisted on packing herself, not trusting the removal firm with her most precious and sentimental pieces. The lamp had been a gift from Robin on their first anniversary, something he had picked up abroad – possibly India, she couldn’t quite remember after all these years. Its stem was made of polished dark wood, turned to resemble a phallus - although the similarity was subtle enough not to cause offence to a casual observer. She recalled how Robin had chuckled when she had first run her hands over its smooth surface, oblivious to its connotations…
“Margaret? Are you still there?”
The voice at the other end of the phone snapped Margaret out of her melancholic musings.
“Sorry, Jean…I was just looking at mine and Robin’s wedding photo. I know he’s been gone almost seven years, but I do still miss him.”
She gave a sniff and wiped a tear from the corner of her left eye, sitting up straighter in her arm-chair as she imagined her late husband’s voice telling her to pull herself together. Swapping the phone to her right hand, the left rummaged in her pocket for a tissue, bringing it up to her nose for a gentle blow.
At the sounds of her friend’s distress, Jean decided to pull the direction of their conversation back to something more positive.
“The neighbours?”
Margaret finished wiping her nose, the change of tack beginning to lighten her mood once more.
“Well, there’s only the young couple next door at the moment…moved in a few days ago. Newlyweds I should imagine – I’ve only seen them a couple of times…they could barely keep their hands off each other…”
She laughed at her friend’s response, “…that’s right - still in the honeymoon period…” She giggled again. “Oh, I know…seems like such a long time ago now doesn’t it, Jean? If your memory’s anything like mine, I bet you can’t even remember what it felt like to be so young and in love.”
Margaret laughed again, louder this time. “Oh, Jean - stop it! You are terrible…but just between you and me, that young man can blow the cobwebs away from my nooks and crannies any time he likes!”
The widow blushed. This was the first time she’d ever thought about another man – even if it was just some ludicrous fantasy. Casting another glance at the photo on the coffee table, as if apologising to her deceased husband, she was shocked to find her hand stroking the phallic stem of the lamp. Despite being alone in the room, she felt her skin flush a shade deeper.
Jean pursued her line of enquiry regarding the couple next door.
“Have I heard them? Oh, I see…no, I think their bedroom backs onto my living room, so no creaking bedsprings keeping me awake at night. Although…I thought I was going to hear them at it yesterday afternoon while I was watching the TV. I kept hearing this squeaking sound - but I think it’s probably just a wonky floorboard. I remember they mentioned it when I spoke to them the other day - they were annoyed that no-one had been around to fix it yet.”
13
The woman screamed. Roger quickly clamped a dirty palm over her mouth, pressing down with enough pressure to muffle her shouts but, hopefully, not hard enough to hurt her. He wasn’t here to harm the woman, of that he was sure, but the last thing he needed was her cries to alert the neighbours. He didn’t want any trouble, particularly from the law. If he had to explain his actions to the police then he was pretty certain he would be talking himself into a one-way ticket to the mad-house.
“Where is Laura?”
He took his hand away from the woman’s face a little, reading her eyes and finding between the lines, behind the fear, a tacit understanding that she wouldn’t scream again.
He repeated the question. “Where is Laura?”
“Gone…” she croaked.
“Gone? Gone where?”
As the words slipped from his tongue, Roger suddenly realised what the woman was saying.
Laura was gone. Gone from this world. Gone from the realm of the living.
Roger suddenly understood why he was here.
“Her things…” He spoke again to the woman - who he now assumed to be Laura’s mother. “Where are Laura’s things?”
With brown eyes wet and wide with shock, the terrified woman raised a weak hand, her vague movements indicating the single word that took all her strength to whisper.
“Upstairs.”
Gently pushing her ahead of him, Roger followed her up the plush, carpeted staircase, coming to a halt at her back as she paused outside a closed bedroom door.
“Inside.” The instruction sounded harsh in his head so he added a hint of politeness in an attempt to sound more reasonable, “…please.”
The room was immaculate: a shrine to the departed.
The bed was neatly made with not a single noticeable crease in either the plain pink quilt or its matching pillowcase. On top of the bed, a row of teddy bears and other soft toys lazily reclined against a wall, ordered by size from the largest at the head to the smallest at the foot. On the opposite wall, beneath a long window that overlooked the small back garden, sat a white dressing table. A matching chair was tucked in
