MARISA
By Janet Baldey
She was sitting in the window-seat, her silhouette framed by an
aureole of gold. As he crossed the room
towards her, he saw her eyes were misty and far-away as she gazed into the
garden and Harry thought he had never seen anyone more beautiful. He felt a rush of tenderness as he thought of
how much he loved her.
“I’m
off now love.” He planted a kiss on her
forehead. She started and an almost
imperceptible frown marred the perfection of her face before she lifted her
head to acknowledge his embrace.
As she heard the slam of the door, she felt a rush of
relief. Rising, she ran up the stairs
and into her bedroom; standing in front of a full-length mirror, she stretched
voluptuously, relishing the way her kimono clung to her figure. Heat flooded through her; she wished Steve was
with her now and she looked towards the bed feeling a tingle of delicious
anticipation. She couldn’t wait to see
him again, last evening had been so perfect.
She stood in the shower
feeling the spray hard against her body.
With dawning delight, she remembered that Harry was due to start night
shifts tomorrow. It was perfect timing;
she and Steve could spend the whole night together. She didn’t have his telephone number, he was
always forgetting to give it to her, but she knew where he lived, so she would
drop a discreet note through his door.
Impatient now, she switched off the shower and grabbed a towel.
Outside, the sun beat
down on her unprotected head like a bar of iron as she swung along the street,
her short skirt flirting against her thighs.
Clutched in her hand was a scribbled note and two letters for the
post. As she neared the familiar red post
box on the corner, she darted a quick glance left towards the road junction and
gasped as her heart started to pound.
She recognised the sleek, green Jaguar held by the lights – it was his
car and if she was quick, she could catch him.
She thrust the letters into the box and raced down the street.
Several pubs and
several lagers later, he dragged himself home.
Inside, the house was in darkness except for a thin, yellow line
underneath the kitchen door. Without
turning on the lights, he turned into the living room and flung himself down in
an armchair and sat watching creeping shadows change familiar furniture into
hump-backed monsters.
Eventually, the door
opened and light flooded in. He heard
her give a little gasp then,
“Whatever are you
doing, sitting in the dark?” He didn’t
answer and she shrugged and went back into the kitchen. He heard her moving about, heard the clattering
of plates and the hiss of the kettle.
Still, he sat, dull-eyed, staring at nothing.
Impatiently, she swept
into the room again. “Are you coming, or
what?”
He sat at the table,
pushing food about his plate. Marisa sat
opposite, eating with quick, economical bites.
At last, she put down her knife and fork and looked at him, a brittle
smile stretching her mouth.
“So, what time are you
leaving for work tomorrow?”
“Not going to work.”
There was a pause; he
kept his eyes fixed on his plate.
“I thought you were
starting nights?”
“Change of plan. I’m taking a few days off. Thought we could go away for a break.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded thick
and unnatural. He waited as silence
deadened the room. Eventually, he looked
up and it felt as though someone had punched him. She was staring at him, disappointment etched
into the contours of her face. It was
all the proof he needed.
“What’s his name?”
Her eyes widened.
He flung the crumpled
note towards her. “His name?”
As she sat motionless,
he noticed a small pulse beating rapidly in the base of her neck.
Suddenly, he rose and
pounded upstairs to their bedroom where he began wrenching open drawers and
burrowing his thick hands into the froth of her lingerie. At last, he found what he was looking for.
“What are you
doing?” Behind him, her voice was high
and razor sharp.
Flicking through the
pages of her diary, he took no notice.
Suddenly, he stopped and his shoulders slumped. “Steve.”
Anger twisted his features. “You
whore.”
“Give me that.” She grabbed for the book.
His arm pistoned
towards her and she fell backwards onto the bed. His face reddened and veins knotted his
neck. “I trusted you and you creep
around like an alley cat. Why
Marisa? I’ve bought you everything you
ever wanted. I’ve worked my fingers to
the bone for you. I thought we were
happy.”
She scrambled off the
bed, her eyes blazing.
“You fool” she
sneered. “You thought you could buy me? Well, let me tell you, Postman Pat, you are
just a joke. An ugly, clumsy joke. I’ve never loved you. How could anyone love you? You say you’ve bought me things but I’ve paid
for them. I pay for them every time your
stinking body comes anywhere near me. I
lie there in the dark, with you on top of me, paying for them. Here, give me that!” She snatched the diary out of his hands and
riffled through its pages and held it out towards him. “Look.”
He stared in horror as
one scarlet nail traced a list of names.
He recognised most of them, some friends of his, others pillars of
society. Her voice rose, becoming
strident and ugly. He stared at her
contorted face; this was someone he didn’t know any more.
“Everyone was better
than you! They satisfy me more in one
hour than you have in the whole of our marriage…..” Her voice stopped abruptly as his hand knifed
towards her and caught her full in the throat.
Bunching his fists, he hit her again and again until she fell to the
floor. He loomed over her, breathing
heavily, sweat pouring down his face.
Gradually, he brought himself under control. She lay very still and he noticed that her
head was twisted to one side.
“Marisa?” Tentatively, touched her fallen body with his
foot. She never stirred. He dropped to one knee and tried to straighten
her head. Tenderly, he brushed back her
hair that had fallen over her face.
“Marisa?” he repeated, panic trembling his voice. Bitter bile erupted into his mouth and he
retched. He felt weak and dazed. Groggily, he got to his feet and went into the
bathroom where he turned the shower full on and thrust his head under its icy
spray. He perched on the edge of the
bath for a long time feeling so weary he could have slept for a week. He tried to think but thoughts buzzed around
inside his head like a swarm of angry bees.
Finally, he returned to the bedroom and looked down at his wife. She looked so young and vulnerable lying
where she’d fallen. Gently, he picked
her up, laid her on the bed and lay down beside her. As if an invisible hand had snapped off a
switch, he was instantly asleep.
Harry woke as the first
birds heralded the new day. At first, he
wondered why he was lying fully dressed on the bed. Then, he remembered and sat bolt
upright. Nothing had changed, the room
was still in turmoil and Marisa was still lying beside him, as stiff and white
as a marble statue. He gathered her into
his arms, and sat with his head bowed, a storm of sobs shaking his body.
Eventually, he became calmer and when he next looked up it was as if, along
with his tears, his soul had flooded out of his body. His eyes were dry and hard and his face was
grim.
He looked at his dead
wife and love disappeared as resentment took its place. He had never been a violent man but he could
only stand so much. She had brought
this on herself and he had no intention of paying the price for something that
was not his fault.
After a cup of hot,
black coffee, his head cleared. He
looked at his watch, he was already late for work. Over the phone, he had no trouble convincing
his supervisor that he was ill, his hoarse croak did that for him. He sat, deep in thought, a few months earlier
he had arrived back home to find Marisa watching one of her favourite
television programmes – Price Drop TV.
She had sat avidly watching he screen, her hand hovering over the
telephone. He’d sighed. Already the house groaned with the so-called
‘bargains’ she had accumulated. As she
put in a bid for a set of heavy-duty steel knives, including a cleaver, he had
jokingly asked if she was thinking of taking up butchery. Now, he grinned sardonically.
Three days later, he
went back to work. His colleagues were
shocked at his appearance, gone was the spruce, genial giant with twinkles in
his eyes, now his face was gaunt and morose and stubble clung to his chin.
“Are you alright,
mate? You look really rough. ‘Flu was it?”
“Wife’s done a bunk,”
he muttered, picking up a mailbag, he shuffled out of the door.
From then on, he
avoided his friends and sat alone in the canteen. Conversation at the adjoining tables grew
stilted as he ate his solitary meal, only picking up again when he left the
room.
“Poor bugger. He doted on that floozie…” the voice trailed
away as it was kicked into silence for fear of its carrying power.
As the days passed,
no-one took any particular notice of the little red post van as it buzzed
around the countryside, delivering letters, parcels, and packages. No-one noticed the number of times it was to
be seen parked near woods, copses and lonely fields. No-one noticed the mud that frequently
stained the bottom of his trousers and coated the soles of his shoes.
Summer had fled, autumn
was dwindling, soon it would be winter and the ground would freeze. Normally, winter is hard on wild animals, but
this year, they would feed well.
Copyright Janet
Baldey
