The night wraps him in its inky blanket as he drift along the streets, avoiding the puddles of light under the lamp posts. He comes this way often at night, but on this occasion he doesn’t wish to be seen. He stops every few moments and listens for other footsteps; the crack of a twig will reveal a midnight stroller and he will have to abandon his plan - unless he can hide in time. Clive pads along beside iron fences, brushes past the wet leaves of suburban hedges, taking his time. There is no hurry to arrive. His plan remains the same, as long as it’s executed before sunrise reveals the carnage he intends to inflict.
He eases around the corner…to her place.
The hinge on the gate no longer squeaks since he oiled it and he avoids the pebble path as he creeps closer. The autumn breeze rustles the fallen leaves under the oak, masking his approach. Step by slow step he advances and hides among the hydrangea bushes against the wall, under the bay-window. Its large glass sheets transmit any conversation from inside. He’s listened here before, crouched under the window’s sill. Her spluttering protestations don’t fool him. He’s heard her over the last few days; all those murmurings of love, giggles of pleasure and her offers of food to her male visitor.
She has deceived him for the last time. He fingers the key he hasn’t yet returned despite her requests, and strokes the blade of his knife. A red mist of rage swamps his mind. He swallows the bile that rises in his throat. How dare she cheat on him? There have been times when, he admits, he’s been a little unreasonable in his demands, but he’s generous with gifts, and a considerate lover. All he asks for in return… is loyalty.
He will miss her… but he will not share.
***
Inside the house Melissa continues with her nightly routine, despite tremors of fear that crawl up her spine and make her hands shake. Will Clive come tonight? His texts have become more demanding. She hasn’t answered his calls for days, ever since the night he screamed down the phone at her. He accused her of cheating, of two-timing, of telling ‘that bastard Wilfred’ how much she loved him. The reason for her affectionate murmurings was so simple, but he wouldn’t stop ranting long enough for her explain. If this was an indication of his true nature then she’s best quit of him. Her lack of response since then has only enraged him further until today, when fearing for her safety she finally accepted her brother’s offer of protection.
A random act of kindness has brought things to this point. From Clive’s texts and the messages he’s left he must have been eavesdropping, hiding outside in the dark and, she suspects, also stalking her during the day. She’d caught glimpses of him on her way to work and again during her lunch break but hadn’t confronted him. It would only give him an excuse to rant at her over again.
Was he out there now? Tonight is Monday, their usual night to get together. ‘His night” he calls it.
Her brother, a police officer, smiles at her from the couch, his finger at his lips. Her phone chirrups: DON’T WORRY, SIS. I’VE A MATE HIDDEN IN THE NEIGHBOUR’S GARDEN. HE WILL ALERT ME THE MOMENT HE SEES HIM.
I HOPE HE COMES. I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS NIGHT AFTER NIGHT. She replies.
His phone dings. He reads the screen and taps away. YES, HE’S OUT THERE NOW. TURN ON THE TV. WILL HE KNOCK?
She replies, PERHAPS, BUT HE STILL HAS A KEY. WON’T GIVE IT BACK.
WE’LL LISTEN FOR IT IN THE LOCK. THEN YOU MUST GO INTO THE BEDROOM AND LOCK THE DOOR. I’LL DEAL WITH HIM.
She nods and they sit, trying to relax, surfing the channels. Nothing holds their attention and each listens for the key in the front door.
His fingers move. WHERE’S WILFRED?
Her fingers tap a reply. IN THE BEDROOM. I SHOULD JOIN HIM SOON. I USUALLY DO ABOUT NOW.
IF YOU TALK TO WILFRED IT MIGHT SPUR CLIVE INTO ACTION.
She nods. He’s right. Wilfred has caused this eruption of insane jealousy. If only she hadn’t succumbed to his charms. It was nice having a calm male in the house, one who didn’t demand anything more than a decent meal in the evenings and didn’t monopolise the television channels, insist on watching horror movies on Netflix or become jealous if she watched a chic-lit film and commented about a handsome leading man.
But if Wilfred hadn’t won her heart when would she have discovered Clive’s frightening traits? Marriage had been touched on, their future sketched in light lines. Nothing definite, no dates set, just a general move in that direction. Imagine if his insane jealousy had emerged in the future, after they’d married? She shuddered.
The scratch of a key in the lock of the front door causes her jaw to clamp together. A waft of air from the door opening moves her silk scarf like a soft stroke of a finger, where it hangs on the lounge’s door knob.
Her brother moves to stand behind the door, points for her to go, twirling his finger for her to hurry. She crosses the room, opens the door to the bedroom and pushes Wilfred back. He isn’t happy to be isolated from the action and protests. She locks the door and sits, stroking his back; anything to keep him happy. She worries she may have acquired another demanding male. She listens.
***
In the dark hallway a band of light from the lounge shines on the polished wooden floor. Clive remembers there’s a board in the middle that squeaks. He’ll need to step with care. Can he avoid it? He does, and for a moment his heart rate slows. The pounding in his ears eases. Surprise will be his advantage tonight. He might catch her in the arms of her new lover. He’s heard the dings of a phone. Someone’s texting. It might be that bastard, Wilfred. It’ll be easier if she’s alone. Clive fights his rage, his vision blurs and fogs red. He takes several deep breaths and waits until his mind clears.
At the doorway he pauses and gathers a core of calm before he commits to the next part of his plan. His arm quivers as he raises his knife high and steps around the door, ready to slash, to curse her and to deliver revenge for her deceit.
He looks around the empty room. His gaze rests on the closed bedroom door and he begins to lower his arm when his wrist is grasped from behind and someone twists his arm up his back. He swallows a howl of plain, yet it escapes as a whimper. His hand is forced inward until his eyes water and his fingers release the knife. It hits the floor and slides away, its flight stopped by a rug they’d chosen together, joking it might suit a new apartment.
“That’s far enough, Clive. I’m afraid you’ll be spending the rest of the night down at the station, trying to talk you way out of entering my sister’s flat with a weapon raised; ‘Intent to injure ‘ will be the first charge, followed by ‘breaking and entering’”
“No,” Clive groans, “I have a key.” Damn her brother.
“Moot point,” her brother says and shoves him into the arms of another man who’s entered the room. Thick arms hold him fast and he watches as his knife is lifted by its point and dropped into a bag.
“You can come out, Sis. We have him in custody.”
The bedroom door opens and Melissa emerges as beautiful as ever, except she’s holding a large tabby cat in her arms. The animal, its ears torn ragged by many past battles, its large paws kneading her arms, stares at Clive with disdain. It gives him a slow blink. It has an air of satisfaction and as Melissa approaches he hears a loud rumbling purr.
“When did you get a bloody cat?” Clive snarls. “You know I hate the things.”
“This is Wilfred,” Melissa says, “He arrived late one night in the middle of that recent storm, and he refuses to leave.”
She looks Clive up and down and for a moment he wishes he’d worn nicer clothes, but then his plans for the evening required disposable wear.
“Long term I think I’m better off with Wilfred, than with you. Goodbye, Clive.”
She turns her back on him and still carrying the cat walks back into the bedroom. The slam of the door seems to represent a full stop to their relationship.
Perhaps he’s been a bit hasty? Does their relationship have any future —if he manages to wriggle out of the proposed charges? He shakes his head in dismay and watches where he steps as he’s bundled out of the door, down the steps and into her brother’s car. Rage wars with sadness and he squeezes his eyelids shut. Misery wins. A tear tracks down one cheek. He’s blown this romance, just like all his previous ones.
Anger Management classes loom once more. He wishes they would work.
I have finished editing the sequel to The Carbonite’s Daughter and will be sending it to the publisher early December. Read book One here: https://www.amazon.com/Carbonites-Daughter-Deryn-Pittar/dp/1922556467/r