Ruth Rendell - Adam And Eve And Pinch Me

Jock’s ghost had fallen to the floor and disappeared. Or at any rate, she couldn’t see what remained of it. She didn’t want to. And she didn’t care to remain where she was with the dirty stuff wiped off on the seat next to her, but she did want to see this film. Fastidiously, shrinking away from contact with that seat as she passed it, she moved to the aisle end of the row, walked a few yards up the aisle, and picked herself another seat. It was in the central block and there was no one in front of her and no one behind.

Sleepy Hollow hadn’t frightened her and this one didn’t. It was a disappointment. If these film people had had her experience of ghosts they’d know more about making things frightening. She wished she’d gone to The Green Mile , but it was too late now. Anyway, if she had, Jock’s ghost mightn’t have been there and she wouldn’t have had the chance of banishing him once and for all. When the film was about three-quarters of the way through she got up and left. The man in the back row left too, so she wasn’t the only one who hadn’t liked it.

Outside it was still hot and sunny. She looked at her hands to see if there was any mess on them but she’d wiped what there was off on the seat when she’d wiped the knife. Still she shivered because when she lifted her fingers up to her nose she could smell something that was like blood but stronger, she thought, more bitter and unholy . Spots and splashes of it were all over her clothes but they weren’t noticeable to anyone but herself because her trousers were dark red and her T-shirt was a red and blue and yellow pattern. Not that Minty much worried about anyone seeing; it was for herself that she cared. She’d never been concerned about what other people thought of her. They ought to be thinking about what she thought of them .

But she didn’t want to get on a bus. Sitting with that ghost juice on her would somehow be worse than walking in the fresh air. For one thing, it would be all around her, close to her, pressing on her, and for another she’d smell it more. The stench of it began to make her miserable, to make her want to tear her clothes off and plunge into water, any water. That wasn’t possible. So she walked. Up Edgware Road in the heat and the smell from the Middle Eastern takeaway restaurants, along the start of Harrow Road and through the underpass into Warwick Avenue. There was no longer any fear of meeting Jock there.

This was familiar territory, home ground. The people you passed never took any notice of you and they never sniffed, trying to smell you. Everyone sweated, there was no escaping it, but she hated it happening to her, the feel of the beads of moisture breaking out on her upper lip and forehead, the trickle of it dripping down her chest like tears. It wouldn’t smell, not with all the deodorant she used. But how could you be sure you hadn’t missed out a little bit of skin surface? She imagined the sweat leaking out of that little bit inside her armpit and that awful meaty, oniony smell breathing on to the air. Almost crying now with the filth that covered her, her own perspiration and the splashed ghost juice, she let herself into the house. She ran upstairs and fell into the bath. It was half an hour later that she boiled the knife. The clothes she’d worn were beyond saving, far far beyond washing. She wrapped them in newspaper, then in plastic, and put them into a black waste bag. Knowing they’d be there, albeit outside, for another four days, sent her out again. The heat met her, it was like opening an oven door. She walked slowly, shrinking her body to keep the sweat in, and dropped the bag into the big council rubbish bin a few yards up the road.

MICHELLE SET OUT wineglasses on the coffee table, a heart-shaped dish filled with vegetable crisps that would neither thin down nor fatten up, and a rather larger oval one with dry-roasted peanuts. Fiona had said she liked the crisps and she hoped to persuade Matthew to eat a few as well. She, of course, would eat nothing, not even the pink and orange slivers of root vegetable, and would go sparingly on the wine. After her shower that morning she had stood on the scales, hardly daring to look, but found she’d lost three pounds. The week before it had been four pounds. Could there be any greater tonic to an overweight woman than to find she’d lost seven pounds in a fortnight? She’d been singing while she dressed herself and Matthew had smiled lovingly at her.

He and she had been out shopping in the afternoon and bought the wine. Michelle knew nothing about wine but Matthew did-in her opinion he was an expert on everything-and he’d chosen a meursault. Fiona was coming, and Michelle knew she preferred white wine over any other alcoholic drink. There wasn’t much food to buy, just the few things Matthew would eat, and today he’d agreed to try a bit of chicken, another suggestion of Fiona’s, the kind you get at a delicatessen counter and which looks like a close-textured white loaf, from which the assistant saws wafer-thin slices. It would do for her too, along with some green leaves. The shopping bags were about twenty pounds lighter than usual.

It was such a lovely day that Michelle had suggested she drive them both up to the Heath, where they could sit in the sunshine and look at the view. So she’d done this and they’d stayed up there a long time, talking about Matthew’s TV successes. He was due to have lunch with a producer who planned to make a short series on the lines of the pilot program.

“When he said ‘lunch,’ ” Matthew said, “I started laughing, darling, I couldn’t help it. I thought, me having lunch with someone. In a restaurant . He thought I was laughing with pleasure at the idea of a series.”

“Can you do it?” Michelle was all concern. “Eat with someone in a restaurant, I mean? I know you can do the series.”

“I’m going to try. Before we start I’m going to remind him what I am and just why I got the job. And then I’ll eat salad and a bit of dry bread. By eat I mean nibble and leave three-quarters.”

When Michelle looked at her watch, it was past four and they had to get back. She hadn’t given Fiona a definite time, just said to come in for a drink when she returned from work. Jeff hadn’t been mentioned but Michelle knew that when people were a couple you had to accept the uncongenial one along with the one you liked.

“Still, I hope he’s out somewhere and not expected home till seven,” she said to Matthew as she put the two bottles of wine in the fridge.

Matthew looked up from his computer. “I don’t think he’ll be rude to you in my presence, darling. If he is I shall tell him to watch his tongue.”

“Oh, Matthew, we mustn’t upset Fiona.”

“He mustn’t upset you,” said Matthew.

Still, if it hadn’t been for Jeff, Michelle thought, she wouldn’t be losing weight now. Every time she was tempted by a croissant or a slice of quiche she remembered his hurtful words and turned away from the dangerous food. It was rather odd, to dislike someone yet feel indebted to him.

A little after five-thirty Fiona rang the bell. “You should have come in the back way,” said Michelle. “No need to be formal.”

“All right, I won’t next time. Jeff’s out somewhere. He’s gone for a job interview. Well, actually, two job interviews, one over lunch and the other at four this afternoon.”

Michelle said nothing. She didn’t believe in these possible jobs but thought Jeff Leigh perfectly capable of saying he’d found lucrative employment; this in order to get himself out of the house for regular periods each day while pursuing whatever nefarious occupations provided him with an income.

“I’ve left him a note telling him to come in here when he gets home. I hope that’s all right.”