Gillian Slovo - Ten Days

‘Keen, yes. A little too much so at times.’ He yawned, stretched up his arms and yawned again. ‘The Cabinet took it out of me. And if you don’t mind, darling, I’ve still got some catching up to do before I can take a well-earned snooze.’ He got to his feet. He really was exhausted.

Such an effort even to make it to the house in this heat.

He was halfway there when she called him. ‘You forgot this.’

She was holding up his mobile.

He shook his head. ‘Don’t need it,’ and turned away. But almost immediately he turned back again. ‘Oh,’ a long sigh, ‘I guess I had better take it. There’s a meeting I have to go to later this afternoon; they said they’ll text me when they’ve fixed the venue.’

3 p.m.

A handful of Lovelace residents had gathered outside Ruben’s parents’ flat. Not enough people so far for the many posters Lyndall and her troupe had made. Cathy was holding a clump by their sticks, so as not to damage the photos of Ruben mounted on their tops, and hoping the demonstration wouldn’t stay this small.

Lyndall was a few feet away with more posters. Jayden was by her side. The two were chattering madly as they had been since early morning.

The last few days seemed to have brought them closer, Cathy thought, seeing how carefree Jayden, who usually wore a worried frown, looked. He had been dealt such a difficult hand yet show him the smallest kindness and he changed. The kind shopkeeper who kept him in work always said so, and there was more proof in the way that in Lyndall’s company he seemed to act like a normal kid. A pity that their friendship was unlikely to outlast the closing of the Lovelace. Not because they didn’t like each other — which they clearly did — but because their different financial circumstances meant they would end up living miles apart.

‘Here they are.’

Reverend Pius led the way out of the flat, closely followed by Ruben’s parents. As the two walked hand in hand, heads held high, nodding in acknowledgement of each member of the waiting group, Cathy was once more struck by their grace, especially when, coming abreast of Lyndall and Jayden, they stopped. No words were spoken, but Ruben’s mother reached out to touch each of the youngsters gently on the forehead: an acknowledgement and a blessing for the river of light they had created.

‘Shall we?’ Pius led the way down the gangway.

They followed, mostly in single file, tracing the route of the previous night’s candle path. Doors kept opening as they progressed down the different levels, more residents coming out to join them, so that by the time they reached ground level a handful had turned into a respectable bunch, with all the posters now held aloft, and when they came abreast of the community centre, they numbered, by Cathy’s reckoning, about sixty. And this was only the beginning. She needn’t have worried: more would join them once they were outside the police station.

The community centre was closed, as it had been since Ruben’s death. Police tape barred an entrance that was now banked by flowers. There were no police guarding the flowers, which, given the ill feeling towards the force, was probably wise. And there would have been no need: the flowers were untouched.

The crowd stood silent as Ruben’s parents stooped down to read the cards that people had left. They walked slowly along the line, picking up each in turn, giving them equal attention. That done, Ruben’s mother laid her own tribute — a single poppy — on top.

She stayed like that for a moment, her head bent, her hand resting on the poppy. ‘He loves red poppies,’ she said to the air.

‘Come.’ Pius helped her up and then, linking his arm to hers and to her husband’s, led the way out of the Lovelace and into a market that was already packing up. As the now sizeable crowd walked between the stalls, traders stood by: an honour guard paying tribute to a man who had once been their familiar.

4 p.m.

Peter came to with a start.

The room was dark, curtains drawn, and it took him a moment to work out where he was. Hearing movement in the bathroom, he realised that he must have dozed off. He felt the air wonderfully cool. How long had he been asleep?

‘How long have I been sleeping?’ he called.

The bathroom door opened, light framing the glorious vision of Patricia, whose skin, still wet from her shower, glistened a golden brown in the light. ‘Not long.’ She stretched up her arms and yawned.

She was so lovely. Desire rose up in him. Again. He patted the bed. ‘Come here.’

‘I’m wet.’

‘For me, I hope.’ Another pat. ‘Come on. Come here.’

She took her time, walking slowly towards the bed, smiling as he followed her every step. He was practically drooling when she slid in beside him.

If only, he thought. He laid a hand on her stomach and with the other pulled the sheet over her. ‘Come closer.’ He felt the brush of her breasts against his chest. He wanted her. So much. If only he could stop the clock and stay, here, in this room.

But… he lifted himself up, reaching for his watch.

‘Oh no you don’t.’ She wrenched the watch out of his grasp and threw it across the room.

He winced as it hit the wall. ‘Do you mind? That’s a Hublot.’

‘Should be strong enough to survive, then, shouldn’t it?’

He made to go and fetch it back, but before he could she straddled him, pinning him down by his hands, kneeling on all fours and grinning.

She’s so pretty, he thought, and so damn irreverent. At least in bed.

She lowered her head close enough for him to feel her hair brush against his neck. She whispered one word, ‘Stay,’ in his ear.

How he would have liked to stay. But one couldn’t run away from time, especially when it was blinking in neon green from the bedside table. ‘I can’t.’

When he thought he felt her stiffen, he prayed that she wasn’t going to make a fuss. But being with Frances, the mistress of the sudden freeze, had made him oversensitive. Instead of sinking into the sullen silence that was Frances’s intimate, Patricia laughed out loud. ‘Big talker.’ She kissed him, passionately, on the lips. ‘Until the next time.’ She shifted off him so he could get out of bed.

A shower to get rid, not of her but of the smell of her (so light and flowery, he thought, which he loved).

When he was with her and naked, his only thoughts were of her. Now, as the water flowed, what dominated was the memory of the lie he’d told his wife. Not something he was proud of. But her question had come so out of the blue he’d panicked, and once his denial had been released, it created its own momentum. To undo it now would be tricky.

Because her father had betrayed her mother in such an appallingly public manner, Frances was particularly touchy. She’d never understand that what he had with Patricia in no way affected his feelings for her. She was his wife, his counsel and the mother of his child: he wasn’t going to leave her. So why would he cause her pain for something that fulfilled a need but which was otherwise unimportant?

What was it that had even made her ask, he wondered. Had someone talked? It couldn’t be. If she had been sure of her facts, she would have pressed him harder.

‘Why are you taking so long?’

Patricia. He must go to her. He rubbed himself briskly with a towel. Despite his exertions, his sleep and a fairly hot shower, he was still feeling cool. A place that got the temperature right was a rarity; pity the need to protect himself from prying eyes meant that the next time they’d have to use a different hotel.

He came out of the bathroom to find her still in bed. She was lying on her back, sheet discarded, arms behind her head, stark naked and looking straight at him.