Bob Shaw - The Two Timers

Kate kept her eyes averted as he entered the room, and Breton felt a slight pang of guilt over his earlier sarcasm.

“That was Carl,” he volunteered. “He’s been working late.”

She nodded disinterestedly, and his guilt instantaneously transformed itself into resentment — not even in the presence of friends would she pretend to care anything about the business. That’s the way, Kate, he thought furiously, never ease up for a second. Live well off me, but at the same time reserve the right to despise my work and everybody connected with it.

Breton stared somberly at his wife and the Palfreys, who were now going back through all the material Miriam had produced, and suddenly realized he was beginning to sway slightly. He retrieved his drink, finished it with one gulp and poured another. I keep on taking this sort of treatment — the old, familiar and repetitious anger patterns began to flow redly on the surface of his mind — but how much is a man supposed to take? I have a wife who complains night and day because I spend too much time at the office, but when I do take an evening off — this is what I get. Phony spiritualists and another king-sized dose of her damned, stinking indifference. To think I wept — yes sir, actually wept with relief — because she was safe that night they found her with Spiedel’s brains scattered through her hair. I didn’t know it then, but Spiedel was trying to do me a favor. I know it now, though. If only I could…

Breton chopped the thought off in alarm as he realized he was setting himself up for a trip.

But he was too late.

Without getting smaller, the subdued orange lights and white-mortared stone chimney of the living room began to recede into planetary, stellar, galactic distances. He tried to speak, but the transparent overlay of language was shifting across the face of reality, robbing nouns of their significance, making predication impossible. Strange geometries imposed themselves on the perspectives of the room, snapping him sickeningly from pole to alien pole. A face in the group turned towards him — a pale, meaningless free-form — man or woman, friend or enemy? Ponderously, helplessly, over the edge we go…

Breton slammed down the hood of the Buick so savagely that the big car moved like a disturbed animal, rocking on its gleaming haunches. In the darkness of its interior Kate was waiting, immobile, Madonna-like — and because she showed no anger, his own became uncontrollable.

“The battery’s dead. That settles it — we can’t go.”

“Don’t be silly, Jack.” Kate got out of the car. “The Maguires are expecting us — we can phone for a taxi.” Her party clothes were completely inadequate against the night breezes of late October, and she huddled in them with a kind of despairing dignity.

“Don’t be so damned reasonable, Kate. We’re an hour late already, and I’m not going to a party with my hands like this. We’re going back home.”

“That’s childish.”

“Thank you.” Breton locked up the car, carelessly smudging the pale blue paintwork with oil from his hands. “Let’s go.”

“I’m going on to the Maguires,” Kate said. “You can go home and sulk if that’s what you want.”

“Don’t be stupid. You can’t go all the way over there by yourself.”

“I can go by myself and I can get back by myself — I did it all right for years before I met you.”

“I know you’ve been around, sweetie — I’ve always been too tactful to mention it, that’s all.”

“Thank you. Well, at least you won’t have the embarrassment of being seen in public with me tonight.”

Hearing the hopelessness creep into her voice, Breton felt a flicker of malicious glee. “How are you planning to get there? Did you bring any money?”

She hesitated, then held out her hand. “Give me something for taxi fare, Jack.”

“Not a chance. I’m childish — remember? We’re going home.” He savored her helplessness for a moment, somehow extracting revenge for his own cruelty, then the whole thing fell apart in his hands. This is bad, he thought, even for me. So I arrive late at a party with my face and hands all black — a balanced person would see that as a chance to do an Al Jolson act. Let her ask me just once more and I’ll give in and we’ll go to the party.

Instead, Kate uttered one short, sharp word — filling him with wounded dismay — and walked away down the street past blazing store windows. With her silvered wrap drawn tight over the flimsy dress, and long legs slimmed even further by needle-heeled sandals, she looked like an idealized screen version of a gangster’s moll. For a moment he seemed to see the physical presence of her more clearly than ever before, as though some long-unused focusing mechanism had been operated behind his eyes. The ambient brilliance from the stores projected Kate solidly into his mind, jewel-sharp, and he saw — with the wonder of a brand new discovery — the tiny blue vein behind each of her knees. Breton was overwhelmed by a pang of sheer affection. You can’t let Kate walk through the city at night looking like that, a voice told him urgently, but the alternative was to crawl after her, to knuckle under. He hesitated, then turned in the opposite direction, numbed with self-disgust, swearing bitterly.

It was almost two hours later when the police cruiser pulled up outside the house.

Breton, who had been standing at the window, ran heavy-footed to the door and dragged it open. There were two detectives, with darkly hostile eyes, and a backdrop of blue uniformed figures.

One of the detectives flashed a badge. “Mr. John Breton?”

Breton nodded, unable to speak. I’m sorry Kate, he thought, so sorry — come back and we’ll go to the party. But at the same time an incredible thing was happening. He could feel a sense of relief growing in one deeply hidden corner of his mind. If she’s dead, she’s dead. If she’s dead, it’s all over. If she’s dead, I’m free…

“I’m Lieutenant Convery. Homicide. Do you mind answering a few questions?”

“No,” Breton said dully. “You’d better come in.” He led the way into the living room, and had to make an effort to prevent himself straightening cushions like a nervous housewife.

“You don’t seem surprised to see us, Mr. Breton,” Convery said slowly. He had a broad, sunburned face and a tiny nose which made scarcely any division between widely spaced blue eyes.

“What do you want, Lieutenant?”

“Do you own a rifle, Mr. Breton?”

“Ah… yes.” Breton was thunderstruck.

“Do you mind getting it?”

“Look,” Breton said loudly. “What’s going on?”

Convery’s eyes were bright, watchful. “One of the patrolmen will go with you while you get the rifle.”

Breton shrugged and led the way down into his basement workshop. He sensed the patrolman’s tenseness as they stepped off the wooden stair onto the concrete floor, so he halted and pointed at the tall cupboard in which he stored a jumble of large tools, fishing rods, archery equipment and his rifle. The patrolman shouldered quickly past him, opened the doors and dragged out the rifle. He had to disengage the sling, which had snagged a fishing reel.

Back in the living room, Convery took the rifle and rubbed a fingertip in the fine coating of dust which lay over the stock. “You don’t use this much?”

“No. The last time was a couple of years ago. Before I was married.”

“Uh-huh. It’s a high velocity job, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Breton could feel the bewilderment building up inside him to an almost physical pressure. What had happened?

“Ugly things,” Convery commented casually. “They destroy animals. I don’t know why people use them.”