Annabel Kantaria - The Disappearance

‘Red, what do you do to me?’ he says, his mouth against hers. Audrey moans. She’s known nothing like this in her life; Patrick was always so pedestrian, so strait-laced. Ralph scoops Audrey up, drops her on the bed, and wrenches up her silk dress. He undoes his trousers, tugs her knickers to one side, and pushes himself into her. She writhes under him, pushing her hips to meet his, then turns her head to one side as Ralph rains kisses on her face and neck.

‘The ayah ,’ she breathes. ‘The door …’

‘So what?’

‘But …’

Ralph is moving faster; he’s not going to stop. Out of the corner of her eye she sees the new nursery door open; Madhu step quietly out and walks across the landing and down the stairs, her eyes averted. A moment later, Ralph climaxes with a moan and collapses on top of her; he’s come too fast for her to keep up but she doesn’t mind – there’ll be another chance later. She strokes his back softly while his breathing returns to normal. Are all marriages like this? she wonders.

When he’s caught his breath, Ralph props himself up on his elbows, strokes Audrey’s hair back from her face, and stares into her eyes.

‘I love you,’ she whispers.

Ralph leans down, kisses her forehead, and rolls off her. He goes to the bathroom. Audrey sits up and rearranges her dress. She hears the toilet flush and the tap run, then Ralph strides back into the room.

‘Hurry up, Red,’ he says with a wink. ‘We don’t want to be late for dinner.’

The good mood unfortunately doesn’t last. The traffic on the way to the restaurant is worse than usual and Audrey watches as her husband gets increasingly worked up, snapping at the driver to go this way and that in an attempt to avoid the snarls.

‘It’s okay,’ she murmurs, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. Ralph echoes the squeeze but then pulls his hand away, running it through his hair as he stares out at the gridlock, his jaw working as he clenches his teeth.

‘I can’t bear to be late!’ he snaps without turning around and Audrey realises that she herself is too late: she’s lost him to one of his black moods – his ‘funks’ as she’s come to think of them – and her birthday dinner, when they arrive, takes the hit. Although the restaurant is softly lit, the tinkle of a piano barely breaking over the gentle hum of expensive conversation, it’s as if a veil’s suddenly come down between the two of them. Audrey uses every single one of her conversational skills to try to get her husband to give her anything more than a monosyllabic reply, but he’s a different person to the one who ravished her in the bedroom. She asks coquettishly if he likes her dress. She talks about what she did all day with the children and she chats about the unseasonal weather Bombay’s been experiencing – always a good topic – but even that gets little more than a grunt.

The tables are filled with beautiful ladies and well-dressed gentlemen and Audrey’s painfully aware that she and Ralph are being watched; that maybe these people remember the story of Alice Templeton; that the little scenario playing out at their table is being talked about. In this room full of people, with her husband, on her birthday, Audrey has never felt more alone. As the waiter clears the plates from their main courses, Audrey decides to give it one more shot.

‘Mmm,’ she says, looking at the dessert menu. ‘They all look so good. What are you going to go for?’ No response. ‘Hmm, darling? Does anything take your fancy?’

Ralph looks up. ‘Sorry? Did you say something?’

‘Yes!’ snaps Audrey. She cracks the thick menu shut and bangs it down on the table with enough force to make the glasses jump. Ralph’s hand shoots out to steady his glass.

‘I’m terribly sorry if I’m disturbing you, Mr Templeton,’ Audrey says, her voice shriller around the edges than she would have liked, her breath coming fast, ‘but I just asked if you’d like anything for dessert. On second thoughts, though, I retract that question. I’m calling it a night. Good night.’

She pushes back her chair and stands abruptly, putting her hands on the table for a moment to steady herself. Ralph looks up at her.

‘Red,’ he says sternly. ‘Don’t make a scene. Sit down.’ His mouth is a straight, hard line, a picture of concealed anger, and a ripple of fear runs through Audrey’s body.

‘If you hadn’t noticed, you’ve been making a scene all night by not speaking to your wife.’ She says the words, quietly even, but she doesn’t move from the table. Ralph passes a hand through his hair.

‘Audrey,’ he orders, and she quivers at the sound of her real name. ‘Sit down.’ He glares at her, as if willing her to sit with his eyes.

But still Audrey stands, debating her choices. Tonight was supposed to be a lovely evening – not just her birthday, but the anniversary of their engagement – and she doesn’t want to ruin the evening. But, as she stands there, she realises that Ralph has already wrecked it by refusing to celebrate with her. Audrey stares at her husband and it occurs to her that he’s spoiled her birthday evening deliberately; that he’s enjoying manipulating her emotions. Maybe Janet was right: Ralph does like to control her. Like the sex, it’s almost as if this is another game for him. Suddenly, Audrey feels like a pawn.

‘Good night, Ralph,’ she says. ‘Enjoy your dessert.’ She turns smartly and walks out of the restaurant into the humid stench of the Bombay night.

The restaurant doesn’t have a taxi rank and Audrey regrets at once that they weren’t dining in a hotel with a bell boy to summon a car. As she stands on the pavement, her hand raised, watching the oncoming traffic for vacant cabs, her sixth sense picks up that someone’s approaching from behind. She assumes it’s Ralph and a little smile plays on her lips as she realises she’s won: he’s come outside. Then her head snaps back as an odorous hand clamps over her mouth and her arms are wrenched behind her back. She tries in vain to scream, to struggle; realises too late that she’s being mugged.

But suddenly there’s a commotion and the pressure slackens. Taking advantage, Audrey twists out of the grip, hurls herself across the pavement, and turns to see Ralph pitching his bulk against her attacker until he has him in a chokehold.

‘Don’t you touch my wife!’ he screams, shaking the man. ‘How dare you touch my wife!’

The man locks eyes with Audrey and she watches as he struggles for air. He’s well-restrained. Ralph will stop in a minute, she thinks. But her husband keeps up the pressure.

‘He can’t breathe!’ Audrey gasps, but Ralph continues to squeeze the man’s throat until his body goes limp. Only then does he let go; only then, when it’s too late, does he let the man’s lifeless body slump to the pavement. Ralph’s eyes meet Audrey’s, unflinching.

‘Just look at that view!’ I said to Mum as we came to a standstill at the top of a climb. We were on the South West Coast path and the sand of Carbis Bay arced out before us, looking as if it wouldn’t be out of place in the Caribbean. It was one of those crisp, cold days for which the phrase ‘biting cold’ was invented, and Mum and I were bundled up in our woollies but the sun sparkled on the sea, which reflected back the blue of the sky. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous?’

‘It makes me wish I was an artist,’ said Mum, her hand shielding her eyes from the brightness of the sun.

‘Why don’t you try painting?’

Since John and I had met in the autumn, we’d ironed out a deal that meant each of us saw Mum once a month, our visits dovetailed so one of us saw her every fortnight. This, we felt, was both manageable for us and good for her: while John took her out for lunches with the family and concentrated on practicalities like scooping leaves out of the gutters or DIY jobs around the house, I tried to do a variety of more fun things with Mum – the spa, shopping, afternoon tea, walks.