Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [50]
The most important question she had to ask herself was, did Liz deserve to know that her husband was playing away from home? The answer was, clearly, yes – any woman, any person, shouldn’t have to endure such deceit.
On the other hand, was Laska the right person to tell Liz Bartholomew? And would she be believed in any event?
‘Dr Bartholomew? Do you realise your husband is bonking one of the nurses?’
‘Don’t talk rubbish! What makes you say that?’
‘I overheard them talking in the garden.’
‘And they came out and said that, did they?’
‘Not as such, no. But I’m sure I’m right, and I’m sure I’m not just imaging things.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
How do you tell someone, ensconced in an ongoing, committed relationship in which there should be no secrets or lies, that their partner is betraying them with more than just words? And how did that make Laska feel about her relationship with James? Was he committed to her, prepared to stand with her and support her when she was finally released – or was he just out for what he could get, a quick and easy alternative to on-line porn? She knew she took a pretty dim view of men, and their lusts, and her encounter with Joe Bartholomew hadn’t exactly made that outlook any more positive.
She padded through to the bathroom and started the water running, then returned to the main room, running her fingers along the alphabetically sorted 85
CDs. She angled the hi-fi’s speakers towards the bathroom and sank into the warm water.
From where she lay Laska could see the dark night sky through the window.
The grey clouds had faded away to the horizon; now a dusting of stars burned against the velvet blankness. A clawlike branch of ancient, leafless ivy framed the window; tugged by wind, it tapped against the glass like an emaciated hand.
Laska closed her eyes. The CD clicked forward to another song – her song –
and she remembered when she had first heard it. A birthday compilation, on a recordable CD that seemed only to play on her father’s hi-fi. A friend had chosen the songs, clearly having intended to fill it with songs that featured the name ‘Caroline’ or, at a push, that came from the year of her birth. But obviously he’d got bored after a while and had just recorded a selection from his favourite groups of the moment, a jangly guitar band she couldn’t even remember the name of, and a grungy band from the States who achieved brief notoriety by swearing on a live Top of the Pops and setting fire to their underpants.
Laska found her eyes becoming heavier behind their lids, the warmth of the water drawing her towards sleep. Myriad disparate images and thoughts tumbled through her mind, each one connecting to the next like an elaborate parlour game.
Suddenly she heard a noise at the door to her room. She jerked back into wakefulness, water splashing over the sides of the bath and on to the carpet.
She twisted her head from side to side, desperate to pinpoint the sound.
Something was scratching at the base of the door that led out into the corridor. After the slightest of pauses, the noise resumed again – a scrabbling against the old wood of the door, a snuffling of exertion.
Panic gripped Laska. What the hell was going on? Had she locked the door?
Was the dog creature trying to get in?
She climbed out of the bath, shivering despite the muggy moist atmosphere of the bathroom, and pulled on a gown. She came into the living room, switched off the music.
Just for a moment the noise stopped, as if the creature were concerned that it had been discovered. Then, enraged with desire, it began gnawing at the door once more. Wood began to splinter; in the gap under the door itself