Doctor Who_ Warchild - Andrew Cartmel [36]
‘And when you were washing the car? Dancing around with your tits bouncing? Out there in front of Ricky and his friends? I’m sure inciting a teenage erection was the furthest thing from your mind.’
Justine stared at him for a long, cool moment. Finally, she said, ‘You’re disgusting.’ Her tone was calm and measured. ‘You’re a disgusting old man. Why don’t you complete the picture?’ Creed saw her eyes suddenly grow bright. ‘Middle-aged and pathetic. Go and screw your brainless little office girl.’ Then Justine sobbed and Creed realized her eyes had gone bright with tears.
She spun away from him even as he was reaching out to touch her and surged out of the kitchen, running up the stairs.
Creed knew where she was going. Into the bedroom to slam the door and throw herself on the bed before the tears broke loose.
Creed automatically moved to follow her but halfway across the kitchen he paused; the game dictated that he now go up the stairs and comfort her. This was the way it always went. This was always the point where he went up to the bedroom and comforted her. And after she was finished crying they’d make love.
But suddenly, a strange new thought had crept into his head.
Why bother?
Why bother to explain anything to her? She’d already made up her mind. The placid suburban husband had strayed beyond his appointed pastures. He had transgressed and now he had to account for himself.
To hell with her.
Creed felt a surge of pure anger. To hell with her little tribunal. He had done nothing wrong. She had blamed him even though he’d done nothing.
So he might as well do something.
Creed shook himself like a dog shaking off drops of water. What was he thinking? This was Justine. This was his marriage. This was his life. He couldn’t just throw it away like that.
He let any thought of Amy Cowan drift out of his mind.
He concentrated on the task at hand. Playing the game.
Going upstairs to comfort Justine. Creed felt himself relax and he realized he’d been holding his breath. He felt a little shaken by the thought of what he’d almost done. His mind filled with thoughts of Justine upstairs, on the bed, waiting.
Creed was turning towards the staircase when he heard a sound behind him in the kitchen. He turned and saw a figure in the doorway. The figure had the bright summer evening at his back and stood in shadow and for a moment Creed didn’t recognize the man who’d come into his kitchen.
But then he realized it wasn’t a man. It was a boy, his son Ricky.
‘What are you doing?’ said the boy.
‘How do you mean,’ said Creed. He was annoyed and he knew it showed in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted to be upstairs with Justine.
‘What are you doing to mom? Are you beating her up?’
Ricky looked up at his father, but instead of looking directly at him he stole a furtive glance. The poor kid was so damned tense and nervous that sometimes it broke Creed’s heart.
But other times it just made Creed angry. Frustrated and pissed off. You just wanted to shake the kid till his teeth rattled. He was so shy and uptight that it made you uptight yourself.
What drove Creed crazy was the strictly unnecessary nature of it. Because he couldn’t get rid of the notion that Ricky liked being the way he was. That it wasn’t so much shyness as slyness. As if Ricky enjoyed making other people feel uncomfortable. It was like saying, if I have to suffer then I’m going to make you suffer too.
And that’s what broke Creed’s heart. He knew that it wasn’t easy growing up. He vividly remembered his own painful teenage years. The shyness and scalding self-consciousness. He sometimes wished he could just communicate with his teenage self. Reach back in time and tell himself that there was no need to take things so seriously.
Everything would be all right. There was no need to suffer. If only he could communicate this message to that skinny kid over all these lost years.