Murder Club - Mark Pearson [46]
On his desk top stood a modern laptop that his wife had bought him for his birthday a couple of months ago. The truth was, though, that he never felt comfortable using it. A stack of notebooks stood beside it. One open. He was supposed to have started transcribing what he had written so far of his latest story from the notebooks into the computer. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t even turned the laptop on. He sat at his desk and slowly moved the pen, which lay on the open book, in a circle with the index finger of his right hand. The other truth was that he hadn’t picked up a book to read in two weeks and hadn’t written a single word, either.
But he liked coming out to his studio. It gave him space to think, even if he didn’t like the thoughts that came to him. He looked at the wall to his left. A large crucifix was centred above the desk, and below it another small bookshelf. These books were kept neatly. A collection of his diaries over the years and, at the end, a copy of the Bible. Given to him when he was seven years old by his favourite aunt.
He took it from the shelf and held it in his hands for a moment, his thin fingers trembling as he felt the weight of it. He placed it down on the desk and laid his right hand on it, tracing the outline of the crucifix stamped onto the cover. The fading gold leaf was as much testimony to that ritual as it was to the passing of the years.
The door opened and Patricia came in, bundled in an oversized duffel coat, her feet in blue wellingtons, a large university scarf wrapped around her neck. She held a plate in her hand with a sandwich resting on it.
‘You shouldn’t have come out in this weather, Patricia,’ her husband said.
‘And neither should you. Here, I’ve brought you a sandwich,’ she said, placing the plate on his desk. ‘And a thermos of tea. Got to feed the creative mind.’
‘Thanks, darling,’ he replied and then coughed into his hand.
Patricia looked at him fondly and shook her head. ‘Why you can’t work inside I’ll never know.’
‘It’s as warm here as it is there. The radiator works a treat. Probably warmer, if anything.’
Patricia took a thermos flask from the bag she had slung over her shoulder and put it beside the sandwich plate. Then she rummaged in her bag and brought out a bottle of pills. ‘It’s time for your medicine.’
‘Yes, dear.’ Geoffrey sighed and took a bite of his sandwich, chewed it and then peered inside. ‘You put butter on the bread. You know I don’t like my bread buttered.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Geoffrey!’ his wife snapped suddenly. ‘I can’t think of everything! Not now, not today.’
Geoffrey looked up at her, concerned. ‘What’s happened?’
Patricia shook her head, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes. ‘Nothing – it’s just my hand is sore. Sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped.’
‘No, it’s my fault.’
‘Nothing is your fault, Geoffrey. God made us, didn’t he?’ she said, pointing at the Bible. ‘He made us and he can judge us. Everyone else can go hang.’
‘Yes, dear.’
‘We agreed. So eat your sandwich and try not to think of the butter. You know you’re supposed to feed a cold.’
‘Yes, dear,’ he said again. He picked up the sandwich once more, giving his wife a small smile as she left. Not seeing the tears coming to her eyes again. He contemplated the sandwich for a while as he had contemplated the Bible earlier – as though he might find within the answers that he sought. He sighed again and put down the sandwich. Made the sign of the cross on his forehead and chest, closed