Never Apologise, Never Explain - James Craig [2]
Like the other residents of Ridgemount Mansions, Agatha was infuriated by the rubbish that was strewn across the pavement most mornings, once their carefully sorted and bagged waste had been methodically dissected by the homeless ghosts who stalked the empty streets in the middle of the night. Occasionally, someone would call the police but it was a complete waste of time; if they ever turned up at all, the officers invariably failed to hide their disinterest in such a minor matter and made only the most perfunctory attempts to move the miscreants on.
She watched as the man collected a selection of items from one of the bags put out by the restaurant situated a couple of doors down the street, before disappearing into the shadows to enjoy his meal. A gust of wind sent some empty foil containers spinning into the road. Otherwise, nothing moved on the street below.
Stepping away from the window, Agatha heard a noise from the kitchen. Henry was clearly having trouble sleeping again. Until recently, it had been unusual for him to get up in the night but now, it was an increasingly frequent occurrence. As he got older, he was becoming more restless.
‘Henry?’ She padded out of the living room and peered along the hall. The kitchen light was on. ‘Are you all right?’ The noise in the kitchen stopped, but there was no reply. He’s becoming deafer by the day, she reflected. We’re both getting on. That was another thing about not having kids: who would look after them when things got too much? Agatha’s mother had ended up in a home; not much of a home, more a kind of modern-day bedlam. For Agatha the guilt and the shame of leaving her there was bad enough, but it was as nothing compared to her steely determination that the same thing would not happen to herself, nor to her husband. Her father had keeled over from a heart attack while out buying a loaf of bread one day. At the time, it had been a terrible shock but, on reflection, that was a far better way to go than wasting away in a loony-bin.
‘Henry?’ she repeated sharply, annoyed by her own morbid musings. ‘What are you doing? It’s really rather late.’ Agatha stepped into the kitchen and frowned. There was no one there. Sighing, she turned for the light switch, before catching a movement out of the corner of her eye.
‘What the devil?’
The first blow caught her on the shoulder rather than on the head, but it was enough to send her crashing to the floor.
‘Henry!’ Agatha whimpered, trying to use a nearby chair to pull herself up. She had just managed to get herself into a kneeling position, when the second blow came. This time it did catch her squarely on the back of the head, sending her down for good.
THREE
Police in Chile have arrested a dancer who performed a series of striptease dances on the Santiago underground, the metro. Montserrat Morilles has been dubbed ‘La Diosa del Metro’, the Metro Goddess. She told reporters: ‘Chile is still a pretty timid country. People aren’t very extroverted and we want to take aim at that and make Chile a happier country.’
Carlyle stuck his head out from under the duvet and switched off the clock radio. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and watched his wife get dressed. Standing at the bottom of the bed, with her back to him, Helen tossed her T-shirt on to the floor and reached over for a pearl bra that had been left hanging on a nearby chair. She slipped it on casually and checked herself in the wardrobe mirror. Carlyle watched her buttocks twitch and felt a twitch of his own.
One of the many things he loved about his wife was her beautiful arse. It was a very fine arse; pert, smooth and not quite symmetrical. A wave of enthusiasm crept over him; he wanted to jump out of bed and grab it. Another twitch. He gave himself a vigorous scratch in order to confirm what he already knew – his morning erection was quite spectacular.
How much time did they have? He heard the television spring into life in the living room. Alice would be grabbing fifteen minutes of crap while