The Disappearance. Annabel Kantaria
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Название: The Disappearance
Автор: Annabel Kantaria
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Контркультура
Серия: MIRA
isbn: 9781474044868
isbn:
‘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.
It felt right to me to be doing something and, even though in a corner of my soul, I knew that half a day once a month was not a lot, some of the guilt I’d been carrying about not being a good daughter was being assuaged. I was now a woman who visited her mother regularly; a woman who took an active interest. I walked slightly taller for it.
Mum had never really said how she felt about our visits, though. Did she realise John and I were keeping an eye on her? I told myself she was pleased to see us but, secretly, I wondered. Mum always opened the door with a smile, but she also insisted that we really didn’t need to keep coming down. She was often on her computer, researching goodness knows what when I arrived, and sometimes I got the impression she’d actually rather I hadn’t turned up. She wasn’t very talkative, especially today. Instead of mooching about the shops like we’d planned, I’d taken advantage of the beautiful day and insisted we take a walk along the coastal path and I wondered now if she’d rather have gone shopping. The coastal walk had been more tiring than I’d imagined, with quite a steep climb that had left Mum noticeably out of breath. I’d already decided we’d take the train back.
I nudged Mum with my elbow. ‘Why don’t you try painting?’
Mum’s lips moved, her words snatched by the breeze.
‘What was that?’ I craned to hear.
‘I used to paint,’ she said. She held her hand up as if holding a paintbrush and made some strokes in the air.
‘Really?’
‘I went to art classes for a while. Less than a year, I suppose. When you were only little.’
‘Oh wow! Were you any good?’
Mum stared out at the ocean, her hand shielding her eyes from the sun. ‘My teacher thought so. He said I had a talent. Do you suppose you can see the Scilly Isles from here? Or are we facing the wrong direction?’
‘No idea,’ I said. ‘But that’s amazing about the painting! Why don’t you do it anymore?’
Mum looked like she was going to say something else so I waited, but she remained silent, her eyes on the sea.
‘Why did you stop painting? If you were so good? Didn’t you want to develop it?’
‘Ohh, different reasons. Come on.’ Mum started walking again and I fell into step next to her. ‘I didn’t have time when you two were young,’ she said after a minute or two. ‘Your father liked everything at home to be “just so” and it took a lot of my time. You know, shopping, cooking, cleaning, taking care of you two …’ Her voice trailed off.
‘But СКАЧАТЬ