The River House by Margaret Leroy

Author:Margaret Leroy [Leroy, Margaret]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Suspense, cookie429, Kat, Extratorrents
ISBN: 9780316077101
Publisher: Little, Brown
Published: 2005-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 25

I SIT WITH AMBER ON THE SOFA, attempting to test her French verbs. It’s one of those rituals you go through because it’s what a good mother should do, rather than for any result: like making wholemeal sandwiches for children’s birthday parties, though you know they’ll all be left uneaten on the plate. Amber is struggling, protesting that we have war, we have famine—why do we need all these declensions? She fiddles with the scrunchy in her hair.

It’s getting dark, but I don’t close the curtains. My room is brightly reflected in the darkening windows—my kilims and velvet cushions in all their jewel colors, the family photos on the piano, the fig in the corner with leaves like wide-splayed hands. There’s a rich smell of pork and garlic from the casserole that’s simmering in the kitchen. Light from my table lamps spills across the floor like fallen petals. Our house feels safe, protected, in the warm spilled light: Nothing could harm us here.

Amber stretches extravagantly and sighs.

“Mum, I have to wash my hair. It’s really gross. I can’t possibly concentrate when my hair’s all greasy.”

I tell her we’ll leave it and close the book at s’asseoir. Afterward I shall always remember this, which verb it was.

I turn on the television for the weather forecast, to get some idea what the weather will be on Thursday, when I’m seeing Will, to help me work out what to wear. But it’s not quite time for the weather; it’s still the local news. I go to the kitchen to see if the casserole is ready. Night is settling over my garden, over the narcissi and the little sunken lawn, but there are rags of light still hanging in the sky. I shall wear my red boots, I think, even if it’s raining, and my new short skirt, the one I bought at Christmas. I sometimes worry that Greg might wonder why I only wear skirts on Thursdays. Standing there, I let myself enter my secret world for a moment: imagining the warm pressure of the palm of Will’s hand on my thigh.

Amber’s shout jolts me.

“Hey, Mum. Come here. Mum! This is freaky.”

I go back to the sitting room. Amber is standing quite still, one hand to her hair, as though entranced in the act of taking out her scrunchy. I stare at the picture on the screen.

It’s the car park by the river: our car park, the place where I go with Will. It must have been filmed this afternoon. There are police cars with flashing lights, and forensics experts in baggy suits, and uniformed policemen and women, talking in twos and threes. The path is cordoned off with tape. An ambulance waits, but no one is rushing; there’s no urgency, everyone is slowed—they have all the time in the world. You know if you could hear their voices they’d be solemn and subdued. You can tell there’s death here. My first thought, quick as a heartbeat, is that something has happened

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