Dying for Power by Judith Cutler

Author:Judith Cutler [Cutler, Judith & Bishop, Diana & Ltd, Isis Publishing]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B00MX5HX14
Publisher: Isis Publishing Ltd
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

I fell into step with Carl more of an old glimmer than an old flame as we left the building. He’d doubtless stayed late to avoid spending the whole of the evening with his wife; if we hadn’t had that tiny affair how many bon ks constitutes an affair? - I’d have suggested we have a quiet drink, but he’d never quite believed that what little we’d had was over. As it was, we stood chatting in the empty car park Birmingham tends to stop work at five or earlier on Fridays.

“I’ve had enough, you know,” he said. He took my silence for what it was; an invitation to continue. “Enough of my job, my marriage everything. I work my socks off teaching, then I spend an hour or more on the phone in the evening chasing recalcitrant students, then there are all these meetings so you haven’t a prayer of doing the marking or preparation you need. And I’m supposed to keep up to date with all the new developments in Pharmacy. And it’s changing fast, believe me.”

I nodded, sympathetically. Perhaps I should suggest that drink.

“And then there’s home … She doesn’t like me working when I’m supposed to be talking to her not that we ever do talk, we just stare at the TV. So I start work at nine when she’s gone to bed ‘

“At nine!”

“Needs her rest, she says.” He shrugged. “She says her back’s so bad I’ll have to take responsibility for the housework. Funny how none of the tests or X-rays have ever shown anything. And she won’t go to an osteopath. And by the way, it’s time I learned to cook in case anything happens to her. Sophie, you wouldn’t fancy popping across the road for a quick half, would you?”

“Won’t it make it worse if she smells booze on your breath?”

“Believe me, nothing could make anything worse.”

Except it could. We did pop across the road for a half, and I suppose we nattered for half an hour, maybe an hour -talking shop, chewing over the William Murdock disasters. I was careful to keep the talk well away from anything more personal. At last, when his arm started creeping round my shoulders, it was time to call it a day. At least I had something to look forward to: choir practice. And I needed to pick up some sandwiches from Tesco, in an attempt to keep my bargain with Chris.

My Renault sat modestly in the furthest corner of the car park; Carl had parked brashly in the middle, the red of his Alfa Romeo bright against the tarmac. We stood by the barrier, Carl prolonging the conversation. As we talked, his eyes strayed over my head. They widened. Before I knew it, he’d flung himself on top of me.

There was an almighty bang.

If he hadn’t knocked me down, I’m sure the blast would have done. When he got up, shaking his head, his knuckles were running with blood. He didn’t seem to notice he was too busy rubbing his ears, pulling his fingers in and out as if to make them pop.

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