“Colin! It’s about time you got home. I’ve been waiting for hours!”
There was no answering reply.
“Colin? Did you hear me?”
Geraldine heard the creak of footsteps on the carpeted stairway and turned to reprimand her son. When the door swung open, she began her tirade.
Almost immediately, she was silenced.
A short time later, the door swung shut again and there came the sound of retreating footsteps treading quickly down the stairs.
Colin bade his solicitor farewell and thanked her for the lift home. He didn’t notice the unmarked police car parking a little further down the street, which Ryan had ordered as a precaution. He stood for a long while on the short gravel driveway leading up to the wide front door of the house, which had been his home for the past forty-four years. It was a prison; a gilded cage from which he seemed destined never to escape. He looked up to the first floor bay window with its frilly lace blinds and knew that the author of his present tragedy slept there, a mountain of sallow flesh and wasted life.
He forced himself to put one reluctant foot in front of the other and let himself into the house, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
He thought he heard his mother calling out his name, her jarring monotone scraping along the edge of his nerves. He put his hands to his ears, to drown out the sound.
“Ssh,” he muttered. “Shut up. Just shut up.”
He could hear nothing when he took his hands away again and he walked to the foot of the hallway stairs, head bowed. A headache throbbed in his temples and the ache spread through his neck and the base of his skull. Memories of being in the police car and at the station surrounded by police staff played on his mind, interspersed with flashing images of Claire. He sucked in his lips to stop the weak tears, which wanted to flow as he remembered the times he had spied on her, late at night. Or, the times he had followed her to the bus stop, claiming that he was catching the same bus as she, despite the obvious fact that he owned a car. The memories culminated in the last time he had seen her, on Sunday evening. He had finally plucked up the courage to go into town, to visit her at the Diner.
He had worn what he thought of as his trendiest gear – new jeans and a matching denim shirt. He had heard somewhere that denim-on-denim was in fashion. He had even styled his hair, being careful to smooth over the bald patch at the top of his head.
She hadn’t been happy to see him.
“Colin, why are you here?”
“I came to see you, Claire. I had to see you.”
“Colin, I’ve told you so many times before. I just don’t like you that way.”
“I only want to be your friend.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Why don’t you go home? You can see I’m trying to work.”
A heavyset bouncer had materialised from nowhere and taken a firm grip of his arm.
“Think it’s about time you slung yer hook, isn’t it, mate?” He’d jeered. “I better not find you lurking around here, again. Now, bugger off!”
The humiliation had been complete when he had been shunted out onto the street, rejected by Claire, rejected by her world.
Colin had snivelled, the tears rolling down his cheeks in salty tracks while he’d wished to be stronger, smarter, better looking … anything that would make him more worthy of Claire’s affection. Then, he had dried those tears on the sleeve of his new denim shirt and had pulled himself upright. He had friends; strong, powerful friends and women who loved him, albeit online.
Perhaps, it was she who was not worthy of him.
Back in the present, Colin rapped his forehead against the hard wood of the newel post to try to dispel the images.
He thought he heard his mother calling out again and his teeth dug painfully into the tender flesh of his tongue to prevent an angry retort from escaping. His hand shook as it gripped the bannister and he made the slow journey upstairs. The headache was turning into a migraine, he thought distractedly. His eyes were blurry and his ears were buzzing. Still, he finished the journey to his mother’s room and pushed the door open.
Less than five minutes’ later, he pulled the door smartly shut behind him again. He rushed downstairs, wild-eyed, without direction or purpose.
“M – Mother …” he began, chattering to himself in the quiet house. He turned towards the front door and then backwards again, towards the kitchen. He didn’t know what he was looking for; perhaps to get her a glass of water, or something tempting to eat so that she would wake up again, but both were forgotten when he beheld the contents of his fridge.
“No. No,” he pointed at the small glass vials, which stood in a proud line on the top shelf, backing away and slamming the fridge door shut again.