Dead in the Water by Brian Woolland Read Free Book Online Page A

Park, a late edition of Metro clings to the pavement, muddy footprints stamped across an inside banner headline, LONDON COMMUTER CHAOS.
    By the time he gets back to his flat, he’s drenched. While the bath’s running he phones Sara, but gets her voicemail.
    “ Hi. It’s me. Pick up if you’re there. Sara. Sara? I’m about to get in the bath. Wish you were here. Do you fancy a meal? I owe you. How about that Lebanese restaurant in Kendal Street? Bye for now.”
    He’s soaking in the bath, slowly warming through, when the phone rings. He scrambles from the bath; but his own answering service kicks in before he can catch it.
    “ Mark. Are you there? I’ve been worried about you all day. Give me a call as soon as you get in.” It’s Joanna.
    He dries off and wraps himself in the towel before calling her back.
    “ Are you OK?”
    “ I’m fine,” says Mark. “Nice of you to think of me”
    “ Is it as dreadful as they say?”
    “ On the news? I don’t know. I haven’t had a moment all day.”
    Since the separation a couple of years ago, they have both learnt a kind of wary politeness with each other, occasionally infused with warmth and affection, though more often with guarded circumspection.
    “ Are you still planning to come this weekend?”
    “ Of course I am. That’s what we arranged.” Hearing the defensiveness in his voice, he tries to soften his tone. “But I’m going to have to bring work. And I may be late on Friday. Things are pretty hectic.”
    “ I can pick you up at the station.”
    “ I thought you were going to the Lake District for the weekend.”
    “ Robert’s got a conference.”
    “ So you’re going to be at home. Would you rather I came another ––?”
    “ Stephen’s here. I think he needs to talk to you. He’s supposed to be revising. You could try to get him a bit more focused.”
    They talk for a while about Stephen, who is nearing the end of his second year at LSE: and then Mark asks whether Joanna has heard from Rachel.
    “ We had a chat on Sunday,” she says.
    “ Was she alright?”
    “ She says she’s loving it. How anyone can be having a great time in the middle of the rain forest, I do not know; but she seems to be. Did she not call you?”
    “ She rang last night. I was in the shower. She left a message, but the satphone signal was breaking up. Knowing Rachel, she forgot to charge the batteries. I tried to call her back. But I haven’t got through yet.”
    “ Mark?”
    His heart sinks.
    “ What?” His tone resolutely upbeat. “What?”
    “ I’m … It’s stupid, Mark. But I’m worried about her. With the troubles in Venezuela.”
    “ Joanna, that’s in Caracas. That’s 800 miles from where she is. She looks after herself better than I do.”
    “ That’s not saying much. But you’re right, I’m sure.”
    Mark, however, is not as convinced as he hopes he sounds.
    They talk easily enough for another ten minutes or so, before he excuses himself: “I have to get myself something to eat.”
    While his Ready Meal is defrosting in the microwave, he writes a card for Sara; a loving, patient and apologetic card. Addresses it, puts a first class stamp on, and realises that he doesn’t want a fucking Ready Meal tonight.
    He rings for a cab. Surprise her. Twenty minutes later he’s on the doorstep of her flat in Finsbury Park. No lights on. He rings the bell. No response.
    He puts the card through the letter box and asks the driver to take him back to a cheap Italian restaurant in the Edgware Road. He’s eaten most of the pasta and drunk about half a bottle of Chianti when his mobile chirps, the number unrecognised.
    “ Hi.”
    “ Mark Boyd?” A female voice.
    “ Yes.”
    “ This is Daniella Gilman. I hope this isn’t a bad time.”
    “ Sorry?”
    “ I ran into the back of your car last night. Sorry. Is this a bad time?”
    “ No. No, it’s not a bad time.” Not a bad time at all.
    “ I don’t suppose I could pop in and see you, could I? I