Hands of the Ripper by Guy Adams Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Guy Adams
understand that, of course, but lied nonetheless. ‘Nothing haunts that house but good memories. About time it set about making some new ones too.’
Nothing but good memories.
He had taken to sleeping in the spare bedroom again. When Jane had been ill he had moved there so as not to disturb her. Their old bed, a place of life where they had made love and brought a son into the world, had become a deathly place, a compost heap upon which his wife rotted. Surrounded by the accoutrements of her disease, the drip and the respirator, the bedside table loaded with pill bottles, tissues and moisturiser, there had been no more room for him. He had moved to the lifeless guest bed, sleeping under second-best sheets surrounded by soulless decoration. Spare bedrooms are as close as a house gets to abandoned space, where none of the personality of the owner is allowed to shine through.
Now he slept there because it felt safer.
The marriage bed all too often felt like it contained more than just himself. The darkness around him was thick with more than air, it smelled of pharmaceuticals and rot. It contained the damp, mildewy breaths of the dead.
Even in the spare room his nights wouldn’t pass completely undisturbed. Often he would hear movements coming from the other bedroom. The soft pacing of naked feet, pressing each croaking floorboard into life, groaning and whining like a forest coming to life with nocturnal predators. Sometimes he thought he could actually hear her pressing against the adjoining wall, hear the soft slide of her cheek and palms, as cold as the plaster they rested on. Perhaps she listened for his breathing, perhaps she waited for an invitation to visit? All manner of ideas occurred to him as he lay there, anything, it seemed, to keep him from restful sleep.
It seemed that the more he tried to hold onto his rational beliefs the more they slipped away from him. Was he losing his mind or was he really experiencing everything his senses told him?
Jane had mocked his refusal to believe in anything but the physical. ‘For a great thinker,’ she had said, ‘your thoughts are so very narrow.’ Her background was resolutely Catholic, though that hadn’t stopped her cursing the name of her God at the end, as all must when the pain gets too much and the vastness of death overwhelms you. He had done his best to calm her, had uttered platitudes he didn’t believe as she gripped his hand tight enough to bruise. He had talked of the better place she was travelling to, of the painless eternity that would stretch out before her. A time of spirit and peace. He had no idea whether she knew his comments rang hollow in his throat as he uttered them. Maybe this was his punishment? Those things in which he refused to believe preying on him until he had no choice but to accept them. she forcing her beliefs on him as she never had while alive?
That night, Aida Golding was piercing the barrier between life and death at a Scout hut in Ealing. The walls were hung with powder-paint art and charts that attempted to show the difference between common British deciduous leaves. John found himself giving as much attention to a poster titled ‘Flags of the World’ as he did Golding’s performance. His mind just wasn’t in it; he should have stayed at home and dried out. He hadn’t been sleeping well, too alert to the noises the house made at night and what they might mean.
‘Oh dear,’ said Aida, ‘I can’t hear this very well, it’s either a John or a Jane …’
John didn’t hear her the first time, having entered into a dreamy state, staring at the wall and swaying gently in his seat.
‘Is there a Jane here? No … it’s a Jane I have speaking … Yes, dear, I know, I’m telling them … She wants to speak to John. Is John here?’
Still John was unaware, as divorced from what was happening in the room as if he had stayed at home. It was the rustle of activity around him that finally roused him.
‘It’s him!’
Nothing but good memories.
He had taken to sleeping in the spare bedroom again. When Jane had been ill he had moved there so as not to disturb her. Their old bed, a place of life where they had made love and brought a son into the world, had become a deathly place, a compost heap upon which his wife rotted. Surrounded by the accoutrements of her disease, the drip and the respirator, the bedside table loaded with pill bottles, tissues and moisturiser, there had been no more room for him. He had moved to the lifeless guest bed, sleeping under second-best sheets surrounded by soulless decoration. Spare bedrooms are as close as a house gets to abandoned space, where none of the personality of the owner is allowed to shine through.
Now he slept there because it felt safer.
The marriage bed all too often felt like it contained more than just himself. The darkness around him was thick with more than air, it smelled of pharmaceuticals and rot. It contained the damp, mildewy breaths of the dead.
Even in the spare room his nights wouldn’t pass completely undisturbed. Often he would hear movements coming from the other bedroom. The soft pacing of naked feet, pressing each croaking floorboard into life, groaning and whining like a forest coming to life with nocturnal predators. Sometimes he thought he could actually hear her pressing against the adjoining wall, hear the soft slide of her cheek and palms, as cold as the plaster they rested on. Perhaps she listened for his breathing, perhaps she waited for an invitation to visit? All manner of ideas occurred to him as he lay there, anything, it seemed, to keep him from restful sleep.
It seemed that the more he tried to hold onto his rational beliefs the more they slipped away from him. Was he losing his mind or was he really experiencing everything his senses told him?
Jane had mocked his refusal to believe in anything but the physical. ‘For a great thinker,’ she had said, ‘your thoughts are so very narrow.’ Her background was resolutely Catholic, though that hadn’t stopped her cursing the name of her God at the end, as all must when the pain gets too much and the vastness of death overwhelms you. He had done his best to calm her, had uttered platitudes he didn’t believe as she gripped his hand tight enough to bruise. He had talked of the better place she was travelling to, of the painless eternity that would stretch out before her. A time of spirit and peace. He had no idea whether she knew his comments rang hollow in his throat as he uttered them. Maybe this was his punishment? Those things in which he refused to believe preying on him until he had no choice but to accept them. she forcing her beliefs on him as she never had while alive?
That night, Aida Golding was piercing the barrier between life and death at a Scout hut in Ealing. The walls were hung with powder-paint art and charts that attempted to show the difference between common British deciduous leaves. John found himself giving as much attention to a poster titled ‘Flags of the World’ as he did Golding’s performance. His mind just wasn’t in it; he should have stayed at home and dried out. He hadn’t been sleeping well, too alert to the noises the house made at night and what they might mean.
‘Oh dear,’ said Aida, ‘I can’t hear this very well, it’s either a John or a Jane …’
John didn’t hear her the first time, having entered into a dreamy state, staring at the wall and swaying gently in his seat.
‘Is there a Jane here? No … it’s a Jane I have speaking … Yes, dear, I know, I’m telling them … She wants to speak to John. Is John here?’
Still John was unaware, as divorced from what was happening in the room as if he had stayed at home. It was the rustle of activity around him that finally roused him.
‘It’s him!’