Set in Darkness by Ian Rankin Read Free Book Online Page A

finding that beside you in the scratcher.
    ‘Move your arse,’ he told his wife.
    ‘You’ve taken the words out of my mouth.’ She turned and pushed the off button. Jerry was off the sofa with a speed which surprised her. He liked the look on her face: startled, and with a little bit of fear mixed in. He pushed her aside, reached for the button, but her hands were in his hair, yanking him back.
    ‘Out with that Nic Hughes till all hours,’ she was yelling. ‘Think you can come and go as you please, fucking pig!’
    He grabbed one of her wrists, squeezed. ‘Let go!’
    ‘Think I’m going to put up with it?’ She seemedoblivious to the pain. He squeezed harder, wrenching the wrist round. Her grip on his hair tightened. His scalp felt like it was on fire. Threw his head back and caught her just above the nose. That did it. She shrieked and let go, and he half-turned, pushing her hard on to the sofa. Her foot sent the coffee table flying: ashtray, empty cans, Saturday’s paper. Whole lot hit the deck. A thumping noise on the ceiling – upstairs neighbours complaining again. Her forehead was reddening where he’d connected. Christ, she’d given him a headache, too: as if the hangover wasn’t enough to be going on with.
    He’d done his arithmetic this morning: eight pints and two nips. That tallied with the small change in his pockets. Taxi had cost six quid. Nic had paid for the curry: lamb rogan josh, lovely. Nic had wanted to hit the clubs, but Jerry had said he wasn’t in the mood.
    ‘What if
I’m
in the mood, though?’ Nic had said. But after the curry he hadn’t seemed so keen. Two or three pubs . . . then a taxi for Jerry. Nic had said he’d walk. That was the clever thing about living in the middle of town: no need to worry over transport. Out here in the sticks, transport was always a problem. The buses weren’t to be relied on, and he could never remember when they stopped running anyway. Even taxi drivers, you had to lie to them, tell them you were bound for Gatehill. When you reached Gatehill, you could either get out and walk across the playing fields, or you could persuade the driver to take you the final half-mile into the Garibaldi Estate. One time, Jerry had been jumped while crossing the football pitch: four or five of them, and him too drunk to do anything but capitulate. Ever since, he would argue to be taken the distance.
    ‘You really are a bastard,’ Jayne was saying, rubbing her brow.
    ‘You started it. I’m lying there with a head like blazes. If you’d just held off a few hours . . .’ His voice was soothing. ‘I was going to do the dishes, cross my heart. I just need abit of peace first.’ Opening his arms to her. Fact was, the little bout of sparring had given him a hard-on. Maybe Nic was right about sex and violence, about how they were pretty much the same thing.
    Jayne pounced to her feet, seemed to have seen straight through him. ‘Forget it, pal.’ Stalked out of the room. Temper on her . . . and always quick to take the huff. Maybe Nic was right, maybe he really
could
do better. But then look at Nic with his good job and his clothes and everything. Mortgage and money, and still Catriona had left him. Jerry snorted:
left him for someone she met at a singles night! Married woman, and off she trots to a singles night . . . and meets someone!
Life could be cruel, all right; Jerry should be thankful for small mercies. Back on with the telly, lying down on the sofa. His beer can was on the floor, untouched. He lifted it. Cartoons now, but that was all right; he liked cartoons. Didn’t have any kids, which was just as well: he was still a bit of a kid at heart himself. The ceiling thumpers upstairs, they had three . . . and had the gall to say
he
was noisy! And there it was on the floor, where it had fallen from the coffee table: the letter from the council. Complaints have reached us . . . powers to deal with problem neighbours . . . blah blah. Was it his fault they