Dolly recalled holding Wolf as a tiny puppy in her arms and rocking him like a baby. He had snuggled down and fallen asleep almost immediately. He had been so content — and so had she. But now... now she felt the pain of loss bursting her body open. A sound — not a cry, but a deep low sound of anguish and anger inched out of her. Dolly turned toward the garage wall and there was a sickening thud as she smashed her fist against it, then another and another as she punched the wall for a second and third time. Only when she saw the red patch on the wall from her bleeding knuckles did she realize what she was doing and stop. The pain that filled her chest filtered slowly to her hand and distracted her from wanting to curl up and die.
Chapter 32
Resnick wiped the remains of the egg yolk with a slice of bread, then sucked on it before swallowing it down and neatly placing his knife and fork on the plate. He slurped his tea and looked round the clean, orderly kitchen. His dirty frying pan and plate were the only things out of place. From upstairs, Resnick could hear the Irish DJ Terry Wogan burbling on his wife Kathleen’s radio. Resnick sighed. Jesus, I hope I’m good at golf.
It was a long time since he’d played golf, so he set about looking for his set of clubs in the cupboard under the stairs. He had to chuck out Wellington boots, a walking stick and an old upright Hoover to get to them. Some of the clubs were a bit rusty and his golf shoes were covered in mildew, but they’d be easy enough to clean. If he left them on newspaper on the kitchen table with the polish and brush by their side, Kathleen would clean them for him. That’s how his shoes normally got polished.
He got a putter and four golf balls out of the bag. Placing his used tea mug on its side on the hallway floor, he practiced putting the balls toward the mug. He was rubbish, but as he stood there, head down and focused, he smiled at the thought of having something to take his mind off work.
Upstairs, Kathleen could hear the golf balls hitting the hallway skirting board. She pursed her lips and called out. ‘George! George, what on earth are you doing?’
Resnick hit the next ball hard, it went straight into the mug, spinning it round and breaking the bottom off it. ‘Yeah!’ Resnick yelled.
‘George!’
The mug stopped spinning. The side of it facing him bore the legend ‘Best Boss.’ It had been a Secret Santa Christmas present seven years ago. He knew it was from Alice, as she’d filled it to the top with his favorite chocolates and also bought him a quarter bottle of his favorite whisky. She was good like that — he’d mention something in passing, such as his favorite tipple, and she’d remember. Resnick stared at the mug for a moment, then at the skirting board behind it, then at the rest of the hallway. God, it was drab. There was the odd feminine touch here and there, but the paintwork and the decor was boring and unloved.
Resnick picked up his putter and golf ball and went upstairs.
Kathleen lay in bed, the newspapers and morning tea tray at her side. ‘I’m going to paint the hallway.’ Resnick said, placing his golf ball on the carpet and lining up his first bedroom shot.
Kathleen didn’t even look up. She turned a page of the paper. ‘Get dressed first, dear,’ she mocked.
‘I don’t mean right this very minute. It’ll take planning.’
‘That’s what you’re doing now, is it? Planning?’
‘I’m taking golf up again.’ Resnick beamed.
‘It’ll do you good to get some fresh air,’ she replied. ‘Not to mention get you out from under my feet,’ she added under her breath.
Resnick whacked the golf ball hard with the putter, it bounced of the skirting board, flew across the room, hit the wardrobe followed by the dressing table and bounced into Kathleen’s slipper.
‘Hole in one!’ Resnick exclaimed, punching the air.
Kathleen ignored him. He was just trying to irritate her. He was a devil when he was bored. ‘What color? The hallway. What color are you going to do it?’
‘White?’ Resnick said. Kathleen would tell him what color he was going to paint it.
‘Peach might be nice,’ she said. ‘It’ll go with the lampshade I’ve bought and, if you carried it on into the lounge, peach would be the perfect color to bring out the curtains.’
‘Peach it is then,’ Resnick said, not giving two hoots what color the hallway or the lounge were. He fished his golf ball out of Kathleen’s slipper and placed it back on the carpet. He was just about to swing his putter when he saw her glaring over the top of her glasses at him. He lent on his putter, like a walking stick. ‘What have you got planned for today?’ he asked.
Kathleen put her paper down, took her glasses off and smiled at Resnick. It unnerved him; she didn’t do it often. ‘I expect I’ll be putting the under-stair cupboard back into some semblance of order. Then I’ll wash up your breakfast things. Then I’ll no doubt be polishing your golf shoes — and then, well, if you’re painting, I’ll be at Marjorie’s for the rest of the day.’ Kathleen put her glasses back on and returned to her newspaper.
Resnick looked at his wife sitting in their bed. He had more true and honest affection for Alice than he did for her. Alice was good to him; she tolerated his bad habits way better than Kathleen did and she was kind. Resnick couldn’t remember when Kathleen stopped being kind. He wondered if she thought the same about him and was momentarily filled with shame that he hadn’t noticed their marriage was over. The shame didn’t last long: the real tragedy was that he didn’t care.
Suddenly, Resnick dived across the bed and turned the volume on the radio up loud.
‘The investigation into the armed raid on a security wagon in the Strand underpass earlier this morning is now well under way. Four masked men are said to have escaped with over one million pounds. Police are searching for a white Leyland truck used in the robbery and a white GLC van in which the suspects made their escape...’
Ripping off his pajama top, Resnick started to dress.
Harry Rawlins was listening to exactly the same broadcast on a small transistor radio. He knew newscasters liked to embellish a story for the public and doubted that over a million was stolen — he reckoned it was probably between six and seven hundred thousand pounds — but even so, he was still angry that he didn’t know where the money was. In a fit of fury, Harry swiped at the radio, which flew from the table and smashed against the wall.
Trudie jumped. She was cleaning Eddie’s face with cotton wool swabs and disinfectant at the kitchen table. The scalds from the bubbling coffee were now painful blisters and the scratches on his eyelids and ears from Shirley’s beautifully manicured nails were a dark, burning red. Eddie winced with the pain as Trudie dabbed at his face, but he never took his eyes off Harry.
Harry was in a volatile state of mind. He lit a cigarette, took a deep lungful of smoke and let it stream out slowly from his nose as he glared at his nervous cousin.
‘She just came at me, Harry, like a wildcat. I never seen anything like it! I don’t know who the hell she was.’
From the description Eddie had already given, Harry new exactly who she was, but he didn’t tell him. Harry looked at the cheap watch he was wearing and then back at Eddie. ‘Your face looks bad. Must be real painful, son.’
‘It is, Harry, when I get my hands on that cow she’s gonna suffer real bad.’
Trudie looked at Harry. It made her uncomfortable when they spoke about violence, especially toward women. Just then, the baby started crying in the bedroom. Harry looked as if he was about to blow a gasket. He jerked his head for her to go and see to the child, but she continued dabbing Eddie’s face. Harry stood up, kicked a chair over and took a step toward her. Trudie scurried into the bedroom and quietly shut the door.