Laughing at him.

He scrabbled for his clothes to cover himself. He should never have mentioned his hobby. It was not the first time she’d poked fun at him: that time he’d given her a gift, she couldn’t control her laughter either. How he’d hated her then. And now a red mist descended, anger welled like he’d experienced before, extinguishing any lingering pleasure and affection in an instant. No one can mock me, least of all her, unholy harlot that she is. He glanced down at her exposed white neck; if she insulted him like that again he’d do more than shove her down some stairs—

‘Call me later in the week’ – her voice abruptly assumed the rigid formality of earlier – ‘I’ll see if I can squeeze you in, otherwise it’ll have to be next month.’

He stood, lingering over her a second or two longer. He was steady again, but he was not himself; desire and anger had fused into a black poison that still pulsed within. If she paid him the slightest attention, turned from her own reflection, she’d see just how much danger she was in …

‘Go on then, off you toddle,’ she commanded. A retort rose in his throat, but the words wouldn’t come. ‘And shut the door on your way out, there’s a love.’

Sunday (1)

‘Right you – off.’

From underneath the eiderdown he sensed she was holding the child; that horrible milky smell – the odour reached his nostrils. Boy, it smelt bad. He hugged the cover tighter.

‘I mean it,’ she said, closer this time. The baby was gurgling – any second now it would start wailing, he could tell. He cringed down into the settee, steeling himself – babies and hangovers definitely did not mix.

‘… you were supposed to go yesterday. My mother will be here at midday. It’s not fair, Jack. The place is a tip – I just can’t keep on top of it, what with you and Philip.’

The gurgling was growing louder. Any second now … He stretched a foot out tentatively; but withdrew it hastily on contact with something soggy. Last night’s Kung Po? And then off it went – a deafening wail. Christ alive! The next thing he knew the eiderdown was wrenched away from him.

‘Oi!’ he protested.

‘God, you pong.’

Frost, lying prone in his string vest, was greeted by the silhouette of Sue Clarke and her hungry baby. His skull throbbed like the devil was playing the bongos right behind his eyeballs. He blinked rapidly then sat up. A cluster of empty beer cans that had been nestling overnight in his crotch clattered to the floor.

‘And get rid of that beard. You don’t only smell like a tramp, you look like one too.’

‘Never mind me – oughten you to feed the nipper? He’s making a helluva racket.’

‘He’s fine,’ she said, impervious to the god-awful din. Clarke bent down to pick up the empties, bringing the baby to eye level with Frost – prompting a renewed bout of screaming. ‘Stop looking at him, though – you know you scare him.’

‘I—? Oww!’ Frost winced in pain, as he propped himself up. ‘Me back!’

‘I’ve booked you in to see Dr Mirchandani on Thursday, I’m sick to death of you whining like an old dog every morning.’

‘That’s very—’

‘At nine sharp. And get in the bath. Haven’t you to be at the vicar’s by ten? You can’t enter the church looking like that – or wait, maybe you’ll get struck down? That’d teach you a lesson.’

‘Ha ha.’ Frost got up from the settee – the proximity of the baby and its lactic tang had made him nauseous.

‘You know, it wouldn’t be half so bad if you weren’t so damn messy,’ she sighed, surveying her tiny front room.