Read Make Death Love Me for Free Online
Authors: Ruth Rendell
think they had been bored or had quarrelled before they came out or were worried about one of their children. At exactly two minutes to eleven Pam said:
âWhatever time is it?â
She said âwhateverâ because that implied it must be very late, while a simple âWhat time is it?â might indicate that for her the time was passing slowly.
âJust on eleven,â said Alan.
âGood heavens, Iâd no idea it was as late as that. We must go.â
The Cinderella Complex, its deadline shifted an hour back, operated all over Fittonâs Piece. Evenings ended at eleven. Yet there was no reason why they should go home at eleven, no reason why they shouldnât stay out all night, for no one would miss them or, probably, even notice they were not there, and without harming a soul, they could have stayed in bed the following day till noon. But they left at eleven and got home at five past. Pop had gone to his bed-sit, Jillian was in the bath. Where Christopher was was anybodyâs guess. It was unlikely he would come in before one or two. That didnât worry Pam.
âItâs different with boys,â he had heard her say to Gwen Maynard. âYou donât have to bother about boys in the same way. I insist on my daughter being in by half-past ten and she always is.â
Jillian had left a ring of dirty soap round the bath and wet towels on the floor. She was playing punk rock in her bedroom, and Alan longed for the courage to switch the electricity off at the main. They lay in bed, the room bright with moonlight, both pretending they couldnât hear the throbbing and the thumps. At last the noise stopped because, presumably, the second side of the second LP had come to an end and Jillian had fallen asleep.
A deep silence. There came into his head, he didnât know why, a memory of that episode in Malory when Lancelot is in bed with the queen and he hears the fourteen knights come to the door.
âMadam, is there any armour in your chamber that I might cover my poor body withal?â
Would he ever have such panache? Such proud courage? Would it ever be called for? Pamâs eyes were wide open. She was staring at the moonlight patterns on the ceiling. He decided he had better make love to her. He hadnât done so for a fortnight, and it was Saturday night. Down in Stoke Mill the church clock struck one. To make sure it would work, Alan fantasized hard about the black-haired girl coming into the bank to order lire for a holiday in Portofino. What Pam fantasized about he didnât know, but he was sure she fantasized. It gave him a funny feeling to think about that, though he didnât dare think of it now, the idea of the fantasy people in the bed, so that it wasnât really he making love with Pam but the black-haired girl making love with the man who came to read the meter. The front door banged as Christopher let himself in. His feet thumped up the stairs. Madam, is there any armour in your chamber . . . ?
His poor body finished its work and Pam sighed. It was the last time he was ever to make love to her, and had he known it he would probably have taken greater pains.
4
Marty Fosterâs room in Cricklewood was at the top of the house, three floors up. It was quite big, as such rooms go, with a kitchen opening out of it, two sash windows looking out on to the street, and a third window in the kitchen. Marty hadnât been able to open any of these windows since he had been there, but he hadnât tried very hard. He slept on a double mattress on the floor. There was also a couch in the room and a gate-leg table marked with white rings and cigarette burns, and a couple of rickety Edwardian dining chairs, and a carpet with pink roses and coffee stains on it, and brown cotton curtains at the windows. When you drew these curtains clouds of dust blew out of them like smoke. In the kitchen was a gas stove and a sink and another gate-leg table and
âWhatever time is it?â
She said âwhateverâ because that implied it must be very late, while a simple âWhat time is it?â might indicate that for her the time was passing slowly.
âJust on eleven,â said Alan.
âGood heavens, Iâd no idea it was as late as that. We must go.â
The Cinderella Complex, its deadline shifted an hour back, operated all over Fittonâs Piece. Evenings ended at eleven. Yet there was no reason why they should go home at eleven, no reason why they shouldnât stay out all night, for no one would miss them or, probably, even notice they were not there, and without harming a soul, they could have stayed in bed the following day till noon. But they left at eleven and got home at five past. Pop had gone to his bed-sit, Jillian was in the bath. Where Christopher was was anybodyâs guess. It was unlikely he would come in before one or two. That didnât worry Pam.
âItâs different with boys,â he had heard her say to Gwen Maynard. âYou donât have to bother about boys in the same way. I insist on my daughter being in by half-past ten and she always is.â
Jillian had left a ring of dirty soap round the bath and wet towels on the floor. She was playing punk rock in her bedroom, and Alan longed for the courage to switch the electricity off at the main. They lay in bed, the room bright with moonlight, both pretending they couldnât hear the throbbing and the thumps. At last the noise stopped because, presumably, the second side of the second LP had come to an end and Jillian had fallen asleep.
A deep silence. There came into his head, he didnât know why, a memory of that episode in Malory when Lancelot is in bed with the queen and he hears the fourteen knights come to the door.
âMadam, is there any armour in your chamber that I might cover my poor body withal?â
Would he ever have such panache? Such proud courage? Would it ever be called for? Pamâs eyes were wide open. She was staring at the moonlight patterns on the ceiling. He decided he had better make love to her. He hadnât done so for a fortnight, and it was Saturday night. Down in Stoke Mill the church clock struck one. To make sure it would work, Alan fantasized hard about the black-haired girl coming into the bank to order lire for a holiday in Portofino. What Pam fantasized about he didnât know, but he was sure she fantasized. It gave him a funny feeling to think about that, though he didnât dare think of it now, the idea of the fantasy people in the bed, so that it wasnât really he making love with Pam but the black-haired girl making love with the man who came to read the meter. The front door banged as Christopher let himself in. His feet thumped up the stairs. Madam, is there any armour in your chamber . . . ?
His poor body finished its work and Pam sighed. It was the last time he was ever to make love to her, and had he known it he would probably have taken greater pains.
4
Marty Fosterâs room in Cricklewood was at the top of the house, three floors up. It was quite big, as such rooms go, with a kitchen opening out of it, two sash windows looking out on to the street, and a third window in the kitchen. Marty hadnât been able to open any of these windows since he had been there, but he hadnât tried very hard. He slept on a double mattress on the floor. There was also a couch in the room and a gate-leg table marked with white rings and cigarette burns, and a couple of rickety Edwardian dining chairs, and a carpet with pink roses and coffee stains on it, and brown cotton curtains at the windows. When you drew these curtains clouds of dust blew out of them like smoke. In the kitchen was a gas stove and a sink and another gate-leg table and