Loose Connections (5 page)

‘I like Paul Cézanne,' Danny said unexpectedly. 

‘Do you?' Rosemary said.

‘Yeah, I saw that Still Life with Apples and Teapot one at the museum. Dad took us there a few months ago, one night when you were working late. He liked it as well. He misses you, Mum. He doesn't like it when you work late. He takes extra clients on just for something to do.' 

Rosemary stared at her son's face, wondering if he was telling the truth, or trying to catch her out. He was standing next to her, his elbows leaning on the desk. He slowly stuck the stamp on the envelope, making sure that the edges were precise, his tongue poked out in concentration. His face was a perfect blend of her and her husband. He had his father's broad nose, and her blue, emotion-filled eyes. 

‘Really?' Rosemary said. ‘I thought it was the other way around.'

‘That's what he told me,' Danny said. 

Rosemary turned back to the screen. She quickly typed her password into the space provided. Her e-mail inbox opened quickly. Unread messages 0. Spam messages 47. It was what she had come to expect. She closed it again. 

‘Hey, Mum,' Danny said, glancing around the room. ‘Where's your chair?' Before she could think of an answer, he was out of the room, heading towards the post-box at the entrance to the cul-de-sac. She followed him to the front door. 

Her computer chair was in the middle of the road, the parcel tape still sticking to its arm. The repairman was standing next to his white cab, the door open, wiping his face with a cloth. The broken handcuffs were still attached to his wrist. He glanced at her before stepping into his cab. 

Aaron could see the woman in his windscreen mirror. She was standing on the doorstep with her son, their voices the same muffled drone he'd heard from the kitchen. His heart was thumping, but he fought the urge to turn the key. He was safe now. His mobile phone was on the dashboard. The old woman who had snipped the handcuffs with his bolt cutter was standing on her own doorstep on the other side of the street, still baffled by the incident. 

He leaned down in the seat and lifted the waist of his trousers, gingerly unzipping the fly. He pulled the material away from his skin, and it came away without any pain. He lifted the elastic of his underpants and squinted down inside. His skin was flamingo pink, clashing with the dark mound of his pubic hair. He touched it lightly, expecting some of it to come away on his fingers. It didn't. There was a sudden knock on his window. The woman's face was pressed up against the glass. He jumped. He pulled his trousers up. 

‘You're not going to go to the police, are you?' she said, shouting, her knuckles rapping on the glass. Aaron put his seatbelt on and started the engine. As he did the woman became more frantic. ‘Please?' she said. ‘Don't go to the police. It was a mistake. I didn't mean anything by it. I'm sorry.' 

Aaron forced himself to look into her eyes. They were the same eyes he'd seen in the photograph in her office, happy but tinted with a spongy sadness. 

‘Are you?' she said. ‘Please don't.' 

Aaron put the van into first. He looked ahead. Let her stew, he thought.

About the Author

Rachel Trezise was born in the Rhondda Valley in 1978. She studied at Glamorgan and Limerick Universities. Her first novel In and Out of the Goldfish Bowl was a winner of the Orange Futures Prize. Her first collection of short fiction Fresh Apples won the EDS Dylan Thomas Prize. Her documentary about Welsh rock band Midasuno, Dial M for Merthyr, was published in 2007. Her second novel Sixteen Shades of Crazy will be published by HarperCollins in 2010.