The Annihilation Score (19 page)

Seconds pass. Then the door suddenly opens and I fall into the welcome arms of my husband. “Mo—” I drop my suitcase. “Ouch!” It lands on his foot.

“Sorry,” I murmur in his ear. I have a double armful of husband. World's best teddy bear/security blanket, combining intimacy and sex. What
was
I thinking, letting go of him?
Oh. Right.
The violin case I'm holding behind his back suddenly weighs a ton. I reluctantly relax my grip on him: “Let me in, I've got stuff to put down.”

“Food can be ready whenever you want,” he says, taking a step back. He looks me up and down with evident concern: whether for my well-being, or because he's worried I'm about to explode, isn't immediately obvious. “Come in, Mo. Make yourself”—a sad little chuckle—“at home.”

I step across the threshold, shove the door closed, and look at him.
Same old Bob, maybe beginning to go a little thin on top. Are those new worry lines etched around his eyes? He's wearing the Hugo Boss suit I made him buy for meetings, albeit tieless, which is ultra-formal in Bob terms—I am acutely aware that I look like I've been dragged through a hedge backwards. “Will dinner keep? Because I want to hit the bathroom first. I've been living out of a suitcase for days.”

“That makes two of us,” he says. “Don't worry about the food, I can heat it up.”
Now
he looks obscurely disappointed.

“You look great.” Which is a little white lie—Bob never looks unreservedly great unless I put some effort into his turnout—but I want to build bridges, not burn them, and he seems to want to make an effort. The past week has been the cinematic trailer for
Divorce: The High-Budget Remake
, and it's not a movie I plan on buying a ticket to: I don't even want it on cut-price DVD, thanks. I put the violin case down, then close in on my man for a hug and a kiss. I was hoping for something more than a peck on his sandpaper cheek: disappointment stabs briefly. “Sore at me?”

“A little,” he admits.

I make a second attempt, and we smooch like awkward teenagers for a few seconds. Not only is it unsatisfying, one or both of us has morning breath. I pull back: “I really need the bathroom?” I say. “Freshen up and a quick change—then I've got a surprise for you, if you're still serious about us dating. Half an hour?”

He thinks for a moment, then nods. “I'll feed Spooky and lay the table. She likes to sleep on a full stomach.” He looks at me, and I shiver pleasantly and raise an eyebrow, and he twitches back, and suddenly I know we're on converging courses again. We've been together long enough that we can read each other's signals.

“Deferred gratification,” I warn him, then grab my suitcase and violin and flee upstairs.

*   *   *

How do you prepare for a date when you're worried you've irreparably damaged your marriage?

I shove my violin case in the wardrobe again, lock it, and check
the ward I put there last week is still working. Then I make sure the damn cat isn't hiding in the bedroom, strip off, and head for the shower. It's not actually as good as the one at the office (we have no booster pump at home, just traditional British plumbing that predates the last ice age) but it's mine, in my own home. That makes up for all defects. Also I've got a shower cap, which shaves half an hour off the process.

I raid the bedroom closet for my special underwear, then slither into the other dress I bought for the diplomatic junket and didn't get to wear. It's not so much cocktail hour as black tie: a black silk number that I knew at the time was a bit too daring, but couldn't resist. Floor-length skirt slit as high as my stocking tops, lace bodice with short sleeves. At the back of the shoe rail I have a pair of five-inch heels I shouldn't have bought in the first place, so high I can't descend a staircase in them without a handrail—then I add lipstick and eye-liner.
This is silly,
I think.
It's bedroom cosplay.
I wouldn't dare wear this combination in public: but in my own house, with my own husband, who isn't terribly good at doing subtle . . .

“How's the food, dear?” I call down the stairs.

“Are you hungry?” he replies from below. In the living room, I think. “Because I can have it ready in fifteen minutes.”

He'd better not: I have other plans. “I'll be right with you!”

I manage to descend the stairs safely, then mince into the living room and strike a pose. Bob is sitting on the sofa with a half-empty glass of red wine in one hand, reading something on his tablet and looking morose. I notice he's actually wearing a tie—a piece of fabric to which he's just about allergic. For Bob this is more than smart: he's making a weddings-and-funeral-grade effort. I'm touched. The moment lasts almost a second, then he notices me. He drops the tablet and puts the wine glass down and stands up hastily, looking dazzled. “Do you like this?” I ask.

“I, um—” He licks his lips. “Wow! You said you wanted a date, I didn't think you meant a night at the opera—”

“I didn't.” His pupils dilate. I look into his eyes and see my own need mirrored there. I step close to him and take hold of the end of
his tie. I tug, gently. “Come here, husband.” He makes an unfamiliar growling noise and zombie-shuffles closer, then remembers to wrap his arms around me and pull me close. My bedroom-only heels are so high that I'm actually looking down into his upturned, wondering face. My great big teddy bear doesn't do subtle: you have to tell him what you need very clearly. “It's not the opera, dear. I just want you to fuck my brains out.” God, I've missed that side of things.

“What, right now—” I silence him with a kiss and reach for his fly. His brain might be stuck at deer-in-the-headlights, but below the belt he's getting the message. He kisses me back with increasing urgency, finally realizing that I'm serious and he's not hallucinating. I crouch down and open his fly and lick, then suck, until the taste of his skin fills my mouth and I can feel his fingers tangling in my hair and he begins to make a noise like a stovetop kettle's whistle. “Oh God, Mo,” he moans, and I shiver. I give him a last kiss and stand up.

“Do me,” I tell him.
“Right now.”
He picks me up and carries me to the over-padded sofa, where he lays me down, carefully parts my legs with his hands, and sets fire to me with his tongue. I close my eyes and fantasize my faceless dream lover in his place, and I begin to shudder. Then, when he's sure I'm as desperate as he is, he climbs on top of me and we mate like frenzied forty-year-old mammals who know it might be their last time ever.

*   *   *

We make it to the kitchen eventually—in my case by way of a diversion to the bathroom to undo some of the worst of the damage. I confront myself in the mirror. My hair is back to being a nest fit for crows, my lipstick and eyeliner are smeared, one lace stocking is slightly laddered, I left my shoes and best knickers on the living room carpet, and my fortune cookie says there will be a big dry cleaning bill in my future, so why is my reflection glowing? Sounds carry much too well in this house, and I can hear Bob whistling as he putters about the kitchen. I ache pleasantly and I'm hungry and he's about to feed me. Life is suddenly more than good: it's wonderful.

I fix what I can fix, bounce downstairs, and ease my feet back into
my bedroom shoes because I want to serve notice on Bob that we aren't done yet. Then I tiptoe through into the kitchen, where pleasant smells are wafting from the fan-assisted oven.

“Nearly ready!” he says cheerfully, pulling back one of the kitchen chairs for me. He has actually unearthed the linen tablecloth, a wedding present that sees the light of day less than once a year. There are lit candles and a bottle of overpriced pinot noir, and he's laid out the silver-plated cutlery set my grandmother left me. “Cheers!”

“To us!” I say, raising my wine glass. His is nearly empty: I can see I have some catching up to do.

“To that,” he echoes as the kitchen timer goes off, then he hurries to unload the oven.

The food is nothing special, but it's after ten o'clock and I've worked up an appetite, and Bob knows how to spice up a Chinese takeaway enough to bring it up to overworked-busy-restaurant standard. I force myself to leave a third of my food unfinished; Bob is still eating so I stretch my leg out and play footsie with the inside of his calf. I'm still extremely hungry, but not for food.

“Bob,” I begin to say.

He sighs. “We can't both stay the night.”

“What?”
I do not need this right now.

“There's—” He puts his chopsticks down and swallows. “Still the problem.” He is crestfallen.

Oh, that. “What if I've got a solution?”

That gets his immediate attention. “What kind of solution?”

I tell him about the ward on the wardrobe. And the key. “Here it is.” I slide it across the top of the table. “Put it somewhere safe and don't tell me where. That way I can't accidentally get my hands on the violin in my sleep. If there's an emergency and you can't retrieve the key, there's always the crowbar under the bed.”

“Which will . . .” He looks at me so hopefully it's almost heartbreaking. “You're sure you can live with being parted from it that way?”

“Proximity works. I don't need to hold him—it—the whole time.” I shake my head. “He just has to be within reach. The wardrobe by the bed will do, and you've got the key.”

He looks at me, still concerned. “You tried this.”

“Yes. And it was still in the wardrobe the next morning.”

He licks his lips nervously as I force myself to wait, patiently, for him to see sense.
Sex or safety, which will win?
His face relaxes slightly, cheeks drooping just a bit. “You want us both to stay the night.”

“When did we last have sex like that?” I ask rhetorically. We share a knowing glance.
Yup, sex is winning.
We're at or past the ten-year mark: things have calmed down to a weekly tempo, subject to work-related travel and other irritations. But things haven't been going so well since the Iran business, and then we just had a week of enforced separation. What we just did in the living room is unprecedented in recent years. It's why I married him in the first place, and just sharing that sly look of complicity with him has set me tingling again. “Have you eaten enough?”

He looks at his bowl. Then he looks at me. His smile is luminous. “Food can wait. I suppose you want the main course now?”

I ease my chair back and stand, then tiptoe around the table towards him. He meets me halfway. “In the bedroom this time,” I murmur into his ear. “Nice and slowly. It's not as if one of us has to rush for the last tube.”

*   *   *

We go upstairs after dinner and this time we take the time to undress one another—at least, he wants me to undress him—he likes me to keep some of my underwear on. We make love until we're both sore and exhausted and it's more painful than ecstatic, and then I make him fuck me a little more because I have an aching Bob-shaped emptiness that I want to fill. He falls asleep sprawled half on top of me, an hour after midnight, slowly withdrawing.
World's biggest teddy bear
: a comforting weight, almost suffocatingly heavy. I shift around until I can breathe comfortably, then spend so long thinking wistful middle-aged thoughts about the bathroom that I, too, fall asleep.

Unfortunately my sleep is not dreamless. I'm on the black and
white dancefloor again, whirling in the arms of my faceless white-clad partner—early twentieth-century ballroom, not Viennese opera or New Romantic gothic clubland—this time wearing a long white debutante gown and flat pumps. ***You disappoint me,*** he says, in my father's borrowed tones: ***I thought you were Daddy's girl.***

I realize that I got the scene wrong; it's not early twentieth-century ballroom, but early twenty-first-century Promise Keepers, father-and-daughter religious freaks dancing to century-old melodies. Outrage and anger squeezes scatology from my lips:
“Fuck this shit!”
I scream, words I don't use much in waking life. I try to stop and stand my ground, but he won't let me—I stumble and he whirls me onwards on resisting feet.
“My father never abused me! You're
lying
! Stop trying to gaslight me! You're pushing a button that doesn't exist!”

My partner chuckles, then answers: not in Daddy's long-dead voice, for which I am grateful. ***Of course not. You can't blame me for trying, though, can you? It only works around ten percent of the time, but when it works, it's
very
effective.*** He lifts me bodily from the floor and swings me around him, forcing me to cling to his arms for dear life. ***But if you won't cooperate of your free will, I'm afraid I'll have to compel you.***

“Wait what—”

And I'm somewhere else but still trapped in the claustrophobic dream, still spotlit but now seated: in an orchestra pit, wearing concert black with Lecter at my shoulder and his bow between my fingers. There is a music stand with a score positioned just where it belongs. The other violinists of the ensemble sit motionless to my right and left. I'm afraid to glance sideways: there's something uncannily gaunt about them as they wait, utterly still, like a bone sculpture garden at midnight. I sight-read the visible pages of the piece, feeling increasingly doubtful as I go along. It's an operatic composition with a vaguely familiar name:
The King in Yellow
. Wait, isn't this one of the stolen manuscripts that Mhari crosschecked in the Laundry archive index? It seems to be a solo piece for first violin from Act I, Scene 2: “Cassilda's Song.” It's a pleasant if somewhat naively
conventional melody, although the lyrics for the soprano who I am to accompany fill me with a vague sense of dread.

***Play me,*** urges the thing in my hands—white and polished bone and, simultaneously, bloated and visceral and filled with rotting blood, ***it is the price you must pay.***