Marty Fox’s Home
November 28, 11.00 p.m.
Marty Fox was sitting at home waiting for his wife. The decanter of brandy was three-quarters empty. He stared from his window and looked at his watch. 11.00 p.m. His wife usually returned by 10.30 p.m. and Marty had been at the window for an hour.
He shouldn’t have let her go. He should have taken her and got in the car and headed to the hills. God, this was killing him. And what about Rose Stanhope? Marty felt the horrible sickness of guilt and inaction.
If Nick was right and Sebastian was more than a fantasy, then this girl was in danger, but so was he, so was his wife. Sebastian had shown that vividly enough. Those pictures constituted a threat, not to him, but to his wife.
Marty could still feel the vomit in the back of his throat. He loved his wife, didn’t he? He wanted to protect her, but protecting her meant that someone else was in danger. ‘I’m not an ethical man,’ he said to himself. ‘I’m a self-serving rat, a coward, a fucking liar and a cheat.’
He wanted to believe it. He wanted to stop the thoughts, the guilt, the terrible gnawing. He wasn’t a hero. No. And if he wasn’t a hero, then he had to stay quiet. Whatever happened to Rose Stanhope, happened. Right?
Right?
Come on, Marty! Am I right?
He drowned another quick brandy and walked to the front door. He opened it. The night was quiet, so quiet he could hear the wind in the high treetops. He stepped out in his socks and looked out into the darkness. ‘Come on, baby, please make it home.’
He walked further, out to the end of the pathway, and looked up and down the street.
Nothing — not a car anywhere. The world seemed deserted. He looked again. 11.06 p.m. Time was moving so slowly. He turned back to the house and walked towards it. He felt unusually tired. It was a mixture of drink and exhaustion. He felt his body slump as he walked two steps on to the veranda.
Something to his left moved. A sound. He looked across into the darkness.
On the porch, sitting there in the blackness, something.
Marty shook and looked for a weapon. He picked up a broom. Maybe it was just an animal of some kind. A squirrel or a cat. Marty reached his hand inside the porch and felt for the light switch. He clicked it on. The lights on the veranda blazed and blinded him for a moment.
He looked across. A squirrel darted along the handrail and into the darkness. Marty sighed. He was shaking, though. Behind him he heard a car, and holding the broom he ran to the end of his drive. He picked out a set of headlights coming down the street. He stood and waited. As he waited he prayed. ‘If it’s Christine, I promise, I’ll call the cops. Just let me have her back. Please.’
The car approached. It slowed as it neared the drive. Marty smiled as he made out the face of his wife in the dark of the car. It was her. He felt a shudder of joy. He opened the passenger door.
‘What is it?’
‘We’re leaving. We’re leaving right now. I’ve got a lot to tell you, but we’ve got to go. Drive. I’ve got to call the cops.’
Marty dialled 911.