Catherine Narracott
The Wife
‘Where is it?’ he hisses. Bruno Crane stands over me, breathing hard. I can feel the cold from outside coming off him; snow still clings to his jacket, falling onto me in freezing droplets. He’s a big man, but he looms even larger now as I lie on the bed.
I came here to recover from hitting my head when I fainted. I thought I would be safe in my own room, at least, but it took him only a few seconds to smash his way in. Just two loud thuds against the door before the lock gave way and he crashed into the room.
I open my mouth – try to scream. But suddenly his fingers are around my throat. He could choke me so easily, I realise. ‘Scream again, little girl, and it will be the last sound you make. Show me where it is. Quickly—’ He looks at the door.
I just blink at him. I gesture frantically at my throat. I can’t speak.
‘You won’t scream? You know what will happen if you do …’
I shake my head as best as I am able.
He loosens his grip just enough for me to talk. In spite of my fear I try to speak to him like I would to my husband when he’s in a rage, very softly and slowly. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about. You’re scaring me. Please. Anthony didn’t tell me anything. He never tells me anything.’
Then I remember: he’ll never tell me anything again. He is dead—
‘He took it and hid it, didn’t he?’ he says, as if I didn’t say anything at all. ‘Didn’t want me to get my share. And I’m sure you know all about it. Why did he bring you here, if not, hmm?’
‘We came for a holiday!’ I say.
‘You must know something,’ he says. ‘Come on, you snobbish little fool. Oh, yes, I’ve noticed the way you look at me. Just like he did. You think I’m some vile creature, beneath your notice.’
‘I don—’
‘Well, I can tell you that your husband was far viler than me … did you know what he did to get the stuff? Did he tell you the whole horrid tale?’
‘Please,’ I say, ‘he didn’t tell me anything. I don’t understand any of this.’
He puts his head in his hands and makes a terrible, animal, groaning sound. And then an awful string of expletives. ‘This is a waste of time! Perhaps you really are as bird-witted as you look. Stay there,’ he growls.
And then he goes to the chest of drawers and starts heaving them out, flinging out all my lovely things, the furs, the pretty nightgowns and underthings I wore to try and please Anthony. ‘Oh, stop!’ I scream. ‘Please, stop …’