"Harry Adam Knight - Fungus" - читать интересную книгу автора (Knight Harry Adam)

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He began to caress the already smooth wood with the fine paper. It was a soothing, almost sensual,
feeling. He would

never have made any sexual association with what he was doingтАФsex, in fact, had always been low on
his list of prioritiesтАФbut to any objective observer it would have been obvious that he was making love to
the wood.

As he rubbed, stroked, and caressed, the tensions of the day began to drain out of him....




Wednesday, 7.07 a.m.

Nora Layne lay in bed wondering what on earth could have happened to her husband. She had dozed off
very early the previous night, having treated herself to perhaps one sherry too many that afternoon while
the old bastard had been out, and sheтАЩd slept right through the night. Yet she was positive Norman hadnтАЩt
been to bed at allтАФthe covers werenтАЩt in their usual tangle caused by his perpetual tossing and turning.

This was odd because even though their relationship was one of mutual detestation, for some reason
Norman still insisted on sleeping in the same bed with her. She guessed it was because he wanted to keep
up appearances for the sake of the neighbors. Or God. Maybe it was God he was worried about. For years
sheтАЩd had no idea what was going on in his head except that she played no part in it. Nor did she want to.

So where had he spent the night? On the couch in the living room perhaps? But that was so horribly
uncomfortable. He wouldnтАЩt have got a wink of sleep.

She smiled to herself at the thought. And now he was probably already up and in his precious workroom
waiting for her to get up and make breakfast. Well, sheтАЩd be damned if sheтАЩd rush to do that today. She
was going to make the most of having the bed to herself for a change.

The tension that she usually felt in the mornings was gone, and she was enjoying this momentary
rebellion against the dead routine of so many years. A memory seeped into her mind of moments shared
with Norman in weekend beds long ago, but it seemed so unlikely and so detached from reality

that it soon seeped out again. Small bitter thoughts about her wasted life took its place and she relished
the self-pity that accompanied them.

After an hour or so she got up, put on the light-blue, once-fluffy slippers and her faded green dressing
gown, and went down to the kitchen. It was empty and there was no sign of the filth that he left on the
rare occasions he made his own breakfast. He hadnтАЩt even made a cup of coffee.

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Puzzled now, she put a glass against the wall and pressed her ear to it. No sound came from the workroom