Red Ribbons by Louise Phillips
For Robert
In the dark, all he could hear was the flow of the water. The ground underfoot was a mix of scrub and barren soil; he made no sound as he moved. They were now in a place without shadows.
Her breathing had been deep, her chest moving in and out, her body trembling.
‘Let’s play a game,’ he had said, and in his mind he had heard the old clock ticking – tick tock, tick tock – followed by its familiar elongated pause: everything in perfect rhythm.
He had left the duct tape across her mouth to keep her silent. The skin on her lovely face now, blotchy, bruised and wet from tears. Her arms and legs tied securely.
He wanted it to be quick.
Tick tock, tick tock.
He pulled the electric cable tight around her neck, closing off her oxygen, trapping the blood vessels. This time, expediency was all that mattered, although he did not want her to suffer.
He prepared her body properly – brushing her hair and tying both plaits neatly with the ribbons. Her lips had reminded him of a painting by Vermeer, the deep shades of cherries over-ripening on the canvas. He laid out her body, as if she were a young girl sleeping, before gently kissing her forehead. She hadn’t understood, but then, why should she?
She was never good enough.
Tuscany, Italy
HE COULD HAVE TAKEN A DIRECT FLIGHT FROM DUBLIN TO Galileo Galilei airport in Pisa. Instead he chose a Dutch airline with connecting flights first to Paris and then on to Florence. Examining his boarding pass, he double-checked the date and times on the overhead monitor, 10-03-2011 – departure 06.20. If all went according to plan, he had plenty of time to catch the connecting flight to Florence at 11.05 a.m. He cared little about losing a few more hours; it meant nothing. The only important thing was his intention and the knowledge that this trip, well overdue, was finally coming to pass.
Once safely on the plane, he smiled affectionately at the stewardesses, sitting back with ease, enjoying the sound of English, French and Dutch instructions coming from the cockpit just like he had as a boy, when his curiosity about language had first been aroused.
He was now three months into his leave of absence from Newell Design and he missed developing architectural plans and elevations. Still, looking after his deranged mother had had some advantages. For one thing, it meant he didn’t have to listen to the continuous whining of the imbeciles with whom he worked. He prided himself on being a good listener, for, these days, far too many people spent far too long talking rather than thinking. Of course, the upside of being a good listener was that he found out most things he needed to know, in the end.
Studying people was one of his pet pastimes – working out exactly what made them tick and why. He liked to categorise them, something that had been easy at Newell Design, given how transparent his colleagues had been.
There was Jackie, who had done numerous courses – ‘up-skilling’ was what she called it, but he had another name for it, ‘jack of all trades and master of none’. It was the mark of a woman who longed to be someone different, but who didn’t have the imagination to achieve any real change. Then there was snivelling Susan, who had buried her husband last year and was looking to ‘start over’, which entailed a lot of blathering about inner peace and a new penchant for Tarot cards. And ‘young cool guy’ David; oh yes, the boss definitely liked him. The others didn’t particularly interest him either – Karla from Scotland, Daniel with a face like a bulldog and reliable Henry, who had worked at the company for so long that everyone kept a keen eye on his desk in the hope that one day he might not be there. They were a tedious bunch, only Jarlath offered any sense of intrigue. Jarlath shared his admiration for seventeenth-century French philosophers and mathematicians, which meant talking to him was at least tolerable. In appearance, however, Jarlath disappointed. He was in his early thirties and scrawny, a man who would benefit from some building up and taking more care of himself. Despite being twenty years Jarlath’s senior, he felt physically superior. He suspected Jarlath was an only child, just like he was. This was indicated by some of his more obvious qualities: self-obsession, a loner, happier burying his head in a book rather than watching television, a keen appreciation of music – good music, that is, not the rubbish variety that seemed to be played in every home, office and coffee shop.
‘Would you like some tea or coffee, Sir?’ The stewardess had such a lovely smile.
‘Any herbal tea, my dear?’
‘Of course,’ she said and smiled again.