Interregnum

Christmas 1966 in Pittsburgh. The grease besmeared
child grew up to become Occasional Speeder. The mess
in the foreground is the remains of a roast bird, type
 forgotten. Yes I know, all looks untidy but V is happy

● Two or three years ago - who cares about piffling dates - Veronica had a stroke. Which lead to the first signs of mental disruption. Carers came and went as I looked after her during the day. More difficult at nights when I lay on a folding bed and she on a reclining chair, both in the same room. She deteriorated; social services said she must go into a nursing home. Knackered beyond belief I protested. Foolishly. Other people were beginning to look - medically - at me. After seven months of further deterioration in the home Veronica died, death being what she had begged for.

At odd times, quite unfit for such work, I stole away and added a para or two to my novel, Rictangular Lenses, started a decade ago. Present wordage stands at 80,000 which probably means the MS is 75% complete. My 91st birthday occurred a fortnight ago and it's fairly certain I won't live to complete the first draft, never mind subsequent re-writes and corrections. Never mind. Writing is what I do.

What follows was written in very short bursts while I have been alone in the house. Often in the small hours.  There's no way I can summarise what happened in the preceding fifteen chapters and what will happen in the future is vague in my mind. Other than to say Lindsay, the central character, has gone out into the world intent on kicking the arses of any man who stands between her and financial success. Many sore bums behind her, Lindsay is now wealthy.

Amber, more of an acqaintance than a friend, is devoted to motherhood and the world has treated her badly More recently, after Lindsay left home, Lindsay's mother and her recently acquired husband took in Amber and her young son.●

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

BUT Lindsay would have to wait for confirmation. Even after waking an hour later than usual, showering, washing up the evening’s glassware and sifting – vainly – through the fridge for anything that looked like breakfast, the second bedroom remained silent. Drink a likely reason.

Time passed. Lindsay phoned a local restaurant, announced her first name, spelt out an order, agreed an enormous price, returned the phone to its cradle.

A further hour passed. Finally the bedroom door opened and Amber slowly emerged, wearing Lindsay’s most expensive night dress and frowning at the daylight. “My apologies.”

“No problem.” Lindsay took up the phone, speed-dialled a number, announced her name and said “Go ahead.”

Gestured Amber to the easy chair she had approved  of the previous night. “No problem. My fault; too much drink. There is something you intend to tell me but we’ll delay that a while. Always assuming it has survived the booze

“Oh that’s clear as a bell.” Amber's voice clear and threatening.

Lindsay smiled. “I guessed that would be the case. But first we both need extra fortitude. I’ve got orange juice for starters, more follows.”

For some reason sipping orange juice inhibited further conversation until the doorbell rang and a welter of plastic containers were spread out over the dining table.

Perhaps the mere proliferation of bought-in food angered Amber. “What the hell’s all this?”

“Breakfast.”

“Shit. But then I suppose it says everything that needs saying.”

“Perhaps it does. You’re pissed off that I haven’t spent the last half hour mixing  up porridge and frying bacon. Because that’s what normal  people would have done and I’m not normal. And a labour-free meal doesn’t fit in with what you have in mind.”

“And how would you know what I’m thinking?”

“Punishment.”

Amber’s mouth opened but of words came there none. Only the harsh sound of thwarted breathing. Lindsay waited then realised the shot had hit its intended target.

“It’s simple really. You’ve had a hard life and you think it’s unfair that I haven’t. In fact you’ve meekly accepted what was handed out whereas I took hold of fate by the scruff of the neck. So you’re whining for equalisation. But never mind all that. We both need food so let’s eat. I’ll go as far as serving you with what you choose.”

In fact, much would go to waste since Lindsay had ordered all the options. Amber still refused to speak so Lindsay filled a large plate with small servings of everything and pushed it across the table. Given that it might irritate Amber further she limited herself to three slices of black pudding, cut into small pieces and placed on precisely engineered triangles of toast. Rounded off with a bowl of grapefruit.

After five minutes more of non-communication Amber picked up half a sausage and chewed it moodily. This appeared to remind her that she was – in fact – hungry and the rest of the food disappeared quite quickly. Lindsay placed a well-timed mug of black coffee in front of her and looked on expectantly.

Amber said, “How on earth could I manage to punish you?”

“Several ways. Emotional blackmail would be tempting.”

“Details?”

Lindsay laughed outright. “I’m not about to give you ideas so I’ll generalise. Some scheme that would bind the two of us together might seem attractive but it would be based on a false premise. You imagine I dislike you but that’s untrue.”