Something Needs to Change

Wilma’s key rasped as it turned in the front door. Shite! She’d been that careful: cutting the car engine before she slid into the drive, leaving the driver’s door a fraction ajar. No danger – not in Mannofield – of some toe-rag hot-wiring it.

In the pocket-sized porch she kicked off her shoes. Ian was an early bedder. She crept into the hall. For a moment she stood, swithering. Her undignified exit from the Bide-a-Wee had given her a thirst. It would only take ten minutes to sneak a beer from the fridge, have a sittie-doon in one of the conservatory’s comfy chairs. Mebbe even, if she caught her second wind, put in an hour on the computer.

She was heading for the kitchen when a noise made her start. She froze. It came from behind. Could someone have followed her? No way. She wasn’t so bloody tired she wouldn’t have spotted a tail. Plus, she was stone cold sober. Wilma ran her tongue around a dry and fetid mouth. Now she stopped to think on it she was gasping.

It came again. From the direction of the lounge, she was pretty sure. Gingerly, she pushed the door open with one stockinged foot. In the dim sodium light from the street-lamp outside, she could make out a body.

Ian lay on the leather sofa, fully dressed, knees drawn up. One arm drooped to the carpet, where an empty mug lay on its side.

Wilma moved to stand over him.

‘Ian?’ She bent to the reclining form. ‘Pet?’ Gently, she shook him by the shoulder.

‘Wha-at?’ He started, straightening his legs.

‘Don’t tell me you dropped off watching telly again,’ Wilma teased.

Ian sat up. ‘What time is it?’ He rubbed sleep from his eyes.

‘Gone midnight,’ she answered. ‘Away to your bed. The alarm goes off at six.’

His jaw set. ‘Never you mind the alarm. What time do you call this to come swanning in?’

Wilma squared up. ‘Don’t you use that tone of voice wi me.’

‘I’ll use whatever tone I want. Where the hell have you been?’

‘Working.’

‘Working where?’

‘Bucksburn, if you must know.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Following up a fraud claim,’ she dissembled.

‘Till midnight?’

‘Fella was in a pub.’

‘What pub?’

Wilma’s mind worked at the speed of light. The Bide-a-Wee was known throughout Grampian as a strippers haunt.

She dropped to her knees. ‘You’re nippy tonight.’ Cosying up. ‘Hiv ye no got yer beauty sleep?’ Her hand strayed to his crotch. ‘Or…’ Stroking. ‘Yer mebbe jist horny.’

‘Don’t you “horny” me.’ Ian batted her hand away. ‘There’s no wife of mine is going to be out till all hours cavorting God knows where with…’

‘Now we’re getting to it.’ Wilma sat back on her heels. ‘I knew this place was too effing precious for the likes of me.’ She struggled to her feet. ‘But nobody told me there was a fucking curfew.’

Ian stood to face her. ‘Don’t get clever with me.’

‘Clever, now, is it? One minute you’re telling me how smart I am, Ian Harcus, the next you’re complaining.’

‘With good reason.’

‘Jist because I come in late one night?’

He brushed a weary hand across his brow. ‘It’s not one night, Wilma, it’s dozens of nights. If you’re not out on the ran-dan you’re sitting up at that computer.’

‘So?’

‘So I never expected this…business of yours to take over your life.’

‘And I never expected, when I married you, that Mannofield would be so effin…’ She struggled for the word. ‘Suffocating.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing.’ Ian turned on his heel and made for the door. ‘There’s something needs to change.’