An Occult Mystery Book Series
Alex McEwan Mysteries by Richard Mosses
Series Excerpt
The small, narrow room had a high ceiling and it felt like it would fall over. This sense of vertigo was compounded by the way the whole building leaned forward. The sick feeling was eased slightly by sitting on the bed, a mattress that occupied half the floor. Next to it was a fold-down dinner table and two dining chairs. The chairs came from a different dining suite to the table, but both chairs and table looked like they dated to the 1960’s. On top of the table sat a fern, which McEwan thought looked more like a hash plant. From the mattress all he could see through the narrow window was blue sky. Inside it was raining.
Just off the train to Bristol, they had come to her flat to dump his bags. Kate had gone to kiss him, a proper kiss, rather than the twin pecks of greeting they exchanged awkwardly in the station. He had averted his face.
He comforted Kate. Her tears wet his t-shirt. Since he was the cause of her sorrow, he felt awkward trying to help make it better.
“I told you I was seeing someone, in my last letter,” he said.
“No, you didn’t,” she said, her sobs easing. Kate looked up at him, accusation in her eyes.
He wasn’t sure if being this close was pushing the boundary of what was acceptable. “I’m sure I did.”
“Is she nice?” said Kate.
“Yes.”
“Not like Lynda?” Kate kept on pushing.
McEwan laughed. “Nothing like Lynda. Nothing at all.”
“So what’s she like then?” Kate sat up slowly, her knee length navy skirt getting caught up round her legs. She studied his face trying to detect a hesitation or avoidance in his responses to her interrogation.
“She’s Dutch, tall, thin, sort of dark blonde, but reddy hair. I like her accent,” said McEwan. He didn’t want to hurt Kate further, and didn’t want to say too much about Marja. She was fiercely protective of her privacy. She probably wouldn’t be too happy with him cuddled up with his friend either. He put it to one side.
***
The next day they went for a long walk along the waterfront. On the way they passed the Holy Cross church with its leaning tower reminiscent of Pisa. They strolled past old, derelict warehouses and new renovations. Although the sky remained blue, a stiff breeze came up the Avon from the sea, carrying the tang of salt and a hint of heavy diesel fuel.
They talked of nothing and everything before finally finding a bench sheltered from the wind. Kate lay on the bench, her head in McEwan’s lap. Her eyes were closed, her lips full and relaxed.
He looked out over the water lost in thought. When he came back he realised he was caressing her breast, a smile on her lips. He panicked, unsure how to get out of this.
Slowly, he stopped and moved his hand away. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to; it was that he knew he shouldn’t.
Kate opened her eyes. He couldn’t read anything there. She never said anything about it. Perhaps she thought it was a daydream?
***
During the conference he stayed in a hotel in town. The night before he was due to leave McEwan invited Kate to come along with him and a few people he had met to dinner. They ate at a fine Chinese restaurant and made small talk. At one point he realised he was holding Kate’s hand under the tablecloth. He was sure the others noticed. What was he doing? Should he just surrender to the inevitable and face the consequences of his desire and infidelity? Wasn’t the thought as good as the deed?
They left the other behind and walked along the waterfront again. The cool air cleared McEwan’s head.
“Come back with me,” he said, his voice thick.
“I can’t,” Kate said, capricious and playful. “Marja sounds like a nice person. If you were still with Lynda I would have no problem.”
She danced away from him. The breeze lifted her skirt and hair, turning her into a Dervish. Or a Djinn.
Kate insisted on going home herself.
McEwan didn’t know if he had fallen from his cast iron moral pillar.
Although they still wrote, it was the last time he saw her.
He sought the memory of her smile in other women, but he never found it.
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