Shadow Over Edmund Street by Suzanne Frankham (read a book .TXT) 📕

we aren’t getting any younger, and a house on its own, especially those old weatherboard villas …’ She trailed off.

‘Indeed.’ He sighed theatrically. ‘They look stunning but the upkeep is a killer.’

She nodded. ‘I never liked it much. It was the one where we had trouble with those tenants, wasn’t it?’

He shuddered. ‘Yes.’ Then he relaxed, sat back in his chair. It might take a few days, but he was sure now he would get his way. Patricia would leave for Europe, giving him six weeks to do

the job.

‘Ah, here comes the food. We’ll talk about it later.’ He grinned. The boyish look he practised in the mirror.

Patricia returned his smile, her eyes shining once again as he leant over and squeezed her hand. ‘I love seeing you so happy,’ she purred.

He sighed, feeling a shaft of pure delight burn through him. It was going to be difficult damping down the ardour, keeping it under wraps until Patricia went away. The way he felt now, the energy pulsing through him could light the entire restaurant. He’d have to be careful. It was always like this when things

went right.

* Edward drove home. Patricia, with all those delicate sips of Riesling, had drunk most of the bottle of wine. She was bubbling, animated. Ideas about castles, hotels, friends who might accompany her tumbled out. Edward listened, contented.

The dog greeted them as they arrived. A tiny white fluffy thing with a chocolate-box face. Patricia had picked him up from a pet shop. She had gone out one afternoon to buy a selection of cheeses for the dinner guests they were expecting and came home clutching a puppy. A West Highland Terrier. The baby of the household. But perversely the dog had taken to Edward, become his dog. Now it ran to him, shaking with pleasure.

‘I’ll shower then,’ Patricia said, watching the two of them. ‘Don’t be too long.’ Her voice was low, betraying her need.

‘I won’t be. I’ll have a nightcap and join you.’ Edward blew her a kiss, watching desire ripple across her face. So little, he thought. He poured himself a Scotch. Only the best for him now, although he’d decided Glenfiddich was too common. He would have to do some more research, find a more exclusive brand.

He took the glass into the lounge, walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that ran along the length of the room, facing out to sea. The dog trailed close behind him, fearless now, though it had taken her many weeks to get used to the sight. She’d been terrified at first—the glass, the sheer drop, the sea, the occasional seagull swooping in close. But Edward had already forgotten her. He had his single malt and he had twenty whole minutes to dream. He relaxed into his favourite recliner, put the whisky on the table and looked out to sea, an ocean of black with an odd pinpoint of light glowing in the distance. Too early for the moon. He barely took the scene in as his mind cleared. The day was lost. He stared into the darkness ahead of him until he could see Edmund Street, the day Trudi died. He smiled.

* He was sixteen and it was the school holidays. He hated the school holidays with a vengeance. At school he was taller, stronger and better looking than most and smarter than everyone. But during the school holidays he was at home with his mother and his sister—and they were poor. Dirt poor. While his friends were roaming the streets having fun, he was working. Delivering newspapers or working in the corner store, anything to make money.

He had finished his shift at the shop, come home hungry, thirsty and full of rage. Rage at his father who had taken the easy way out, leaving the family in a mess. Rage at his mother for being miserable and exhausted. Rage at his sister who had brought the trouble with her when she was born. The beautiful, frail, exquisite Trudi. The angel everyone loved.

He saw her as he walked through the front door. Caught sight of her in the backyard, sitting on the old tyre strung up as a swing. He felt the demon rise in him, smiled and strode along the hallway, through the back door and pushed the tyre hard. Moved so he could watch her face. Absolute terror, yet she made no sound, didn’t cry out. She hung on to the rope as if her life depended on it. It infuriated him even more. He grabbed the tyre and pushed it hard again, sending it into an uncontrolled spiral across the yard. She didn’t cry out. Again and again, he grabbed the tyre and swung it with the full might of his sixteen-year-old testosterone-filled muscles. All the time he stared at her face, frozen in fear.

The tyre was high overhead when he heard the dull thwack of the rope snapping. He watched as Trudi, slight and fragile, hurtled forward, before she fell to the ground with a thump. She cried out before she hit the ground. But not much.

For a moment panic flared through him. What had he done? Had he hurt her? His tiny little sister? Then it passed. The fleeting moment of frailty vanished, and in its place flowed an enormous surge of power.

He knew even before he reached her, turned her over, saw the piece of wood nailed to her face. He, Edward Albert Nyss, had done this thing. He stood staring down at her as his mind calmed and he decided what had to be done—the steps he would need to take. The way he would have to act, the story he would have to invent. His brain worked it out in a matter of seconds.

He put away his delight, packed it up and hid it. It would be taken out and examined when he was alone. He turned to go and find his mother. To start the process. That’s when he saw her. Edwina. Cowering