Where Shadows Follow

1. A MAN OF HABIT

“It is no more effort for a man to be a saint than to be a sinner; it becomes a mere matter of habit.” 

A Man of Habit - Jerome K Jerome

“What does he think I am? A plaything that he can use whenever he wants?”

All through the journey, this petulant thought had pestered her, a buzzing wasp that refused to let her sleep as the train hurtled across echoing bridges. When it drew into the station, she knew precisely what she was going to do.

She blew into her hands, her overnight bag slung over a shoulder, her eyes searching for the one face she hoped to see. Would he be there, or would he have decided not to come, given the spat they had had over the phone. He had slammed the phone on her; cut her off, as he could not slam his mobile phone. She had felt the anger that simmered within him, in his voice, in his clipped words and in the way he chose not to reply to her direct question.

“So, are you going to divorce her?”

That had been the end of their conversation.

The cold bit into her bones as she walked briskly towards the exit. Hailing a cab, she gave the driver directions to a cosy homestay that she was rather partial to. She put her head on the cushioned back rest to have a nap. It would take her more than an hour to get to her destination. Once she was on familiar ground, she would be able to figure out her next step.

The room was as luxurious as she remembered it. He had never stinted on her expenses. She was as necessary to him as his breath itself. He looked younger and happier when he was with her, but the only time he steeled himself against her was when she asked him to divorce his wife. His wife who looked older than him, with shadows under her eyes, clad in clothes that were exquisite but did not quite suit her. She had been a stenographer when he married her and no one could fathom what he saw in her, especially as he had a roving eye and preferred his dates young and svelte.

The woman sat in the room, musing. She needed to do something drastic so that he would react, something that would hurt him enough to take that one fateful step. She had unpacked her little bag and placed her favourite authors by the side table. PG Wodehouse and Jeffrey Archer. There was nothing more she liked than losing herself in their pages when she needed a laugh, or a thrill. Pages, because she could not stand the idea of reading from a device.

Her mind flitted back to the last argument.

“I cannot divorce her just like that!” his constant refrain. “I loved her once and she is the mother of my son. I will do nothing to jeopardize his future.”

The woman knew that she was walking on eggshells.

A knock sounded on the door. It was the weather-beaten detective she had hired to scrabble around his past to see if she could use anything to her advantage.

“Good evening, madam!” the detective’s voice rasped, and she winced. His voice grated on her already overwrought nerves.

“Good evening,” she replied, pointing to a chair.

A cup of tea arrived soon after as he opened his file and took out a sheaf of papers that she delved into with eagerness.

At the end, she looked at him with disdain.

“There is nothing here that can help me in the least. I had told you to dig up some dirt on him and his relationship with his wife. This is pure drivel!” she snapped, disappointment making her voice sharper than usual.

“Madam, I did the best I could. Unfortunately, there is nothing more. He has not done anything that he needs to be ashamed of. He obviously loves his wife and worships his little son. He has only had one indiscretion after marriage…!” his voice petered away, as she nodded curtly. She was his only indiscretion.

She went to bed in a foul mood. She had hoped the raspy-voiced detective would have had something of use to her.

The next day dawned and she awoke, her mind bustling with ideas. She needed to provoke him into action. Maybe, she would go over to his office and startle him. He was not expecting her. Or, she could go to his house and meet his wife. That would really shake him out of his apathy.

She dressed with care, aware that she looked young and beautiful. On an impulse, she dialled his number, and he picked up on the first ring.

“Why are you calling me now?” His voice was brusque, a note of tension in it. She smiled inwardly. In a few minutes he would be even more so, if she had her way.

“Guess where I am calling from?” she replied gaily.

“Don’t tell me you are here.”