Trafika Europe 9/10 - UK in Europe

Ritual, 1969 [two stories]

they were here?’ 
‘Who-oo?’ she said thinking guiltily of the little ghost. ‘The owners. You said they’d be back for the holidays.’ Had she said such a thing? Even sober it was hard to keep track of all her lies.
 He was watching her face, waiting for an answer. ‘They come and go,’ she said. ‘Like little ghosts.’
 He laughed.
 ‘You’re funny,’ he said. ‘I missed that. I missed you.’ This was too much. She rose to her feet, swayed for a second, then walked, her upper body tipping forward perilously, from the room.

Upstairs, she collapsed on her bed fully clothed, then passed out. In the night she drifted in and out of waterydreamsandat times awoke to the sounds of rattling pipes and gurgling water. At dawn, with her bladder full and her head throbbing, she tiptoed to the bathroom, relieved herself and drank handfuls of cool, clear water from the tap. The house was silent and still, the door to his room was closed. He had said he missed her, she remembered; that she was funny. He’d laughed and smiled and lit the candles and put on that mysterious and strangely seductive music. She stood in the hallway gazing towards his room. Should she go in there? Silently climb onto the bed beside him? But there was no soft duvet to lift

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