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Ritual, 1969 [two stories]
105
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