It’s getting light. That grey, dusty sort of light before morning breaks. I hope it’ll be sunny. Sleep’s slipping back with the comfort of the dark. And the eiderdown must have slipped too because I’m freezing. No, that’s not it: I’m wet. And there’s that stench again. I can hear Him now – there’s a thin rattle in his chest and his hot breath is in my ear. Gently I try to turn on my side without waking Him. The bedclothes squeak across my thigh and stick to my nightie – the pretty nightie with the pink flowers. Day after day of washing it has faded the pretty little buds to mild coppery stains.

I can see the window from here – the frugal light’s tracing trees into the horizon and the spire of the church is rising from the valley. It’s not going to be sunny.

The morning air is filling with nervous sound. Bubbling pigeons in the eaves. The mordant tick of the carriage clock. The rattle of his breath into the back of my head. I can feel Him behind me – I’m sure his eyes are open now, but I’m going to stay looking at the grey dawn. I’d forgotten the flowers. The vicar brought them round. Even those look grey and washed-out in this light. And the sickly smell of roses is mixed with his pungent piss. And something worse.

“I’m sorry dear…”
Still I don’t turn.

I try to concentrate on the floral smell. I try to concentrate on the skeletal forms on the hills. I even try to concentrate on the laboured in-out of this sickening breathing. And I force myself not to hate Him.