Lord Rokeby’s Repast – 04

– Good morning! You owe me forty quid in cab fares. Fancy some breakfast?

Sunlight pounded in through a skylight Ophelia hadn’t seen before and didn’t remember owning, as unpleasantly cheerful as a vicar descending upon a hapless and unfortunate lottery winner, collection box in hand. Clearly the situation demanded further analysis. The part about it being morning could be taken on faith, inasmuch as it was no longer night, but the notion that this “morning” might somehow be good was already failing the most basic tests required for verification, not least because of the pounding that had already started somewhere behind her temples, extending backwards and stimulating those parts of the brain whose function is to make one feel like one has motion sickness when one is in fact lying there motionless.

Feel like piglet that has just binged on half a barrel of radioactive sludge, she thought to herself as the remainder of the information contained in Lawrence’s all-too-cheerful opening salvo began to filter through her mental percolator.

The forty quid wasn’t a problem and could be chalked down to expenses, assuming that either of them had had the foresight to ask for a receipt. The ancient and much venerated system of honour-based expense accounting where she worked was in visible decline, nay, death throes that bordered on Am-Dram Grand Guinol of the highest order, but it didn’t matter. She’d rustle up a suitable piece of paper somewhere.

That left the question of breakfast. Ophelia thought about this long and hard but Lawrence beat her to it.

– Fair enough. You don’t have to give me an answer yet. I’m making scrambled eggs. Give me a shout if you feel like having any.

From the depths of muscle memory Ophelia summoned up a sickly smile then rolled over and pulled the duvet over her head.

Think: Lawrence is here and appears to be cheerful. Did anything untoward happen last night? Check clothing for signs of tampering. Hmm. Bra and panties. Matching, thank God, and no sign of having been disconnected. Probably copped a feel as he was helping off those pesky outer layers but nothing worse. A panicked thought: do forensic scientists know how to commit crimes without leaving clues? Not that Lawrence knew anything of forensic science, computers were his thing, but still…

Her thoughts continued in this ramshackle way, skirting round the obvious and taking little pain-fuelled detours into tangential territory, while the scent of heavily tortured eggs wafted gently upwards like mustard gas making its way through nomansland.

– I’m making them to my own secret special recipe,

she heard him call.

– A dash of tamarind concentrate and plenty of chile oil. Helps to keep me regular.

he added helpfully.

Despite the perplexing but pleasing sense of artificial domesticity (which she could get used to all too easily) there still remained the nagging sense that all was not quite tickety-boo in her life at present. The spectre of something unpleasant was lurking in the shadows at the back of her mind but the nature of the beast remained elusive. It is probably nothing, Ophelia decided. My priority right now is to ignore this headache with a vengeance and hope it gets bored and goes away.

With that thought uppermost and comforting she curled into a little ball under the duvet and went back to sleep.

TO BE CONTINUED…