Byron's Timing

He woke with a jolt. The alarm was slowly beeping, the glow-in-the-dark hands visible in the half light read 6am. She was still asleep, snoring softly and lying on her side, one hand tucked neatly under her cheek. He pressed the button sharply and slipped out from beneath the covers.

He’d had that alarm clock for 40 years. The same length of time that he’d been married. On the opposite bedside table sat a miniature version - a ‘ladies’ version - which was covered in a fine layer of dust and read the wrong time. Her alarm clock hadn’t worked for years. ‘Why would I need it now anyway? I’m retired! You might never call it a day at that damned University, but I for one am going to start taking it easy.’

He walked through to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Steam rose as he stared at himself in the mirror. 40 years without one slip up. One disloyalty. He’d never even thought about it before. He ran a hand over the grey stubble on his cheek and stepped into the shower.

Ten minutes later, as he cycled through the empty streets, he thought back to the first lie he’d told her. ‘The swimming club?’ she’d asked ‘Oh of course I think you should go for it darling.’ It had tripped off his tongue so easily and was all the more believable for the fact that he had been semi-pro in his youth. She was thrilled for him.

He reached for the bell and thought about when it had started, three months ago. She’d stood waiting next to the statue of Bryon, looking worried and uncomfortable. Her neat grey bob was tucked behind her ears and the flashing silver rings on each of her fingers had caught his eye as she pushed her tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of her nose. She was a mature student (‘very mature’ she had murmured sheepishly, over coffee) and she had got lost looking for her seminar room.

She opened the door and took his face in her hands.

Early that evening, when he arrived back at the house, it was in darkness. ‘Jane?’ he called as he shut the front door behind him. ‘Jane?’ He walked straight through to the kitchen to check for a note, expecting to see a message in her handwriting, large and scrawling – ‘Nipped next door to see Iris, back soon. J xx’ or ‘Popped to shop, won’t be long. J xx’. But there was nothing.

He walked to the sink and ran the cold tap, half-filling a glass with water. And then he noticed the deckchair at the end of the garden, facing the back fence. He rinsed the glass and placed it on the draining board, then opened the back door with a sharp click. ‘I thought you were out’ he called to the back of her head as he strolled down the flawless lawn.

She didn’t move. ‘Darling? How was your day?’

His stomach started to knot. She knew. He drew level with the chair and turned to face her. A book lay open on the grass, pages fluttering in the wind, beneath her dangling hand. ‘Darling?’ She stared straight ahead, her face odd-looking, a blank mask.

He took her hand and it was ice-cold. Panic rose in his chest. He shook her, gently at first, then forcefully, manically. She slumped forward, eyes still open, unblinking. Deep in the house, her alarm clock began beeping.