Healers Read Free Page A

other women in his life now. He had other fish to fry. He drove off.
    On Saturday night Val McDougal too was preparing to go out. At that point it was all she had in common with Ernie Bowles. Later their names would be linked together, but they had never met.
    Val’s husband Charles was surprised that she had arranged to go out. They had developed a ritual to Saturdays. To relieve the stress, he said, after a week at the grindstone. He worked in the university. Sociology was his subject though these days, he said, it was hardly a thing you owned up to. Better tell the man in the Clapham omnibus that you were a serial killer than a sociologist. Val, who had never known him travel anywhere by bus and had heard it all before, usually managed to contain her irritation. She taught basic literacy and numeracy skills in a further education college, and secretly she thought sociology was a waste of time too.
    On Saturday they got up late. Only one of their sons was still at home: James, who was in the upper sixth and preparing to take A levels. He was a placid, amenable boy who fitted in with them. At least he did his own thing and made no demands. He did not play music late at night or throw up in the garden after an all-night party. Richard, their elder son, had done both these things. Luckily he was now away at university.
    The three of them would have a late and lazy breakfast: croissants bought fresh by Charles from a local bakery and lots of coffee. At midday Val and Charles would walk into the town to a pub by the river where they’d meet a group of friends. The friends were mostly Charles’s. They had clear, loud voices and told jokes about the sociology professor who spent more time talking on Radio 4 than to his staff. The same jokes were told week after week. Charles would drink beer and Val white wine and soda for most of the afternoon, then they would emerge into the town centre to go shopping.
    This wasn’t boring shopping. They didn’t buy toilet rolls or bleach or cat food. Val would get all that from the supermarket on the way back from college on her early night. This was quite different. Late in their married life Charles had taken to cooking, and indeed he was very good. At first Val had been grateful. These Saturday night extravagances were something of a treat and she had enjoyed wandering round Otterbridge with him looking for the special ingredients he needed. But lately the novelty had begun to wear off. His creations were always elaborate and took most of the evening to prepare. He used every utensil they possessed. And because he had cooked she felt obliged to clear up the chaos and load the dishwasher afterwards, though she noticed that he never felt the same obligation after her weekday stews and spaghetti bolognese.
    At breakfast on that Saturday he had asked, as he always did:
    “Well, what shall we eat tonight?”
    She had answered, as casually as she could. “Well, actually I won’t be here. I’ll be going out.”
    “Where?” he asked petulantly.
    “Just to a friend’s for supper.”
    “You didn’t say.” His voice was accusing.
    No, she thought. I was frightened. I didn’t have the nerve.
    “We fixed it up at the last moment,” she said, ‘and I thought it would be quite nice for a change.”
    She realized how lame that sounded, saw that her hands were shaking, wondered even if she would have one of those panic attacks which she seemed to have been controlling better lately, despite Charles’s scorn. He was right, of course. She was quite feeble. But he had a frightening temper and she never liked to upset him.
    “Who is this friend?” he demanded. “Someone from college?”
    “No,” she said vaguely. “I met her on that weekend away at the Lakes. I told you we’d kept in touch.”
    “Did you? I don’t remember.”
    He thinks I’m lying, she thought with astonishment. Perhaps he thinks I’m having a wild affair with a secret lover. She smiled to herself and saw him