Her body tensed as the door was flung open. ‘Bloody hell, where’ve you been?’ John boomed as he strode on long legs towards her. He pressed a hand into the small of her back, the fingers of the other pawing at her décolletage. She didn’t resist, nor did she encourage him. His jacket was cool as the snow outside, and the tip of his nose as it brushed hers felt like the pointed end of an icicle. She shivered and turned her face away. ‘John, we need to talk.’ ‘In a minute. First we go to bed.’ He pushed her towards the four-poster that he had paid for. A writhing Christ looked down with distaste from a wooden crucifix on the wall. Margaret closed her eyes. He was rougher than usual and the act gave her no pleasure. He fell asleep straight afterwards and Margaret left him snoring in the bed. She poured water from her jug into the porcelain bowl on the washstand and cleansed away his stickiness. Then she rang the bell for coffee, which she took at her writing desk in a niche on the other side of the room.
What do You think about A Donation Of Murder (2016)?
