Green Grass by Raffaella Barker Page A

including those in Norfolk, the doctor sensing a need in his patient to rant for a while after such an undignified accident. By mid-afternoon, Inigo is in recovery, and vocal in his desire never to set foot in the countryside again. Making the sitting room his salon, Inigo lounges on the sofa, his mobile phone in one hand, the television remote control in the other. Next to him, a laptop computer teeters drunkenly on a cushion while his new toy, the digital camera, records what it can see of his recovery from a tripod. The faded paper on the walls, the sagging scant curtains as much as the ash heap in the fireplace make an unlikely backdrop for this nerve centre of modernity. Inigo has made the most of his surroundings. He has readjusted the furniture, arranging a chair to put his feet up on, a table for a mug and a plate and the television all within easy reach of his sofa. Lying there he swigs whisky from Hedley’s hip flask between telephone calls, and with Dolly’s assistance is now working on the lighting.
    His phone trills; he reaches for it. ‘Hello, Jack? Inigo here. I’m in Norfolk, we should be backtonight … Yes, I know it’s Saturday. I’ve been thinking about
Death Threat
—’ He breaks off, waving his arm wildly. ‘No, not there, Doll, now there’s a lampshade frilling over the motor racing – anyway, Jack, are you there? ARE YOU THERE?’ He hurls the phone into heaped cushions beside him. ‘No proper signal here. Why is everything done so badly in the country? There’s no need for it, it’s just acceptance of incompetence.’
    Laura, trying to read on the other side of the room, shuts her book. ‘Inigo, we’d like to stay here until Sunday. There’s so much for the children to do, and I’ve hardly seen Hedley, or got anything sorted out with Tamsin. And most of all, I really don’t want to go back tonight.’
    The phone cuts through her words and and Inigo dives to answer it. Grinning, he sprawls, listening to Jack. ‘That sounds good – well done … No, I haven’t been running today. I thought I’d give myself a break because I’ve got sodding holes in my face … Yeah, some sort of feral beast called a ferret. I’m thinking of making an installation including a stuffed one and calling it
Death Threat II
, but I’m worried it would be a bit derivative.’
    Laura returns to her book, jaw set, determined that she will not be coerced into going home a day early because Inigo is bored and wants to show off his warwounds. She turns the page, her hand trembling, angry blood rushing, burning her cheeks. Outside is the answer, and a walk, or else she won’t be able to contain her annoyance and she’ll start a row with Inigo.
    Dusk is falling as she walks down through the garden and out onto the marshes, the Labrador Diver at her side, his nose down, vacuuming the evening scents as he goes. The fog has lifted, and the last gleam of afternoon sun is a primrose wash across the western sky. Above and below, sky and sea reflect a purple haze, deepening fast as the light fades. The cold air sears Laura’s face, exhilarating and fresh, cooling her thoughts, mending her temper. She thinks back over the past months. These moments of despairing panic are becoming more frequent, more intense. She has a sense of suffocating, a need for air, for space to breathe. When did life become so stultifying, and why does she feel like this? It’s not the children, they’re difficult, but not yet impossible, Laura thinks, remembering Tamsin. They are in a lull before the hormone storm of teendom breaks. It isn’t even really Inigo, although it is always tempting to blame her own lowness on him. But he’s always been demanding and egocentric, and she has accepted it, lived with it and learned to use it as a shield to keep herself out of the limelight. Inigo’stemperament makes it