The meanest Flood

But I don’t think you’ve found somebody else. I try to work out what’s dragging at you, see how the job is making demands on you. A person can only be spread so thin. When you’re not there for me I hold my breath and tell myself to be patient. Tell myself you’ll be back when you can make the space.’
    ‘I was out of order,’ he told her. ‘If you’re not seeing some other guy I’m the happiest man alive. I’ll take you dancing, whatever you want. I’ll try to like Robbie Williams.’
    She pushed him and he fell over backwards, spilling water on his shirt.
    ‘Shit.’
    ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
    Sam got back on his knees. ‘No. I’m wet.’
    ‘As in drip?’ she asked. ‘Or d’you mean like feeble?’
     
    Angeles had gone upstairs and he could hear her running the bath water. He loaded used cups and glasses on a tray and carried it through to the kitchen. He put the crockery in the dishwasher and wondered for a moment if he should take it out again and wash it in the sink. He could see why she needed one, being blind. It must save some angst if you couldn’t see, knowing that things weren’t piling up on the draining board.
    But Sam believed in washing up. It was one of those things; he didn’t even know that he believed in washing up until he discovered dishwashers everywhere. Seemed like everybody had one these days. Old-age pensioners living by themselves, with only a bowl and a spoon and a cup with Mother on it, had dishwashers. Families had them. Couples.
    That’s what you did these days. Everybody was too busy to wash up. Unless you were poor; then you had plenty of time.
    He flicked the remote towards the TV, caught the late news. But his mind was not focused. It had been a long day and he was coasting in neutral, letting his brain wander among images that touched his life. His useless journey that morning, Katherine being found murdered in Nottingham, Angeles upstairs getting into the bath, a crazy guy kicking him in the balls, the river rising. The voice on the television was talking about the economy, how the government needed to cut the interest rate.
    Sam switched the lights out, left one lamp lit in the sitting room. He slumped on the couch and watched the flickering images on the box, waiting until Angeles had finished in the bathroom. A coach carrying a party of school children had run off the road in northern Spain, tumbled into a ravine. A rescue party were bringing small broken bodies back up to the road and covering them with blankets. The driver had thrown himself clear and was sitting in the back of an ambulance with his head in his hands.
    Sam frowned. He flexed his shoulders and sat up, leaning forward to inspect the new image on the screen. It was the public house, the Taps. Top of North Lane in Headingley, the very place he’d been that morning.
    The voice-over was saying: ‘Police were called to a house in the Headingley district of Leeds tonight where the bodies of a man and a woman are believed to have been discovered. Neighbours were alerted when they noticed water flooding out of the house.’ The image cut to a close-up of the face of a middle-aged man with a bald head. He looked into the camera and said, ‘There was water seeping under the front door. It was as if the house was full of water and it was coming down the step and running into the road.’
    Another shot of the Taps and then the camera swung into North Lane. Sam saw the house he had been to that morning and across the road, almost directly opposite, there was the familiar yellow scene-of-crime tape that the police used to isolate the area they wanted to keep uncontaminated for forensic investigation.
    Sam was on his feet. The reporter on the spot was signing off. He said, ‘The police are treating the deaths as suspicious and just a few minutes ago a spokesman said that it was obvious as soon as the bodies were discovered that a horrific crime had been committed. The names of the deceased will not be released until the next of kin has been notified.’
    He looked at the screen again, blinked as the image shifted back to the studio. The newscaster was smiling and announcing that a celebrity couple - cut to a photograph of the woman in a scanty dress; a man with blond hair, his arm protectively around her waist - had decided to separate in order to devote more time to their respective careers.
    Sam picked up the remote and hit the kill button. He went to the phone and keyed the number