The Sunday Times – Part 1

Isabell turned for one last glance at her husband. Peacefully asleep and completely oblivious. Now was her chance, she’d had a few over the years but none like this. The night was roaring with possibilities. It was half-past-ten and time to go.

He awoke to the sound of the neighbor’s builders. They’d been working on some kind of monstrous renovation since God knows when. Enough was enough – time to put them straight. Rob slammed his fist on the nightstand as he got up. He hurried outside, around the front, still in his pyjamas.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

The drilling and banging continued.

“I said,” he walked closer, “It’s 7am and some people like to sleep, can’t you keep it down on the weekends at least?”

But no one replied. It was the way of the world really, he thought. People are selfish – they care only for themselves and their own ambitions. He picked up the Sunday paper and wandered inside for a coffee. He sat in the little nook his wife set up by the window. It overlooked the trees in the garden and allowed just enough light in to keep you warm and send you off to a summer island for a few moments.

After getting stuck on a particularly difficult crossword question he sat up abruptly. Where the hell is Isabell?

Isabell picked up her ticket from the airport concierge and checked in her bags. She smiled as she walked through security. Everything was finally falling into place. Soon enough she’d be in New York, wandering through central park and soaking up Broadway. Watching the city fall asleep from the top of the Empire state building. It would be perfect.

Roberts eyes glazed over as his thoughts turned to Isabell. Anything could have happened. Where is she? What if something horrible had happened? Had he slept through an emergency phone call? He ran to check his messages – nothing. He scratched his head and started pacing. Had she been kidnapped? Oh God, he thought, what is she’s been beaten on her way home. What if she’s lying in the bush somewhere bloody and bruised? A tear fell down the side of his worn cheek.

She couldn’t have gone anywhere on her own. There’d be a note. After eight years of marriage – there would be a God damn note. He dialled 000, his hands were shaking.

“Hello? What’s the situation?” A deep voice asked.

“My wife, my wife is gone. I was supposed to wait for her to come home. I usually do…”

“Did she leave a note?”

“Of course not you idiot! You don’t think I already checked?”

“Ok, Ok Sir. You need to stay calm.”

“How can I be calm? The love of my life has vanished into thin air. She’s vanished, just gone. For all I know she’s walking around in a nightmare right now. Would you be calm?”

“I understand, but we can’t file a missing person’s report until at least 24 hours have passed. What time should she have been home?”

“I don’t know,” he was pacing again. “Eight, maybe nine o’clock?”

“I’m sorry Sir, but you’ll just have to wait.”

Robert was disgusted. How could a stranger be given so much responsibility over other people’s lives? Who determines who plays God?

To be continued….

© Celsie Richardson 2016

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