Waiting For Michael. Kathy Sr. Sampson

Michael was undeniably home, and drunk as usual.

      Estelle felt faint. This wasn't possible! He couldn't be on his original flight - he was already here! Michael seemed as unaware of this fact as he was oblivious of most of his surroundings. He did, however, spot Estelle and acknowledged her presence with a nod of his head and a scowl which said: "Good, you're here. Just as well."

      She extended a limp wave and a smile which quivered at the extremities. Everything was going wrong. The wonder cure had failed and the disease survived unabated. There was nothing left but to go with the flow and, maybe later, something might occur which would help to salvage the ruins of what had been a good plan. Although unknown to him, the treachery she continued to foster brought on a wave of irrational guilt. In a rather hasty act of penance, she attempted to push his trolley for him, only to be repulsed by an irritated shove and a sour grunt.

      They continued the trudge across the parking area, a funeral march in slow, moody silence. If nothing else, it confirmed he was tired, a small bonus. That might help to mask his awareness of her dismay and if he slept all the way home as he generally did, it would give her time to digest the indigestible.

      At the car, Estelle unlocked first the passenger door, then the rear door on the same side and swung it open. Michael glared. "Why'd you do that? Do you want me to sit in the back, for Christ's sake?" Although his speech was slurred, his indignation was clear enough and it was very obvious that he was primed for an argument.

      A cloud of spirit-laden breath wafted over her and she tried not to recoil visibly. "No, Michael. It's for your case."

      "What's the matter with the boot, then?"

      Wasn't it typical? Any other time...! "Nothing, Michael. It's just that you always put your case on the back seat."

      "Well, a man can change his mind, can't he?"

      Her heart was beating its way up into her throat. "Of course you can." If he sees my case, he'll start asking questions. Then he'll probably go berserk. My only chance is to do it myself. She stepped up to him and bent to take his case.

      "What'd'you think you're doing?"

      "Putting your case in the boot where you said you wanted it. You must be tired__"

      "Don't you mean pissed? That's what you mean, isn't it?" He slapped her hand away, picked up the case, heaved it effortlessly onto the back seat and slammed the door. "Bloody woman!" he snarled as he flung himself onto the front passenger seat. "Just get in and drive!"

      Dazed and confused, Estelle was unable to think clearly and drove automatically, drawing on the experience of frequent trips, mostly the same as this one. Michael seemed unaware of her pre-occupation as he continued to berate and insult her. She tried to respond in ways that wouldn't aggravate him further because she was already in enough trouble. God only knew what would befall her when he discovered his suitcase and passport were missing!

      It would be comforting to believe that he expected them to have already been collected as arranged – by Keith Dunbar, probably. If so, he might just check to make sure, then collapse on the bed and sleep until morning, knowing that everything was set for him to assume the identity of George Truscott when he was good and ready. This extremely flimsy hope was based on the premise that many of her former assumptions had been wrong. And it was foreseeably too convenient with more holes than last month's pantyhose.

      As if reading her thoughts, he asked whether anyone had called. She gave him a brief run-down of messages people had left, purposely omitting the last call taken. His next question was laced with accusation. "So, Keith didn't get in touch, not once?"

      Estelle’s heart skipped a beat. He would find out anyway, so she had to tell him about Dunbar’s call without making it seem that she’d tried to keep it from him. “Yes, sorry. I forgot. He caught me as I was leaving.”

      Anger became tangible and built as he took in the details of the brief telephone conversation. He appeared stunned. Estelle hadn’t been looking at him, hadn’t dared, but the prolonged silence was so unexpected that she had to check to see if Michael hadn't, perhaps, passed out - it was too much to ask that he'd had a heart attack and died! He was, unfortunately, very much alive and staring through the windshield with his mouth open. Then his head snapped around and he was glaring at her, eyes wide and glistening. "Nothing else? That was all he asked?"

      "He didn't say any more, just hung up."

      Michael went quiet again, then hissed: "Bastard!"

      My sentiments entirely, thought Estelle, but she was fairly certain that their mutual dislike of Michael's business partner was for very different reasons. Silence filled the car once more, as oppressive as the one between warbles while waiting for the imaginary bomb to explode in the phone. Finally, he broke it with an order. "Pull in there!"

      There was no need to ask: "Where?" His arm came across to indicate a tavern on the right. She braked hard and signalled, then had to wait in the centre of the road until the traffic cleared, a delay which Michael blamed entirely on her lack of road sense. Finally, she was able to drive into the car park.

      Michael had the door open before they were stationary. He unclipped his seat belt and leered at her. "I only need to go to the dunny, so don't go giving me that puritanical, temperance look!" Climbing out, he added: "I'll be five minutes. Keep the car running!"

      The slam of the car door still ringing in her ears, she watched him stagger across the bitumen and in through the door of the public bar. It seemed to confirm that he merely needed to use the toilet – under any other circumstances, Michael wouldn't dream of rubbing shoulders with the hoi-polloi. She pulled into a marked bay and waited.

      He was out in ten minutes, not five, but Estelle had no intention of arguing the point. As he approached, he looked strange and she couldn't think why, then she noticed his waistcoat. There was a bulge of material on the right-hand panel, as if he had missed a button-hole when doing it up. As he came closer, the initial observation proved to be correct. This was puzzling because his dress was relatively neat when he'd arrived at the airport. If he just wanted to go to the loo, why the need to undo his waistcoat? It didn't make sense. So, what was new?

      They drove out of the pub car park. Michael said: "Move it!" So she did. Deciding it was time for a cigarette, he fumbled the pack out of his pocket, but managed to drop it on the floor. Only too used to his short fuse, Estelle offered to pull over and pick them up for him. "I can manage!" he snapped, far more aggressively than might have been expected, even for an obnoxious drunk. "You're here to drive, so bloody do it! And keep your flaming eyes on the road! You nearly killed us back there!"

      Did not, she thought, but remained silent, keeping a furtive eye on him as she drove. Seemingly far less capable than he had claimed, he rummaged around on the floor for a considerable time, then rose, wheezing and breathless. Instead of lighting a cigarette, he returned the pack to his pocket, then leaned his head against the window and went to sleep. Funny, she thought. Don't knock it, Estelle: asleep is better than abusive.

      He was still snoring when they arrived home. Estelle had to nudge him and he awoke with a start. No sooner had he gathered those few senses remaining to him, than he was out of the car and heading for the side door of the house, searching his jacket for keys as he went. He was in so much of a rush that he not only forgot to take his suitcase, but also his duty-free bag. For Michael, to forsake what in the past had been almost a ritual, was tantamount to sacrilege. Drunk, or very drunk, he never forgot his duty-free's, never! “Bugger!” Now he’d dropped his keys.

      With Michael becoming more irritated by the second, Estelle’s continuing safety was fragile. The soft light from the street was welcoming. Should she embrace it now while he was grovelling on the floor, run before all hell broke loose? But that would only alert him to something very wrong that he didn’t know about yet. And how far could she get on foot? The decision would have to be made quickly - the roller door would close by itself in less than a minute. Another warning bell rang in Estelle's head. If she didn’t go now, she would need to soon enough. The door had to remain open to preserve any chance of escape. And it would come to that, no doubt of it. Judging by his reaction to Keith Dunbar’s phone call,