The Late Husband (excerpt) – thriller novel
The Late Husband is my forthcoming novel.
The large foam-covered microphone has BBC Radio emblazoned across it. The studio clock reads 3.45. Howard should have been back from Cornwall three hours ago. Thus, he’s late. And Howard is never late. He is Mister Reliability. But I can’t give head space to him right now. I’m in this studio for Sky Watch with Doctor Goodwin, my contribution to the Sunday Show. I’m on air in less than five minutes.
The Sunday Show itself is broadcast on national radio from BBC HQ in London and has one of the biggest radio audiences in the UK. I however, am in a modest studio in Bristol, so will make my contribution down the line as they like to say. This means there’s no one in the studio with me, but I can see Ellie, the dim but nice intern, waving at me through the glass, gesticulating for me to put on my headphones, or cans as BBC employees inexplicably call them. Donning the cans I can hear Robson Jon, the shows presenter introducing an Ed Sheeran track. Ellie’s voice cuts in to ask me what I’ve done today. She isn’t remotely interested, but simply needs to sample the loudness of my voice and check I’m on the right microphone.
‘My husband seems to have disappeared. He was due back from a week in our holiday cottage but–’
‘Thanks!’ she butts in, not having listened to what I said. ‘Rob will be coming to you when Ed’s finished.’ She says it like she’s a personal friend of Ed Sheeran.
While Mr Sheeran is singing about the shape of you, my mind wanders to what could possibly have happened to my husband. He failed to send the promised text this morning informing me of his anticipated ETA in Bristol. A text he unfailingly sends when leaving our cottage near Polruan. Having not received the text I, after a suitable period of time, texted him:
Have you left Cornwall yet? If not please update me on your ETA.
The fact I have had no reply doesn’t compute. Howard finds it impossible to leave texts unanswered. And being also a creature of rigid habits, he would certainly have stopped for his toasted teacake and cup of tea at Kernow Traders on his journey home. He would have gone through his texts and e-mails on the phone, while waiting for the butter pat to melt and soak into said teacake. Ergo; something is wrong. Or as I like to say, Houston we have a problem.
The red transmission light flicks on informing me that the studio is now live. I struggle to put my notes in the right order before Robson gives me my cue by asking what star-gazers can expect to see tonight.
My brain freezes. I forget where I was meant to start. Can’t find the right place in my notes. I umm and ah for a painful second, until I remember about the Aquariid meteor shower. Thankfully that gets be back in my groove, and I go on to discuss the positions of Venus and Mars in the night sky. This segues nicely into an update on my own research.
‘Exciting news this week as the Mars Xplorer has confirmed the presence of water in the Juneau Crater,’ I tell the listeners.
Even Robson seems impressed by my headline. ‘Really? That’s awesome!’
‘It’s not on the surface,’ I add, ‘but rather at a depth of fifteen centimetres.’
‘Actual water that you could actually like drink?’ Robson gasps.
‘Well it’s more like sludgy icy rock. But it’s H2O nonetheless. Bit like a smoothie in consistency.’
‘A smoothie? Wowsers. Smoothies on Mars, everyone!’
‘Not recommended for drinking unless ingesting silicates forms part of your diet.’
Robson grunts, seemingly unimpressed at my witticism.
‘It would need to be filtered and refined a little before drinking,’ I say, ‘but it means astronauts on a Mars mission won’t have to worry about water when they land. There’s plenty of water on Mars, and it is relatively easy to access.’
A different voice crackles in the headphones, ‘Can we wrap this up now please?’ It’s the programme’s producer in London. ‘We are late for Sports Round-up.’
I ignore him, determined to finish my point. ‘Meaning we are one step closer to establishing a permanent colony– ’
Robson cuts me off. ‘Thank you very much Doctor Goodwin for bringing us up to date with the very latest from Mars.’
The red transmission light goes off, so I don’t even manage a goodbye to my listeners. I press the talkback button and moan to Ellie that I’m supposed to have ten full minutes.
‘I know,’ she says, ‘but Gardening over-ran…’ She gives me a sympathetic look through the glass.
I have to stop myself from telling Ellie-through-the-glass, that my husband really has disappeared and the least the BBC could do, would be not to cut me off just as I was getting to the salient point. Why don’t they let me overrun? As if Gardening and Sports Round-up, are more important than colonising Mars.
‘Is everything okay, Doctor Goodwin?’
‘Yes, fine thank you,’ I say forcing a smile and gathering up my notes. She intercepts me on the way out. ‘Have you heard anything yet, from Science Unit.’
I stop and give her a hopeful smile, ‘Not yet.’
‘Well fingers crossed,’ she says. ‘If you land a TV job, they won’t dare cut you off.’
‘Indeed.’
When I arrive home, my heart sinks. The gravel driveway in front of our Georgian semi-detached is lacking a certain Audi. I park my own car and check my phone yet again. Nothing from Howard. So I send another text.
I am becoming concerned as to your whereabouts. Could you get in touch please?
I sign off with a blue heart which I hope might encourage a response.
I don’t use red hearts. Too sentimental.
