Chapters (156)
- A DATE WITH DEATH
- Also by Mark Roberts
- A Date With Death
- Copyright Page
- Contents
- The Past
- 1977
- Day OneWednesday, 1st December 2021CatoptrophobiaFear of mirrors
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6
- 7
- 8
- 9
- 10
- 11
- 12
- 13
- 14
- 15
- 16
- 17
- 18
- 19
- 20
- 21
- 22
- 23
- 24
- 25
- 26
- The Past
- 1979
- Day TwoThursday, 2nd December 2021OneirophobiaFear of dreams
- 27
- 28
- 29
- 30
- 31
- 32
- 33
- 34
- 35
- 36
- 37
- 38
- 39
- 40
- 41
- 42
- 43
- 44
- 45
- 46
- 47
- 48
- 49
- 50
- 51
- 52
- The Past
- 1980
- Day ThreeFriday, 3rd December 2021MonophobiaFear of being alone
- 53
- 54
- 55
- 56
- 57
- 58
- 59
- 60
- 61
- 62
- 63
- 64
- 65
- 66
- 67
- 68
- 69
- 70
- 71
- 72
- 73
- 74
- 75
- 76
- 77
- 78
- 79
- 80
- 81
- 82
- 83
- 84
- 85
- 86
- 87
- 88
- 89
- 90
- 91
- 92
- 93
- 94
- 95
- 96
- 97
- 98
- The Past
- 1982
- Day FourSaturday, 4th December 2021ThanatophobiaFear of Death
- 99
- 100
- 101
- 102
- 103
- 104
- 105
- 106
- 107
- 108
- 109
- 110
- 111
- 112
- 113
- 114
- 115
- 116
- 117
- 118
- 119
- 120
- 121
- 122
- 123
- 124
- 125
- 126
- 127
- 128
- 129
- 130
- 131
- 132
- 133
- 134
- 135
- 136
- 137
- About the Author
- An Invitation from the Publisher
The gravel grated against the tyres of her father’s car and, as he pulled up to a sharp halt, she knew that things were not good.
The driver’s door swung open and her father got out of the car, slamming the door shut as he did so. His mouth was moving as he fumbled with his house keys, making his way to the front door.
She watched the Bentley as her father opened the door, stomped inside the house and threw the door back after himself.
Slowly, the back door of the car opened and her mother stepped out on to the gravel. Even from the height of her bedroom window, she could tell that her mother had been crying.
Mother was dressed in a fur coat and hat, wearing flat, black shoes and a green skirt; she knew her father had spent a lot of money on the clothes because he often repeated the same phrase to her mother – sometimes in anger, sometimes not – your outfits are costing me an arm and a fucking leg.
Mother leaned into the back of the car and, after a few moments, she emerged with a small wicker basket, which she carried towards the front door.
She looked down from her bedroom window into the top end of the basket and saw a ball of pink flesh. The baby’s face. Her brother. Her brand-new baby brother. All the uneasiness rose from her and was replaced by a sense of awe and wonder.
In her head, a picture she had seen of Jesus walking on the water flashed through her memory and, as she watched her mother bringing the baby closer to the house, she said to herself in a brittle whisper, ‘It’s like a miracle…’
The house was filled with the sound of the doorbell as her mother rang to be let in.
‘Don’t fucking talk to her, Mrs Doyle! Don’t say anything nice about the baby or I’ll fire you on the spot!’
‘Yes, sir.’
She crept at speed to the top of the stairs and watched Mrs Doyle walk to the front door, her stomach dancing as a net of butterflies was unleashed inside her.
Mrs Doyle opened the front door, stood to one side as her mother stepped into the house with her baby brother in the basket, and closed the door.
Her father walked past her mother and the baby towards the door and flung it open again.
‘Where are you going?’ asked her mother.
‘I’m going to register its birth at Brougham Terrace and then I’m going back to work.’
Her mother placed the basket down on the ground and lifted the baby out.
‘Look at him. Look… at him! He’s the spitting image of you,’ said her mother.
‘Not looking, not listening!’
On his way out, her father closed the door with the same sour energy that he had opened it.