Ricky stares vacantly at the brown patch of damp on the living room ceiling, mind blank, concentrating only on the tightness of his chest as he draws in the smoke, holds it for a second within, exhales through flaring nostrils.  The rain hammers persistently on the concrete walkway outside the front window, the odd gust driving an occasional harsh spattering of fat droplets against the glass.  He listens to the rustle, mutter, and sigh of Tammi sitting cross-legged on the floor before the coffee table, sorting through the letters she’d been to the Post Office that morning to collect.

She mumbles incessantly, dividing the post into piles, deciding what’s worth opening, “Junk.  Junk.  Half price sofas.  Do I want a credit card?  Have I been injured at work?”  Here, she stops, snorts mirthlessly at a private thought, and continues, “I really should go more than once a month…but it’s always ninety per cent crap!”

Ricky grunts assent.  He never gets any post.  He’s way too far off the radar, and that’s how he likes it.

“My God…”

The tone of Tammi’s voice rouses Ricky from his somnolent contemplation of the ceiling.  She holds a good-quality envelope in one trembling hand, staring at it as if it contains something lethal; the last-remaining sample of the smallpox virus, sent to one Tamise Rivers in a thick, cream envelope with a crest on the back.

“What’s that?” Ricky asks.

He can see her balancing whether to tell him, and detects the split-second in which the decision to remain silent is made.

Ricky wants to know about that envelope with the crest.  He struggles to a seating position with some difficulty, ancient sofa springs creaking expressively as he turns, metal squealing abrasively on metal, inadequately-supported upholstery hindering his movement within its capacious embrace.

The envelope transfixes her.

He smiles around the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, reaches slowly across the table, and suddenly clamps his fingers firmly to either side of her jaw.  He pushes inwards until she winces and tries to pull away.  The rod of iron that is his reaching arm holds her in check.  As he squeezes he can feel the shape of her skull, the indentation where teeth meet gum.  A tiny pant of pain escapes her.

He growls, “I said ‘what’s that?’”

With effort, Tammi’s mouth forms a moue against the pressure of his fingers, and she mumbles indistinctly, “Mmmmfff.”

Ricky enjoys the titillation of her palpable fear, but knows he’ll release her – because he wants to hear the explanation.  He holds onto her for a slow count to twenty in his head before letting go abruptly.  Her hands fly to her face, gentle fingertips massaging her aching cheeks.  She opens and closes her mouth, checking it still works the way it’s supposed to.

When she eventually locks eyes with him again, her stare is pure poison.  Ricky’s baby blues are as ingenuously empty as ever, his countenance blank, betraying no hint of what goes on behind the mask.

Quietly, he demands, “Well?”

“It’s just a letter.  Probably more junk.”

She turns her face away quickly.

“I disagree, Tam.”

Anger administers a sudden shot of reckless bravery, “What if I don’t think it’s any of your business?”

“Well, that’s different.”

Like a cobra striking, the arm shoots back out, only this time it isn’t her face but her windpipe he’s grasping.  She grabs ineffectually at his wrist, only half-heartedly pulling because she understands the foolhardiness of determined retaliation.  However alarming, it’s better to let him strangle her for a little while.

Conversationally, as he crushes her neck and restricts her breathing, he murmurs, “Tam.  Everything’s my business, isn’t it?”

She croaks, “Yes, yes, let go, let go,” pulling at his sleeve.

He smirks and eases the pressure, but doesn’t release her.  There’s still a little bit too much fight in her for that.  He pulls slowly on his cigarette, withdraws it from his lips with his free hand, and threatens her cheek with the burning end, watching her pupils focus and fixate fearfully on the smouldering butt, before sniggering and stubbing it out casually in the overflowing ashtray, continuing to squeeze her gasping throat. 

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