The Ax

by Donald E. Westlake

Being in bed together is grim. We don’t touch. We don’t acknowledge each other’s presence. The lights are off, and because today’s cloud cover has continued, the night is very dark, and we lie here next to one another like parcels to be delivered, and for a while I can’t sleep. I don’t know if Marjorie’s dropped off or not, I only know that I am awake, and my mind turns this way and that.

The judge, a disgruntled bald man whose head seemed too heavy for him to hold upright, listened and spoke and looked at papers and passed papers on to the verger at the little desk down to his right.