The fur coat (standard:horror, 2096 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Jun 09 2009	Views/Reads: 3973/2620	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Why would it be advisable not to wear this coat?

As they drove away, the expression on their faces darkened and became
serious. In the rear-view mirror, they watched as the Riordan country 
stately home slowly became smaller, until a turn on the path took it 
from their sight. The party continued there, but other people had left, 
and some were getting ready to leave as Mr and Mrs Stockton approached 
the open gates to leave the estate. “Why didn't you stick up for me?” 
said Beverley, “You could see I was struggling”. “There was nothing to 
say,” said Dean, turning out onto a country lane, the lights of the 
Bentley eight Mk2 penetrating deep into the darkness. “Nothing to say, 
there's plenty to say. You can never be bothered, that's your problem, 
leaving me there like an idiot, while her ladyship in there witters on 
about how great her son is. How he owns a car insurance company in 
Barcelona, and is looking to open another branch in the south of 
France. This is the same person, who I was gladly told, was once in a 
country and western band in Finland, and got to number three in their 
charts in 1986. He then went on to marry the woman who came sixth in 
Finland's national beauty competition in 1989. After that, he put on 
his business brain, and look where he is now. Obviously she asked how 
our Kenneth is. Obviously I couldn't tell her he was serving three 
years for fraud, so all I could think of was that he was travelling in 
Asia with his wife”. “Well, it's not that big a lie” said Dean. 
Beverley glared at him for a few seconds. “Yes, it is. I don't like 
lying, but I suppose I had good reason this time”. 

Dean and Beverley were 69 and 67 respectively. They could easily have
been called upper-class, but just about. The house party they were 
returning from was thrown by a friend of Beverley's, the occasion being 
their grandson's eighteenth. They had a direct bloodline to royalty, 
and Beverly was convinced she had also, but didn't. She thought there 
was some connection there, after tracing her family tree to find that 
her great-great grandfather was a friend of the royals. He was however, 
unknown to her, unrelated. With her delusions and aspirations, she 
dressed and acted rather aristocratically, but Dean was hardly any 
different, he just had more sense of reality, but was happy to let 
Beverley revel in her illusions, as he knew better than to interfere. 
They were a bickering couple. Everyday there were a few disputes, but 
nothing major. 34 years they had been married, and bickered before 
then, even arguing on their wedding night, sleeping in separate beds. 
Their happiest time was the honeymoon, bickering only four times in two 
weeks in Naples, Italy. However, upon their return, things progressed 
slowly on a downward slope, not enough to think of divorce, because 
like so many long-lasting couples who argue regularly, there was a deep 
underlying love and respect for each other, the seal that kept them 
together for so long, but neither of them could ever show it. They were 
the type of couple when in public would present a façade of 
camaraderie, of closeness, laughing and smiling together in the company 
of friends, and even strangers, but when back on their own, they would 
return to normal. Their bickering however, did not constitute the 
majority of their marriage. It was approximately a third. Another third 
was simply tolerance, an acceptance of each other. An acceptance of how 
things were. The other third was genuine affection for each other, 
concealed in the dark recesses of their minds. “Anyway, nevermind our 
stupid son,” said Dean, “What about that coat you're wearing. How much 
did it cost?” Beverley gave a loud sigh of despair. “We've been through 
this, I've told you, it's a nice coat, I wanted it so I bought it. We 
can afford it, or have you forgotten?”. “Eight hundred and ninety-five 
pounds” said Dean. “Eight hundred.......and ninety-five pounds. For a 
coat”. “Yes, so, what's your point?” “You could have bought one at a 
bloody charity shop”. “A charity shop! Do you think I would ever be 
seen in a place like that? When have you ever known me to go inside a 
charity shop? And anyway, do you they would sell this? Do you know how 
rare this is. This is genuine white Siberian tiger fur. Do you know how 
many of those tigers it took to make this? Four. So do you think they 
would sell this in a charity shop? I don't think so”. “If someone took 
it in they would”. “No, it would be taken by one of the staff”. “What 
happened to your love of animals?” said Dean, entering an empty 
roundabout, and taking a left onto a motorway slip-road. “As much as I 
love animals,” said Beverley, “Who is going to miss a few tigers who 
nobody ever sees anyway. If they disappeared off the face of the earth 
tomorrow, who would notice? Would it affect you? No.  So why not use 
their fur to look nice for an occasion?” “Yes, how many times are you 
going to wear it?” “Plenty of times actually. Now that it's approaching 
winter, I'll be wearing it more, and showing it off, so don't give me 
that”. There was silence in the vehicle for a few minutes. “I think it 
was good night all round though,” said Beverley. “Yes, even though you 


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