rattled. How glad she was to be out of there, out of that mausoleum, and soon it would be forever. Granddad would lie awake all Saturday night. Sunday, he would stride the room. The only person he might possibly confide in would be Mr Milner, his partner in board games, his partner in the plan to ruin her life. If so, let them rustle up the money between them. On Monday morning, Granddad would go to the bank. Monday at noon would come her deliverance.
Poor old Granddad. Part of her could not help butfeel sorry for him. But he should not have been so tight-fisted. He had lived his life. Now she must live hers.
She pulled the blanket tighter. To send herself back to sleep, she pictured all the fairy story towers that ever were.
She dreamed of cobwebs. She dreamed of silken hair flowing into the sky and intertwining with stars. She dreamed of a dwarf grandfather who tore himself in two. She dreamed of being Anna in the play, inheriting a fortune and yet not knowing how to live. Now she boarded a train.
The hoot of her dream train became an owl. She woke, paralysed.
Someone was standing there, filling the space by the staircase. Lucy wanted to speak, to move, to stand up and demand to know, Who are you? But no sound came. She could not move so much as a finger.
When she woke again, the figure had gone. She wondered was it one of those dreams, when you know for sure that you are awake and there is someone there, and yet you must be asleep or you would be able to move your hand. You would be able to speak.
She sat up.
‘Is someone there? Dylan!’
No one answered.
She drew on shoes, and called again, ‘Is anyone there?’ half expecting a dwarf to lasso her with a length of silk, a witch to cackle curses.
She climbed the rickety spiral staircase to the roof of the tower, and stepped out onto its battlements. Beyond the sulky moon a distant haystack made the shape of a witch’s house. The scent of clover floated in from another time, a distant century. Over by thewood, something moved – perhaps a fox going about its stealthy business, or a deer feeling safe in the hour before dawn.
Soon, very soon, her life would begin, properly, for the very first time.
It was a terrible way for a life to end, in a shop doorway on a rainy night. For what seemed an endless time, I waited for Meriel to come back and say the police were on their way.
I walked from the alley to the road where Mr Milner’s car was parked. A couple passed by on the other side of the street, she laughing at his joke. He glanced across, murmuring something to her. She looked at me, a woman alone, loitering. They hurried on their way. It was obvious what they thought.
The night had turned cold. I returned to the alley, keeping my distance from the doorway. Future shoppers and shop workers might sometimes feel a chill as they crossed that threshold where the body lay. The doorway might hold a memory of the dreadful act, and of Mr Milner’s final moments.
It was no use. I had to look again at the lifeless man. He seemed to move. I forced myself to check once more for a pulse. Not a murmur of life, not half a breath. He was cold now. All that remained was a well-dressed shell.
The dagger had pierced his heart. It had entered so deep that only the hilt was visible. The dark bloody stain formed an almost symmetrical pattern. I turned away, and walked back down the alley. Why did no one come?
Mr Milner’s top hat lay on the kerb, beside his car. The slashes to the tyres seemed incongruous. Was it not enough to murder a man without attacking the rubber on his wheels? It struck me as an act of rage, or madness.
I began to shake, and to look all around. The murderer might still be here, in another doorway, out of sight. I should have hailed that passing couple. An odd thought struck me. The murderer was in the car, crouched and waiting, ready to pounce. A small cry startled me. The sound was my own.
Someone come. Someone come soon
. I had seen men
Poor old Granddad. Part of her could not help butfeel sorry for him. But he should not have been so tight-fisted. He had lived his life. Now she must live hers.
She pulled the blanket tighter. To send herself back to sleep, she pictured all the fairy story towers that ever were.
She dreamed of cobwebs. She dreamed of silken hair flowing into the sky and intertwining with stars. She dreamed of a dwarf grandfather who tore himself in two. She dreamed of being Anna in the play, inheriting a fortune and yet not knowing how to live. Now she boarded a train.
The hoot of her dream train became an owl. She woke, paralysed.
Someone was standing there, filling the space by the staircase. Lucy wanted to speak, to move, to stand up and demand to know, Who are you? But no sound came. She could not move so much as a finger.
When she woke again, the figure had gone. She wondered was it one of those dreams, when you know for sure that you are awake and there is someone there, and yet you must be asleep or you would be able to move your hand. You would be able to speak.
She sat up.
‘Is someone there? Dylan!’
No one answered.
She drew on shoes, and called again, ‘Is anyone there?’ half expecting a dwarf to lasso her with a length of silk, a witch to cackle curses.
She climbed the rickety spiral staircase to the roof of the tower, and stepped out onto its battlements. Beyond the sulky moon a distant haystack made the shape of a witch’s house. The scent of clover floated in from another time, a distant century. Over by thewood, something moved – perhaps a fox going about its stealthy business, or a deer feeling safe in the hour before dawn.
Soon, very soon, her life would begin, properly, for the very first time.
It was a terrible way for a life to end, in a shop doorway on a rainy night. For what seemed an endless time, I waited for Meriel to come back and say the police were on their way.
I walked from the alley to the road where Mr Milner’s car was parked. A couple passed by on the other side of the street, she laughing at his joke. He glanced across, murmuring something to her. She looked at me, a woman alone, loitering. They hurried on their way. It was obvious what they thought.
The night had turned cold. I returned to the alley, keeping my distance from the doorway. Future shoppers and shop workers might sometimes feel a chill as they crossed that threshold where the body lay. The doorway might hold a memory of the dreadful act, and of Mr Milner’s final moments.
It was no use. I had to look again at the lifeless man. He seemed to move. I forced myself to check once more for a pulse. Not a murmur of life, not half a breath. He was cold now. All that remained was a well-dressed shell.
The dagger had pierced his heart. It had entered so deep that only the hilt was visible. The dark bloody stain formed an almost symmetrical pattern. I turned away, and walked back down the alley. Why did no one come?
Mr Milner’s top hat lay on the kerb, beside his car. The slashes to the tyres seemed incongruous. Was it not enough to murder a man without attacking the rubber on his wheels? It struck me as an act of rage, or madness.
I began to shake, and to look all around. The murderer might still be here, in another doorway, out of sight. I should have hailed that passing couple. An odd thought struck me. The murderer was in the car, crouched and waiting, ready to pounce. A small cry startled me. The sound was my own.
Someone come. Someone come soon
. I had seen men
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