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smiled back and kicked himself for the stupidest name he could have come up with. Rick Hold?!! From where did that come? And it’s so obviously a pseudonym. He shrugged and attempted at small talk. She agreed to rent him a room – the lodgings were just across the house, and he could eat with them or at her café. He liked the arrangements, and the lady sitting across him. Her house was warm and cosy – wooden panels and couches. But she was lonely – the house practically screamed abandonment. Maybe that’s why she let people stay with her, to combat her isolation. There was no sign of any male presence in the household. It was feminine with comfort and warmth oozing out even from its curtains. He grabbed the key to his room, and shouldered his bag again. He thanked and left. He wanted to ask if there was any source of hard alcohol around – but he wasn’t sure Martha was the right person for that. He walked across the road and knocked at the entrance. A scrawny boy received him yawning widely.
    Jim was in his seven millionth dream when the doorbell rang. He grumbled loudly and let this Rick guy in for his room upstairs. He didn’t conceal his foul mood, city folks don’t value a good night’s beauty sleep. He didn’t even bid him good night, as Rick probed around the room. He stomped to his favourite corner and went back to peaceful slumber. Rick didn’t think too much of the room – the heater was at place, and there was running hot water. The bed was stiffer that he would have liked, but then he hoped he wouldn’t have to sleep long enough here. God knows how he would coax Brooke out in the open to talk to him. He dumped his bag on the table and slumped on the bed. He sighed. It was going to be a while after all, he guessed. Apple Cross, I’m here to stay, he thought to himself. He had to rethink as to why he undertook this journey again, and why he had abandoned it all those years back.
    All those years back . He could still picture Marco carrying Paul away in the wagon. And the fleeting glance that Paul gave him before turning away. He was unnerved. He shuddered every time he recalled those steely cold eyes. It was like a promise that he’d be back to settle scores, and that somehow, Paul was stolen of his award. That Richard stole Brooke away unknowingly. He didn’t want anything to do with the book or Paul after that night – but it never left his mind, those thoughts, that look and all those girls dead. It was like a background score he was trying to get rid of for so many years, till he couldn’t anymore, after his birthday three years back.
    His mind, groggy with sleep, flew in and out of memories. It was a usual cloudy morning – with the hot scones and the cake his sister would always send. She had a funny way of showing affection – which amounted to showing none, however, she was always and always the first to wish him. He had ensured he was alone, or rather Natasha-free before twelve. He hated the judgmental Eve, and Natasha brought it out in her in flying colours. He went through his mailbox, smiling at the letters of old friends – some of the letters were inevitable, and would always turn up on his birthday. At the end of the stack he found a simple coarse paper card with a crude cake drawn on it, no envelope. Strange. He knew no kids who would send him cards or anything at all- he didn’t really gel in well with them. What he found inside was totally unexpected – it had just two words in capitals.
    HAPPY BIRTHDAY
    PAUL.
    And it stopped his heart momentarily. He ran frantically into his house, and slammed the door shut. Panting, he checked the postal address and briskly walked up to his study desk. Somehow the idea of having a gun near him made him feel comfortable. He spent sleepless weeks following that incident, cooped up in his home, staying away from people. It was until days later, when Natasha has knocked some sense into him, that he decided to look into this matter. Without