Ten thousand, perhaps. Twenty, even. Anything you like? Take it, please. Take what you want.” All her refinement vanished in the presence of this terrifying wretch.
Charlie laughed. “I have no need of possessions, Mrs Evans, no need at all. Mere paper and plastic, metal and wood, hold little interest for me. No, I’m more interested in flesh and blood. Heart and soul. Mind and spirit. They define who we are, not the oddments we surround ourselves with!”
Flesh and blood, thought Joyce, her mouth dry, palms sweaty. She could think of nothing to say or do that might alleviate the situation, end it, return it to a subject less pathological. She begged with her eyes, an imploring gaze, that the torment be swiftly resolved, whatever that ending might be. Good or bad.
“There is another thing I like, Mrs Evans.”
A painful silence ensued.
“And... what might that be, Mr Cromwell?”
“Surely you remember!”
Joyce thought furiously, not wanting to offend, but her mind was empty, uncooperative.
“Home cooking! Do you remember?”
Joyce sighed, nodded.
“Especially the orange sauce we had last time!”
The relief Joyce felt overwhelmed her, but shivers still danced in her bones. “I’ll get the recipe for you, if you like,” she said, turning and heading for the door. Any excuse to leave! Then she realised it was Thursday afternoon, Gloria’s day off, and the recipe unattainable. I could telephone her! Or, pretend to call her and call the police instead! Had this wretch known of Gloria’s absence? Had he been watching? She shivered involuntarily, stopped, turned, said in a pathetic tone, “Sorry, Mr Cromwell. I don’t have it. Could you come back tomorrow?” While I call the police and arrange to have them waiting here for you?
“That is a shame.”
Am I to be punished now? She inched backwards, towards the door.
“Where are you going, Mrs Evans?”
She stopped, shook her head, “Nowhere.”
“That’s good. I like your company. I’ve enjoyed these little chats. It’s a shame about the orange sauce. Mrs Evans, I must leave you now, and shan’t, I don’t think, be back. But, before I go, there is one, more, thing I must do.”
This is it. The end.
“Come closer, Mrs Evans.”
Joyce shuffled reluctantly forward.
“Closer...”
Joyce stepped to his side, deafened by her beating heart.
“There, there,” said Charlie, taking her hand and stroking it gently. “There is nothing to fear.” Charlie moved frighteningly quickly.
Joyce stepped back instinctively, cowered slightly.
Charlie dropped her hand, embraced her as if she were his own mother.
The butt of his knife dug into her side.
She went limp, almost fainted.
Charlie hummed, squeezed her tight, stroked the back of her head with a powerful hand. “When I’m gone,” he said, seconds, minutes, hours later, “When I’m gone, think only this of me... Wealth is the parent of luxury and indolence, and poverty of meanness and viciousness. And both of discontent. We have a certain Mr Plato to thank for that. Shall we thank him, Mrs Evans? Together? Shall we?”
Joyce nodded. Her hair ruffled on the collar of the mackintosh he wore despite the heat and made a scratching sound that itched the teeth.
“There, there, Mrs Evans. There, there.”
When Joyce had no more tears to cry, Charlie disengaged her, held her at arms length, stared deeply into her eyes, holding her gaze. “Goodbye, Mrs Evans,” he said, smiling. “Time to go.”
This is it!
“You won’t see me again, but you won’t forget me, either. I hope. Remember, its never too late to change ones ways, Mrs Evans. Its never too late...”
In the blink of an eye he was gone.
Monday saw Joyce Evans shuffling into town, collar drawn tight against a brisk wind. The streets seemed cleaner, somehow, dazzling in the bright sunshine. She looked behind her frequently to make sure she wasn’t being followed, jumping at the slightest sound, giving a wide birth to anything even remotely suspicious. But there was never anybody there. He was never there.
“Hello,” greeted Mrs Deems, making swiftly for her coat when Joyce entered the shop. “I’ll be off now, then. Let you get on, is it?” The plump old lady waddled towards the door.
Joyce stared not at her but at the far bookshelf as if hypnotised. There seemed to be a face hovering upon the torn spine of an old tome; a familiar face, frightening yet... endearing? Mindful? “Would you care for a cup of tea and a chat, Mrs Deems? I’ve brought some biscuits?”
# # #
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