First complete draft (18,414 words). Some itallics missing.

Hilary's Last Week

by Joe Baker


Chapter 1 - Previously

Somewhere in the English countryside, corroded pipes creaked as the morning sunshine lent its heat to their metal. In a dusty cellar, mice scuttled across the floor, hugging the walls and the shadows. The only human sounds were the turning of pages and the occasional scratch of a pencil. Out in the garden, butterflies chased each other through the bushes. It was a peaceful scene, if you buy into that sort of thing. Then the front door opened and two men, dressed in black, stepped out carrying a pinewood box between them. They loaded it into the back of their long, shiny black car and closed the rear door. Then they drove off at ten miles an hour.
'Did you know this one?'
'No. But the wife knew the nurse.'
'Was she sick?'
'No. The nurse was for her husband. Some crazy old fart. She was all right, though, she said.'
'Where's the husband?'
'Probably put him in a home now.'
'It's a shame. Hope you never end up that way yourself.'
'You've got to.'
'No. Not for me. I'd rather go quick. A bullet or something.'
'Or in your sleep, like her. Anyway, put your hat on. We're nearly there.'

* * *

Lowering her sunglasses, Ooma Peterson put down her orange juice and picked up the ringing telephone.
'Hello? Giles. How are you?'
'Very well,' came the reply. 'I've got some good news about the house.'
'Wonderful. Have they accepted the offer?'
'They settled for twenty thousand below the asking price. You've made an absolute steal.'
'That's super. So is it ours now?'
'Not quite yet. A few forms for me to fill out. I'll fax over everything you need to sign this afternoon. But I must say, you've done frightfully well. In a few years’ time the land alone will be worth twice the price you're paying.'
'That is good.'
'It'll need it bit of gentrification. But you already know that.'
'Quite.'
'Yes. Well, I won't keep you.'
'Goodbye, Giles.'
'Bye, Ooma.'
Ooma lay back on the sun lounger and looked up at the hazy blue sky. She and Pat didn't need the house, but agreed that it was a good place to invest some of his money. Property was doubly hot at the moment, Giles had told them. And, what with it being in such a splendid location, it would be good for the odd free holiday. Not that she had ever worried about money since she married Pat. The two of them were off to the Caribbean next week and had already decided to ask her sister, Hilary, to house-sit in the new place. Their only child finished school at the same time and Hilary could look after her, too.
Ooma sat back up again and reached for the phone. She was so happy about the house and this good news needed to be shared.

* * *

Cynthia Snapcase was comfortably well off. She had inherited a little money. She had married a substantial amount too. At present she drew a reasonable wage from several of the better sort of glossy women's magazines where she worked as a "fashion consultant". In practice, this meant that she kept going to all the most exclusive parties and shows, but now did not have to pay for the outfits she wore to them. At home her wardrobes looked as though a fabric-eating monster had vomited into them. Today she was as elegantly dressed as ever, in pencil skirt and chiffon blouse that showed off her new breast implants. She had the typical arrangement with her undersexed husband, but a particularly unpleasant encounter involving two waiters and a pot of caviar meant it was necessary for her to lie low for a few weeks. She had been toying with the idea of a nervous breakdown when a phone call informed her that Pat and Ooma had just bought a new pad in the countryside. So be it. She was to do a feature on rural living.

* * *
Hilary Saint-Ben was at her kitchen table making another list. She sipped weak, milky tea as she wrote down all the things she would need for her time in the countryside. Sunblock, instant coffee, books to read, her reading glasses, one of those little spectacle repair kits, aspirin, condoms, enough food to last until she found the nearest supermarket. She filled five pages in her notebook and then went back, crossing out all but the most essential items. No point in over-doing it. It wasn't as though she was going on safari. There was young Jackie to think of, of course. It was at least a year since she had seen her, and it would be good to have someone young with her. Children always enjoyed the countryside. They could pick flowers together.
Her sister hadn't given her much information about the house except its address and how many rooms it had (twice as many Hilary's own house). Ooma never was one for details. The main thing was that it was out of the way and in a beautiful county.
With plenty of encouragement from Francesca, she had invited John. Unfortunately, that meant constant worrying from now until Wednesday. On the plus side, with a bit of luck, it would mean romance from Wednesday onwards.

* * *

At the kind of private school that prides itself on the size of its fees rather than the quality of its teaching, Jackie Peterson sobbed away in his bedroom. He had been granted the privilege of his own private study after parents complained about their sons having to share with a girl. The headmaster had been involved and, since all of the housemistresses had refused point-blank to take him in, Jackie had been given one of the spare rooms in the teachers' wing of the school. Life as an eight-year-old transvestite was never going to be easy, but the new arrangement had its compensations. Use of the staff bathrooms was one of these and it afforded Jackie some extra privacy.
Wiping his nose on his sleeve, Jackie patted the keys under his tunic and hopped off his bed. The masters would all be asleep by now. The coast should be clear. Tip-toeing to the door he eased it open and closed it behind him with exaggerated care. His stockinged feet made only the faintest sound on the carpet as he padded downstairs and along the corridor to the common room. He unlocked the door and closed it behind him. He was at home in the dark room and quickly threaded his way between the seats and empty bottles to a glass-fronted cabinet set into the far wall. As usual, the key had been left in the lock and Jackie's fingers trembled only slightly as he prised open the door. An array of bottles stood before him. They were his only companions and chief confessors since the departure of the school chaplain.
Selecting a sweet sherry for tonight, Jackie picked up a dirty glass from the counter and filled it half way. Gulping it down, he felt it scald his throat before the warmth of the liquor seeped up from his tummy to his head. Just in case, he poured himself a little more. Knocking it back and wiping his face with his dirty sleeve, he replaced everything as it had been and returned to his room, now certain of a peaceful return to sleep.

* * *

Somewhere in the English countryside, in the undergrowth, the moist earth below it, the pale Moon overhead, a creature rolled lazily onto its back, legs pointing at the sky. It stretched and yawned, revealing long, yellow canines. Its ears were tattered and its fur was missing in patches. Responding to some inner signal, it span round onto its feet. Keeping its head low, it started to pace through the bushes, moving closer to the house. A small, broken bell hung from its neck by the tattered remains of a collar.

* * *

Chapter 2 - Sunday

Hilary had rehearsed the week so often in her mind that it had started to invade her dreams.

Sunday morning: Tidy own house. Leave note for milkman and keys with neighbours. Drive to supermarket and stock up with provisions to last the first week or so.
Sunday evening: Arrive in the gorgeous countryside and decant the contents of the car into the house.
Make bed and fall into it exhausted.
Monday and Tuesday: Spend the days getting the house presentable (enlist Jackie's help when she arrives). Use any spare time getting to know the area and find out if there are any romantic country lanes to walk with John. The evenings could be reserved for reading a selection of topical, high-brow books in order to have something to talk about over dinner with John.
Wednesday: Wake early, eat a very light breakfast and await John's arrival.
Rest of the week: A whirlwind romance and lots and lots and lots of sex (with John).

These had been her plans, her dreams, her destiny. In reality it had not gone nearly so smoothly. Sunday morning had not gone too badly, in the end. True, she had overslept and then took the best part of an hour to pack her clothes, but she had been out of the door by noon. Then she had found out that, whilst the supermarket was doing a BOGOF deal on cheap champagne, they had completely run out of KY. After driving her VW back into the town centre to the chemist's - luckily no one she knew saw her - she was on the way North by two o'clock. The journey had been neither quick nor easy. When she finally arrived at the house (having stopped to ask the way at two petrol stations and a village pub) it was nearly ten o'clock. The front door had been bolted from within and she had to get in through the side door. After making it upstairs she decided against unpacking the car and simply passed out on one of the beds.

* * *

Chapter 3 - Monday

Monday morning came with a cacophony of birdsong at around six o'clock. A combination of cockerel's crowing and doves cooing and heaven-knows-what else had forced Hilary awake. Never mind. She wasn't planning on sleeping much after John arrived. Have slept awkwardly, her neck needed patient massage before it would allow her to stand up straight. After dressing in Sunday's clothes she made her way downstairs. In the cold light of day she saw that the house was not quite as Ooma had described. Her words had been "rustic and olde worlde". What this translated to in practice was "a tip." Paint peeled from the walls, moisture stained the ceilings, light fittings hung from the walls by their wires. And they were sending their daughter here? Hilary decided to put off screaming until she had unpacked the car.
Dragging her suitcases into the hall, Hilary wondered if she would have enough time to get the house the way she wanted it to be, the way she had imagined it, before John arrived. She had two days, but experience had taught her that time flew when she had a deadline. She went back to the car and lifted out the cardboard box that contained her groceries. An oily residue on the inside of the boot reminded her that she had bought perishable goods the day before. The milk and steaks might be fine, but the butter had probably had it. Setting the box down on the corner of the kitchen table, she felt the vertigo of a woman behind in her schedule. Most of the food looked fine and she put it away in the refrigerator, leaning behind to switch it on. The machine made unfamiliar gurgling noises as its pumps and valves restarted. As she had feared, the butter had become a soft puddle in the bottom of the groceries. She also binned the cheese, which looked a bit sweaty. Being in the kitchen she decided to start the cleaning there. Donning a pair of yellow washing up gloves, Hilary opened a packet of scourers and soaked one with cleaning fluid. She started to scrub.
An hour later and the kitchen looked a lot better. Whilst it wasn't gleaming, you could at least see every surface and there were no more coffee rings or grease stains on the counter. She snapped off her rubber gloves and took up a chamois and some furniture polish. The dining room was already quite tidy and a once-over made all of the woodwork shine like new. She had a quick look through the cupboards, finding plates and cutlery. That was a relief - she didn't want to live on finger food for the rest of her stay. Putting down her chamois, Hilary looked to see what else was there. Under the stairs, amidst a pile of old newspapers and mouldy coats, she found an old vacuum cleaner and a feather duster that had begun to moult. The vacuum was one of those with a face on it. Its expression made Hilary distrustful. She took it into the kitchen, banging its face into a chair and knocking it over. She opened its plastic skull and found that its brains had been removed, in so far as there was no bag, just a lot of loose dust. Another thing to add to the shopping list. Hilary decided to get some fresh air.
Hilary took a long hard look at the garden and abandoned her plans for an al fresco dinner. Straw-like strands of yellow grass covered most of the lawn and scratched her feet through the holes in her sandals. The rest of the lawn looked like some sort of moss. In the middle, surrounded by potted plants and swamped by ivy, was an old statue. It looked like a redundant Greek goddess with one guano-covered arm raised towards heaven. Picking her way around the back she found that there had once been a pond behind the house, in view of the kitchen. A thick ring of scum around the brickwork and concrete showed how much the water had been reduced by evaporation.

* * *

Jackie was the only pupil left at the school after term had finished. All of the others had somewhere to go, but he had to wait a couple of days until his aunt got to the house where he would be staying. The school felt eerily quiet without the usual screams and taunts of four hundred under-stimulated children. It seemed to Jackie like a theatre between performances, or an empty sports ground.
His form tutor found him sitting in the library.
'The taxi's here, Jackie. Have you got all of your bags packed?'
'Yes.'
'Okay. Let's go then.'
As the taxi pulled away, the tutor waved to Jackie who merely pressed his small hand to the window.

* * *

Looking at the road map in the light of day, Hilary could easily see the route that she had taken. The house was not, as it had seemed late at night, so far from the nearest village. Only a couple of miles, at the most. Those miles had been populated with sharp turns and potholes. She was relieved to have got her car through in one piece. Ooma's directions had been vague, of course, but no sense in worrying about that now. Hilary realised that she was dotting the map with dirt and went to take a shower.
At first the house's plumbing refused to cooperate and she had to open, analyse and finally kick the boiler to make it work. She drew the shower curtain around her and let her mind drift in the steam. As Hilary stepped out of the puddling shower she noticed the mildew. It seemed to coat everything with a six o'clock shadow of fungal blackness. One more thing for the shopping list. Hilary gave her towel a cautionary flick and wrapped it around herself. She would dry off in the bedroom.

* * *

The throb of the engine had put Jackie to sleep but he was woken by the strong, regional voice of the taxi driver.
'I said we're nearly there now.'
Jackie sat up but didn't reply.
'I do a lot of these runs. Kids from your school. Amazing. All that money and parents don't have the time to drive their kids. I expect you'll be glad to see them when we arrive.'
'My parents are on holiday.'
'Who's looking after you then?'
'Aunt Hilary.'
Miles of fields passed by outside the car windows.
'Sometimes I envy you kids. Sometimes I don't.'

* * *

Hilary was putting her rubber gloves back on when she heard a car horn outside. She pulled the gloves off and dropped them on the hall stand on her way to the door. A grey-haired man was pulling bags out of the boot. He looked up.
'Expecting a Jackie Peterson?'
'Jackie.'
Hilary went over to the car and opened the rear door. Jackie slowly stepped out and straightened his tunic.
'Give your Aunty Hilary a hug.'
'I'll be off then,' said the driver.
'What do we owe you?'
'It all settled with the school. Take care Jackie. Hope you have a nice time.'
The taxi did a three-point turn and headed off.
'Let's get your bags inside, hey?'
Jackie let his aunt pick up his bags and lead him indoors. The house was quite big, with high ceilings, but smelt strange, like the school changing rooms at the start of term. His bags were left in the hall and Hilary put the kettle on for tea.
'I'm afraid we've got lots of cleaning to do before John gets here.'
'Who's John?'
'He's a friend of mine who'll be arriving on Wednesday and I want to get the house looking neat and tidy before he gets here.'
'Okay.'
After finishing their tea, Hilary and Jackie put on rubber gloves and started cleaning out the space under the stairs. They bagged up the clothes and newspapers and left them outside the kitchen door.
'It stills smells funny under there,' said Jackie.
'Then you'll just have to sleep in one of the rooms upstairs,' Hilary replied, tousling Jackie's hair.
'Okay,' said Jackie.


* * *

They stuck at the cleaning until Jackie complained that he was hungry. Hilary agreed. She made bacon sandwiches for lunch and served them with a tossed salad. If Jackie didn't like the food she showed no signs of objecting.
'Did your school give you any work to do over the holidays?'
'Yes. I have a project to do on science.'
'What's that about?'
'We have to find something to write about.'
'Do you know what you're going to write about?'
'I don't know yet. Maybe plants.'
'That sounds very interesting.'
'Do you know about plants, Aunty Hilary?'
'Not much, I'm afraid. What sort of things do you want to know?'
'I'm not sure. How they grow. What flowers do.'
Hilary felt a couple of decades float away from her and suddenly she was a small schoolgirl caught out by the teacher.
'I'm afraid I don't know much about that sort of thing. Botany was never my strong point.'
They left it at that and continued to munch on in silence. Once lunch was over, they took up their sponges and once more resumed the operation of making the house presentable.

* * *

'What's this?'
Hilary looked to where Jackie was pointing. She had lifted a rug in the corner of the kitchen and was pointing at a trapdoor. Hilary left the sink and went to look.
'Well... that rug will have to go. It's filthy.'
'No. Under it.'
'There must be a cellar underneath the floor.'
Hilary lifted up the trapdoor and peered down. There were steps leading down, but the rest was lost to the darkness.
'Can I have a look?'
'It might be dangerous.'
'I'll be careful.'
'Okay. But take the torch. And be please careful.'
'I will.'
Jackie switched on the torch and lowered himself onto the wooden steps. Carefully, he made his way down, shining the torch all around him. Suddenly, when he got to the bottom, a striplight came on over his head.
'I've found the light for you,' his aunt shouted through the hatch.
Jackie squinted around and saw that the cellar was only a narrow room – smaller than the kitchen. Around the walls were shelves covered in dusty bottles. It was an ordinary wine cellar and not the dungeon-cum-grotto that he had hoped for. He prodded piles of rags and papers with his foot but nothing of interest fell out. Under one of the shelves was a large metal box that scratched his hand as he levered the lid open. It was an old tool box and, inside, what wasn't covered with grease was covered in rust. He picked out an old bottle and tipped it up to read the label. White and brown goo flowed out and onto the floor, covering Jackie's shoes. When he saw what he had done, he decided that he had had enough of cellars for the day.
'Aunty Hilary?'

* * *

Hilary had wondered what the matter was when Jackie hurried out of the cellar, but a pointed finger led her to the cause of the alarm. As a child who had grown up in a very practical family, Hilary was not shocked by the sight of a pair of paint-stained shoes, but it was obviously a cause of great distress to Jackie.
'I can't wear shoes covered in paint, I can't'
'Don't worry about it.'
'But I can't...'
'We can always get you some more tomorrow.'
Hilary had hunted around for some white spirit but had ended up giving the offended shoe a wipe over with some rags from under the sink. Eventually, Jackie calmed down and they were able to get some cleaning done. Between them, they made quite a good team. Jackie went along with the duster and scooped up all the cobwebs and bits of detritus that clung to the walls and Hilary followed behind, scrubbing with a wet sponge. By the middle of the afternoon, they had got most of the house looking presentable. At least good enough for jazz, as Hilary's ex- would have said.

* * *

The rest of the day was a drudgery of domestic gentrification. Hilary and Jackie sponged and dusted and disinfected the bulk of the house, saying little to each other as they worked. Hilary was a woman consumed with her task. Jackie was used to the lack of conversation and did his best to keep up. By supper time they were both exhausted and Hilary fixed a simple pasta dish for dinner. They ate mostly in silence, with the odd exchange of information about Jackie's school. At nine o'clock Jackie went to bed at his own behest and left Hilary alone in the sitting room.

* * *

Hilary switched on the light in the kitchen, which flickered angrily before complying and filling the room with warm light. Her muscles ached in places long unused. Compared to what she had done today, the washing up would be light relief. She filled the kettle and set it going. Passing her hand under the hot water tap, Hilary was at peace. Few people look forward to washing up, yet Hilary found it the most relaxing of all the household chores. Dusting meant ungainly stretching; gardening was hard on her knees and proved ultimately thankless. But to submerge her hands in warm water and wipe away the day's mess always left her feeling supremely relaxed and clear-headed.
Her hair fell forward as she got stuck into scrubbing the frying pan.
'Jackie is such a sweet child,' she thought as she picked a stray sliver of onion from the spatula. 'Hardly like her mother at all.'
At home, Ooma had always been the focus of their parents' attention and it had left her self-absorbed and vain. Jackie seemed the total opposite: so interested in the world and always asking questions. Hilary's latent parenting instincts made her wish that she had been able to answer more of them. She was not stupid, by any stretch of the imagination, but her work left her with little time for current affairs. She had not read anything about science since school and felt at a disadvantage for not having done so.
Hilary had always been the responsible one, excelling at school, whilst Ooma had gone off the rails at fifteen and hit rock bottom at eighteen when she was thrown out of school and into prison on a drink-driving charge. But no sooner had the lucky bitch been paroled than she was shacked up with a millionaire and being first rehabilitated and then introduced into society. Now, in the eyes of the world, she was a paragon of modern womanhood, if somewhat gaunt. Those intervening years had left Hilary financially secure, but divorced, childless, overweight and wondering where her next orgasm would come from. Being called “aunty” didn't help. Sexy young go-getters don't get called “aunty.”
A noise outside the window made her look up again. The night was dark and she could barely see the trees in the garden. Her reflection in the glass looked back at her. All of a sudden, her reflection was joined in the window by a pair of malevolent yellow eyes. The surprise made Hilary lose her balance and fall back, heavily, against the kitchen table. In an instant of blind fury, she hurled her dishcloth, which slapped noisily against at the window. The black cat turned and vanished into the night.
Hilary pulled herself upright and, holding her bruised hip, limped upstairs to bed.


* * *

Chapter 4 - Tuesday

A small nose was twitching in the undergrowth. Small paws were turning a crumb so that little teeth could gnaw at it. Miniature ears twitched back in response to a quiet noise. The noise stopped - all was silent. A flash of black fur and yellow claws and the small creature was gone. All that remained were a few stray hairs. For some, breakfast comes early.

* * *

Jackie adjusted his tunic and pulled his green school jumper over the top. School had finished for the summer over a week before, but his parents did not have the foresight to send his clothes to the new house. Despite his small frame, at eight years old he was fiercely independent (with the exception of alcohol, on which he was wholly dependent). His round-framed eyeglasses magnified his chestnut eyes to frightening proportions and these he had now donned. Had he bothered to look in the dressing table mirror he would have seen that his bob-cut hair was dishevelled by sleep and his highlights had grown out by a good inch and a half, but it was the summer and he didn't have to worry about his appearance.
Preparations for his holidays had begun, as ever, in his absence. Whilst Jackie had been studying for the end of term exams, his parents had decided to invest in a country house that was, in the parlance of estate agents, a "home improver's dream". Thus, in a series of hasty phone calls from airports on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean, Jackie's mother informed him that his Aunt Hilary would be looking after him in the new house "which you're bound to love, Jackie darling."
Jackie made his way downstairs, half hoping that his aunt was still asleep.

* * *

To Jackie, the kitchen was much like the one in the staff wing of his school. He only had to root around in the cupboards until he had everything he needed for breakfast. Everything, that is, except for the knowledge of how to transform the ingredients into food. Eggs were easy though, weren't they? He'd start there. He hefted a large frying pan up onto the stove and pulled a chair over from the kitchen table. Right. What to do now? He cracked an egg on the outside of the pan and watched as the contents slid gracefully off the work surface and onto the floor. Obviously there was a knack to be acquired. After one more attempt he managed to get an egg, plus a few pieces of shell into the pan. Then there was the question of heat. He knew that that was an essential part of cooking and had only to figure out the controls. Luckily for all concerned, it was an electric stove and Jackie had only to turn a few dials before something glowed red and he placed the pan above it. After what seemed like a long time the egg began to sizzle.

* * *

In the potting shed, beneath a pile of sacking, something stirred. It then rose up, coughed and spat into a corner. This something was known as Charlie. He raised himself to his feet and brushed the dust from his faded corduroys. Charlie was the gardener and this was his shed. When he was first engaged to look after the lawns and shrubberies he was a happily married young man with a house in the village. He would cycle to work early in the morning with a packed lunch strapped on his pannier. His life had been perfect - in his eyes at least. However, after an unpleasant incident in which his wife had called the police, he had been forced to move into the potting shed. His employers, if they had noticed, did not mind this change. He kept his bicycle clean and every day leant it against the wall in a different position - for the sake of appearance. His own appearance certainly showed a lack of feminine attention and his hair grew long and lank over his grimy collar. That he had not starved was thanks to the housemaid, who brought him the odd plate of lunch, and a small vegetable garden that he cultivated behind his shed, out of sight of the house. After the incident with the police he had become persona non grata in the village pub and so made do with a foul concoction distilled from fermented fruits, vegetables and sugar stolen from the kitchen. Whilst this in part made up for the lack of a toothbrush by sterilising his mouth, its flammability had claimed his eyebrows on more than one occasion. Now he only drank it by the light of his bicycle lamps.
Charlie stretched, to the sound of his joints clicking, and took up his pruning shears.

* * *

Hilary woke, showered, dressed in jeans and came downstairs to find her niece standing on a chair at the stove.
'Morning, dear.'
'Good morning, Aunty Hilary. Would you like some eggs?'
'Not just yet, thank you, Jackie.'
'I've made some coffee over there,' Jackie pointed with an eggy spatula.
'Wonderful. You're a god-send.'
Hilary pursed her lips as she smelled the coffee and sat at the kitchen table.
'What are we going to do today, Aunty?'
'Don't call me Aunty. It's just Hilary, remember?'
'Okay... Hilary. What are we going to do today?'
'Well. We need to get this place looking decent.'
'More tidying up?'
'Yes. Sorry. And then we can drive into the village for milk and food.'
'And clothes.'
'Of course. Some new clothes for you. How could your parents send you here without any clothes?'
'Mother's not very good at organising things.'
She never has been, Hilary thought. After a brave effort to drink the undrinkable coffee, she took over the responsibility of cooking from Jackie.

* * *

The rest of the morning was spent in checking over the house and making sure that all was ship-shape. Hilary gave Jackie instructions to “look out for dust and tell me if anything smells damp.” Jackie took the opportunity to have a rummage around, but he found nothing of interest. At eleven o'clock Hilary deemed it time to venture into the village. With only a little apprehension she loaded Jackie into the car and set off, map balanced on her knees.

* * *

Up in his attic study, surrounded by dust and pipe smoke, the professor adjusted his glasses upon his nose and tried to concentrate on his book. Whilst he was always used to the gentle murmur of conversations echoing up the chimney stack to his book-lined haven, things seemed to have got worse in the last few days. Too much noise altogether. And, to top it off, he could not remember the last time he had eaten. Pretty soon he was going to have to fetch some food for himself. Can you imagine? As though he did not have more important things to worry about. His research, the fruit of decades of detailed study, had been his sole preoccupation for so long now that he hardly gave thought to anything else. Washing, sleeping, nourishment - all these had taken a back seat. Particularly so, now that he could feel his work coming to its fruition. All the same, a somehow distant grumbling - which he took to be his stomach - kept pulling him back to matters of the body. He had a few bottles of Malvern water that Alice had brought up during a run of dry heat, but man was not built to run on water alone. Just give it a few more hours and then he would see what was keeping Alice.

* * *

Hilary turned off the engine and she and Jackie got out of the car. The village seemed quiet for a Tuesday morning. They seemed to have the street to themselves, apart from a cat that lay dozing on a bench. Overhead, the sky was filled with tall white clouds.
'Hold my hand, Jackie.'
They walked a short way up the road, past a row of houses, until they came to a newsagent's. Stepping inside felt like taking a trip back in time. The shop was like the one Hilary had visited as a child to buy sweets. The wall behind the counter was filled with jars of confectionery, the prices given in imperial measurements. The wall nearest the door had wooden racks going up to the ceiling holding magazines of every sort. Hopefully Jackie would not be able to see the ones on the top shelf.
'Can I help you?'
A shopkeeper had appeared behind the counter, looking sexless in a maroon apron.
'Good morning,' said Hilary, 'I was wondering: could you tell us if there's a clothes shop in the village?'
The shopkeeper paused, weighing possible answers. She settled on:
'Yes.'
'I need to buy a few things for my niece here.'
'It's further up the road here. Past the Mad Duchess.'
'Mad Duchess?'
'It's the pub. On the corner. You can't miss it.'
Sensing that they were over-staying their welcome, despite having only been in the shop for a few minutes, Hilary led Jackie outside. A breeze had started up outside and was blowing leaves along the road. Hilary and Jackie walked a short distance until they found the Mad Duchess pub with its bottle-glass windows and disturbing pub sign. The sign depicted a nightmarish woman with red eyes and a pointed chin. They crossed the road and went into "The Boutique".
Outside it was beginning to rain, but inside the little clothes shop the only sound that could be heard was coming from a small stereo system in the corner. Hilary wasn't sure if the music was reggae or hip-hop, but found it intrusive. At the till a young woman was reading a magazine and listening to a walkman - she hadn't looked up when they came in.
'Let's find you some clothes then, Jackie.'

* * *

Cruising along the motorway at a leisurely 80mph, Cynthia started to hum a tune, then - thinking better of it - slammed an old mix tape in the stereo. An outré blend of eurobeat and plainsong thumped out of the dashboard, she accelerated slightly as the Sun reached its zenith. On the vacant passenger seat a small suitcase vibrated in time with the engine. Ever since she decided, fifteen years previously, that she would rather be thin than happy, Cynthia's clothing requirements had been lightweight, if not modest. Within the small case were six summer dresses, all of which had been adjusted to accommodate her new breasts. Those at least were not a fashion accessory, but rather a compensation for the ravages of early middle-age. In the footwell, three pairs of designer heels knocked together. In the small compartment behind the two seats were her vanity case and a travelling typewriter - both Armani.
Her editors had been so understanding about her need for a holiday that Cynthia wondered if she would still have a job when she returned to the City. In any case she had too many useful friends to have to worry about such things. She had looks and brains. All she needed to succeed was a little luck.

* * *

Jackie hated and feared clothes shops. Partly from the natural fear all children have of change (and getting changed), but also because, in his heart of hearts, he knew that he should be wearing trousers and t-shirts like all the other boys. His enforced gender-bending had begun when his parents hired a nanny to take care of him. Olga was Roumanian and Olga was insane. Pat and Ooma had not noticed this because they got her from an agency and never bother to interview. Olga had decided that Jack was Jackie and nothing could change her mind. Being a four year-old, Jackie had not been in a position to argue. If his parents had had the time to notice that their son was being put into dresses and patent leather shoes, instead of shorts and trainers, then they wouldn't have hired Olga in the first place.
At first this was no big problem. The Victorians had dressed young boys in dresses and it never did them any harm. But, when Jackie was old enough to attend school, his teachers had asked him about his clothes. The other pupils had asked him about his swimming costume.
'Let's see how you look in this.' Hilary was holding up a flowery dress.
'I don't like it.'
'Just try it on for me. Do you need any help putting it on?'
'No.'
Jackie pulled the curtain in front up him and changed. Hilary stuck her head inside the booth and held out a pair of patent leather shoes. They had small silver buckles.
'Try these with it.'
Jackie looked at his reflection and saw something out of Alice in Wonderland. He hated it.
'These shoes hurt and the dress is silly.'
'No it isn't. You look lovely.'
'My feet hurt.'
Hilary did her best impression of a shoe shop assistant and pressed at the shoes.
'There's plenty of room for your toes. You just need to break them in. Now. How about this?' She held out a paint of dungarees with a large butterfly embroidered on the pocket.
Jackie sighed and drew the changing room curtain around him once more.

* * *

After Hilary had paid for the clothes they went to the mini-market over the road and stocked up on food. Hilary bought fish and a chicken and the other essentials. She also picked out some air fresheners. The only ones she could see all had unusual names, but smelled pungent enough to do the job. She chose one 'Summer Explosion,' one 'Winter Crust' and two of the type called 'Black Arabia.' Jackie said they smelt funny and insisted that she bought a tub of ice cream. They carried the groceries outside where a few drops of rain were starting to darken the pavement.

* * *

It never failed to amaze Charlie just how much he enjoyed horticulture. Granted, the gardens had gone a little to seed of late, but they were Charlie's pride and joy. He was busy hoeing his vegetable patch when a cat sauntered out of the bushes and started rubbing itself against his legs.
'Oh, it's you again, is it?'
He leant down to stroke the cat, which redoubled its efforts to push its head into his calves. Looking up at the sky he could feel the rain coming on. He pulled up a few scrawny carrots from the patch and retired to his shed for lunch. It wasn't much of a meal, he reflected, hunched down on his sackcloth bedding. The sound of tyres on the gravel drive and a rhythmic thumping noise drew Charlie's attention away from his midday meal.

* * *

What me talkin' 'bout?
What me talkin' 'bout?
What me talkin' 'bout?
What me talkin' 'bout?
Jamaica!

Cynthia's car drew to a halt on the drive and she turned off the stereo. She had prepared herself for some disappointment as Ooma's bad taste was legendary. Including her taste in her family. Cynthia believed that you could choose both your friends and your family. This was just as well, as she had been forced to disown both in the past. However, the house seemed to be adequate: tall windows flanked by trellises (we'll ignore what's on them), a porticoed door. No garage, but then life is different out here. Fearing for the patent leather of her shoes, she crossed the gravel drive and opened the front door (she had given up knocking on doors aged twelve).
It was cool indoors, out of the sun, but smelled musty. The house was eerily quiet and without noise from inside or out. Cynthia shuddered at this and decided to make her own noise.
'Anybody home?'
She went back out to the car to fetch her sparse luggage and carried it up the stairs. She had been lucky not to arrive any later as the weather was starting to turn. How glad she was for little pieces of luck like that.

* * *

The rain had seemingly condensed out of nowhere and was coming down steadily in neat, vertical lines. Thunder was coming from a distance with its blue flashes barely visible in the daylight. The sun-roof was stuck open.
'Jackie? Cover your ears, dear. Covered? Good.'
Hilary swore a bloody oath, kicked the driver's side door and climbed into the puddled seat.
'Aunty Hilary? My bum's all wet.'
'Mine too, Jackie. And please don't call me "aunty," remember?'
Hilary revved the engine and drove out of the village as fast as she dared, the whole time feeling water drip onto her left shoulder. By the time that they got back to the house they were half-soaked.
'Whose car is that?'
Jackie pointed to the dark green convertible sitting in the drive with its roof up.
'I don't know. John isn't due until tomorrow.'
'He might have come early.'
They got out of the car and gathered their new clothes from the back seat. Hilary opened the front door and the two of them stood, dripping in the hallway.
'What have we here?'
Cynthia appeared in the hall, smoking a cigarette. She extended her hand to Hilary.
'I'm Cynthia. Ooma's friend.'
Hilary shook hands, spreading the rain.
'You're both soaked. Let me get you some towels.'
Cynthia swished up the stairs.
'I guess that's your mummy's friend.'
'She's very pretty,' Jackie said as she took off her shoes.

* * *

'Ooma told me that she'd bought a pad in the country and so I've come to do a feature on rural living.'
'Really? Who for?'
'Oh, well, the highest bidder,' Ooma waved this away with a laugh, 'I mostly work freelance, but it'll end up wherever an editor has room for it. Most of my work has been for Jaune and London Mode.'
Hilary had heard of these magazines from the younger women at work, but had never bought them herself. She pretended that fashion was something that happened to beautiful people with stunted souls. Being confronted by the full force of Cynthia's blithe separation made her uncomfortable. They were in the living room; dry now and drinking tea. Cynthia had set her typewriter in the bay of the window, facing the garden. She sat sideways behind it, facing the others.
'This place is a bit of a tip, isn't it?' said Cynthia, recrossing her legs.
'You should have seen it before,' Jackie butted in. 'There were cobwebs everywhere.'
'I dare say.'
'I suppose I better make a start on lunch,' Hilary said. 'Is pasta okay with you, Cynthia.'
'Oh, thank you. But no. I don't eat lunch.'
'Why not?' asked Jackie.
'Because I don't want to be fat. I'll just sit here and see if I can get some work done.' She patted her typewriter.

* * *

The afternoon drifted by without incident. Hilary and Jackie ate in silence in the kitchen and Cynthia smoked away at her typewriter. Hilary thought about asking Cynthia to help with the cleaning but couldn't find the right words. She and Jackie mopped and scrubbed and eventually got the downstairs as clean as they were going to; as clean as it could get without hiring builders. Then Jackie got out his paints and went in search of flowers in the garden. Hilary went to take a nap before dinner.

* * *

Dinner was a fairly subdued affair. Hilary poached three trout in white wine and served them with a tomato couscous. Jackie complained about the fish's eyes, so Hilary took it back to the kitchen and removed the head for him. Cynthia pecked at the fish with her fork, but ate very little.
'Is John coming tomorrow?' Jackie asked the table, concentrating on his food.
'John?' Cynthia asked.
'He's a friend of mine. More of an acquaintance, really. He'll be here tomorrow.'
'A bit of holiday romance?' Cynthia reached out and touched Hilary's shoulder. 'You are a dark horse.'
'Oh no. It's not that.' Hilary flustered, her face feeling hot.
'No need to be embarrassed. It sounds fun. What's he like?'
That was the last question Cynthia asked that evening. The rest of it was spent with her relating various tales of sexual escapades and high-society scandal, interspersed with unhelpful pieces of advice.
'I always wear Versace when I want to seduce a man. It's trashy, but not too trashy...
'You must get some scented candles, these air fresheners always smell a bit cheap...
'I accidentally flashed the hotel manager and ended up locked in my room with Belgian quintuplets. They just wouldn't take no for an answer...'
Hilary sent Jackie to bed before the monologue became too risqué and made her excuses not long after, whilst she still had some of her self-confidence left.

* * *

Chapter 5 - Wednesday

Sitting at the vanity unit in her room, Hilary carefully applied her daily ration of make-up.
'Stuck up bitch,' she muttered to herself.
'Why don't you piss off back to London?' she wondered as she carefully lined her eyes in black.
She had made such wonderful plans. A few weeks use of a country house. The child to look after, of course, but she was very independent, so her sister had said. She had phoned John to invite him along, letting him know how much it would mean to her. And he had agreed and said “See you Wednesday”! She wouldn't let that posh dickhead get in her way.

* * *

Out on the open road, on a nameless stretch of motorway, John dropped down a gear to overtake a caravan. He was trying to figure out Hilary from what little he knew. The two times that they had met had both been in pubs with large groups of people. Francesca couldn't say enough nice things about her, but women were like that when they wanted to set you up with one of their friends. Hilary wasn't bad looking, was she? A couple of years older than him, but not enough to make any real difference. How bad could it be? Realistically, the odds were against anything bad happening, but it was unlike him to spend a week in the middle of nowhere with a strange woman, solely one the strength of Francesca's recommendation.
It had not taken many romantic disappointments to turn John into a mild paranoiac. At age seven he had given a chocolate bar to one of the girls in his class who repaid him by kicking him in the groin. Aged fourteen, a date had laughed at him in a café full of people.
John was a bounder. John was a cad. John was none of these things and more besides. He would think nothing of cheating on his wife - except he was unmarried. He had no qualms about breaking girls' hearts - yet he had never been in a position to do so. All of this gave him the look of a repentant psychopath. To top it all off, he dressed like a geography teacher and so caused no end of confusion for the people he met. What to make of this curious collection? Where to place him? Occasionally he had the same thoughts - most frequently whilst shaving, or otherwise engaged in front of a mirror.
He had worked for most of his life as a surveyor - examining buildings, making valuations and suggestions. Now he was toying with the idea of giving it all up, packing it in and devoting himself to something. Not the Church. God no! Something artistic, like painting or photography. He enjoyed art at school and it was his interest in architecture that had lead him into surveying. Now he wanted a change - to go back to something he loved. He had enough money saved to last him a few years (perhaps a decade if he was frugal, or moved to Norfolk). All he lacked was the courage to make a leap into the unknown. How was it that the geniuses of the past (and the idiots of today) managed to sacrifice everything and pursue their dreams? What of the poor souls who gave everything to their art and wound up with nothing? John was keen to avoid ending up dead in a gutter, missing one ear. Perhaps it was the sacrifice that drove artists mad. Maybe they started off that way.
John did not consider himself to have commitment issues. If he met the right woman he could be married by the end of next week. Yet it seemed easier to commit his heart that his career. Did he value one more than the other? He hoped not. No one wants to be a coward, we just end up that way. Not daring to cross the line in case we make a mistake or hurt ourselves.
'Broken bones heal,' John told himself, 'Broken bones heal. Except if you get osteogenesis imperfecta. Or cancer...'

* * *

Sitting in the bay window, at a small table topped by her typewriter, Cynthia blew out a plume of smoke. The sunlight streamed in through the glass panes and bathed her in warmth. She was in her neutral space and approaching that blissful state in which she knew she could write without ceasing. Journalism came easily to her. It was just a case of picturing the audience - in her case a mishmash of lowest common denominator and frumpy middle-aged housewife - and telling them what they wanted to hear: that the country air was good for the lungs and that the greenery did wonders for your sex-life. She winced slightly at this particular thought. It was weeks since she last shared her bed with anyone of substance and it was starting to play in her mind. Unaccustomed as she was to celibacy, the last few weeks had been a strain for her. In London it was so easy to pick up men that she had entirely lost the knack of masturbating. She almost romanticised her spotty, teenage years when she had had to make do with her own fingers beneath the bedsheets. How things had changed. How she had changed. No longer the awkward, gangly lump of her teens, she had perfected her stride and honed the edge of sarcasm in her voice - all untutored. She was literally a self-made woman. Even down to these new breasts. A worthwhile investment it seemed. She had misgivings at first. When the surgeon had first pulled back the dressings and invited her to look she had been appalled at the monstrous swellings that jutted out from her ribcage. She had been ready to have them taken back at once. Now, after experiencing so many lustful looks, having had so many men trip over their own feet in the street, she appreciated the power that she had given herself. The leverage that they had given her. In drawing rooms and conferences she was able to command attention with the slightest cough - anything that gave men a chance to look in her direction. It had not been all good. She had heard the whispered slurs, but that was not her problem. Not her fault if others envied her. What was their problem after all? She would die, in time, like the rest of them. Might as well make the best of it for now. She inhaled deeply and breathed the smoke out into the rays of light that permeated the room.
Turning to business she inserted a fresh sheet of paper and wound it round to the front.

The quintessence of rural life is the afternoon picnic, without which no summer's day would be complete. This season, [insert plug for latest range] have given us all we need to look our best in the park or on the bank of the nearest available river or stream. Finger foods, napkins and a suitable ensemble can give more simple pleasure that any number of French gites or ski instructors (with the added bonus of not having to travel further than a few miles out of London).

She knew, in some locked away part of her soul, that it was all nonsense. That none of it would matter a damn after she was dead. Or by the time the next issue came out, for that matter. But on a day-to-day conscious level she was caught up in the dream. The dream that clothes can make you beautiful and that cosmetics can hide the years (those years that she had started to feel so acutely in her mid-twenties). It was the dream that she and her clique had made for themselves to hide their insecurities. Of course she wouldn't admit this to her friends, or even to herself unless sedated. This sunshine was, in itself, a wonderful sedative. The feel of the warmth on her neck and arms was blissful. Purely blissful. She wanted to hug her knees to herself, but looking down she saw that there was no elegant way to do so. Not in this chair at any rate. Her delightful repose was torn to pieces by the sound of someone else entering the room.
'Hello, Cynthia.' It was Jackie.
'What do you want. darling?'
'I've made you some tea.'
Cynthia accepted the offered mug but put it down on the table untasted.
'What are you writing?'
'I'm writing about how nice it is in the countryside.'
'I think it smells funny.'
'Yes. Well. That might just be the house. I'm sure it's lovely outside.'
'Would you like to play?'
'No. I'm too old to play. And too busy. You run along now.'
'Where to?'
'Just run along. Before I get angry.'
Jackie left her to her work and went to paint more pictures in the kitchen.

* * *

Hilary was washing the teapot and trying to explain to Jackie that flowers were how plants made babies when she was cut off by the sound of a car horn from outside.
'John's here,' Jackie said as he ran to the hallway.
Heart beating rapidly, Hilary tottered after him and undid the latch. There he was, just getting out the car; his shirt all rumpled from the trip and, she saw when he turned to get his jacket from the back seat, darken by sweat.
'Quite a place you have here. Took some finding, but it's okay. I'm here now.'
Hilary was frozen in the doorway, but Jackie pushed past her.
'Pleased to meet you, John.' Jackie stuck out a had.
'Pleased to meet you too, er...'
'Jackie.'
'Ah, yes, Jackie. That must be short for Jacqueline.'
'No. Just Jackie. Can I get you a drink?'
'Yes. I suppose so. Thank you. Just let me get my bags inside first.'
Jackie ran back into the house and John turned to unlock the boot of his car. When he closed it again he found Hilary standing close behind him with a worried look on her face.
'I'm so glad that you're here, John.'
She went up on tiptoes to kiss him quickly on the cheek. John blushed and bent down to pick up his suitcase.
'Shall we go inside?'
'Yes. I'll show you to your room.'
In the pantry, Jackie poured the kind of gin and tonic that would destroy most housewives and emptied a fair portion of the spirit into his own mouth. He gasped as the alcohol seared down his small throat. He would have to be careful not to let Hilary catch on, but figured that she was too occupied with John to take much notice of him at the moment. Cynthia was also too distracted, but Jackie couldn't say what with. All she seemed to do what sit in the lounge looking out the window. If needs be he would top up the bottle with water (he had seen someone do that on television). He stretched up to put the bottles back in the fridge and returned to the hallway to find the others.
'This is your room.' Hilary showed John into the small room opposite her own. 'I hope you like it. The house hasn't been occupied for a while, but I've kept the windows open to give it a good airing.'
'Right. Well, I'd better get unpacked.'
'Can't that wait for now?' Hilary moved closer to John, wanting to fling herself at him, but afraid of how he might react.
'I suppose so.' John turned to close his suitcase. 'Why don't you show me the rest of the house?'
'Okay.'
This was a minor loss in the battle for John. A setback, no more. Not even that. Just a delay that made the final conquest all the sweeter.
'You haven't met Cynthia yet.'
Hearing their tread on the stairs, Jackie rushed to the bottom and waited like a miniature butler.
'Here's your drink, John.'
'Thank you, Jackie.'
John accepted the glass of clear, mildly effervescent liquor. Half a lime was bobbing up and down in it.
'It's a "gee and tee".'
John took a cautious sip and winced.
'Who taught you to make such a strong gin and tonic?'
'No one.'
'Ah. I see.'

* * *

There they were again, running up and down the stairs. The professor wondered what had possessed his wife to invite such unruly people. Perhaps they had brought children with them - perish the thought. The afternoon Sun was warming the attic and it was starting to get stuffy. What supplies of water he had were depleted and even from within his academic reverie he could see that this would be a problem.
'Alice?' he croaked out.
That young lady had better come sharpish, she was skating on thin ice as it was.

* * *

Outside it had started to drizzle and the occupants of the house were sitting around in the lounge drinking cocoa.
'Tell us what you learnt in school this term, Jackie,' Hilary said to Jackie who was camped out on the carpet, trying to paint a bush.
'Never eat shredded wheat,' Jackie said after some thought.
'The thought that anyone could have trouble remembering the points of the compass disturbs me greatly,' Cynthia said from the corner.
'Don't listen to her, Jackie. What else have you been learning?'
'We did history... but I can't remember any of it.'
'Have you been learning about kings and queens?'
'Um... I can't remember.'
Hilary couldn't think of any more questions for Jackie and so let her get back to her paints. She joined John on the sofa where he was watching Cynthia. Cynthia had spent the whole day at her typewriter, but didn't seem to have much to show for it. She spent most of the time smoking and drinking tea. It must be an easy life.
After what seemed like an age of uncomfortable silence and small talk about the house, John announced that he was going to unpack and then take a nap. Hilary, decided to do the same.

* * *

When John awoke from his nap it was getting dark outside. He rubbed his face into the pillow. It smelt damp, as did the rest of the bed. He hoped that he could make it through to the end of the week without catching something from it. What happened if you breathed in mould? He got up and redressed then he went downstairs. He found Hilary in the kitchen, wrestling with a chicken.
'Do you need any help?'
'Hello John. I'm fine, really.' Hilary said, managing to get both her wrists locked together inside the bird.
After John left, Hilary disengaged herself and sliced into a lemon, almost cutting it into quarters. She then pushed it into the chicken. She pulped the stuffing and then filled the chicken's neck cavity with it. Placing the bird in a roasting dish, she checked the oven and popped the chicken in to cook.

* * *

In the dining room, the main lights had been switched off and a collection of candles were fanning out their own yellow glow. Knives and forks were clanking on the china as the four guests worked their way through dinner. Jackie was feeling uncomfortable in his new summer dress, but his aunt had insisted and even tied a bow in his hair. Cynthia would have preferred to eat alone, but her good manners kept her with the others. Hilary was watching John and hoping that he enjoyed the meal. He was chewing intently and staring at his plate. The silence had gone on too long.
'I've just joined a wine club. We do tastings every week,' said Hilary.
'I love wine. The endless variety,' said John.
'We trod grapes in the South of France last year. It was lovely. All the squishy grapes between your toes. So sensual,' said Cynthia.
'What did you do last year, John? For you holidays, I mean.' Hilary was fiddling with her napkin and brought it up to her lips.
'Well. Let's see now. I think I stayed in this country. Yes, that's it. I took the train up north and went walking with my camera.'
'Are you into photography?'
'It's only a hobby at the moment, but I'm thinking of taking it a bit more seriously. Hopefully I'll set up my own dark room.'
'That's just a line, Hilary,' Cynthia butted in. 'From what I hear, there's more than one reason they put a red light in them.'
'More wine, anyone?'
'Can I have some, Hilary?' Jackie asked.
'No, dear. You're too young for wine.'
'A little won't hurt you.' Cynthia took the bottle from Hilary and poured some into Jackie's empty glass. 'It doesn't hurt to refine your palette at an early age.'
'In France they give children wine with dinner, don't they?' asked John.
'Of course they do,' said Cynthia. 'Which is why they don't drink cheap stuff from the supermarket. Do they, Jackie?'
Jackie grinned as he took a big sip. Hilary reclaimed the bottle and poured the rest of the wine into John's glass and her own.
'Now Jackie, if I might give you a few tasting notes. If we swill the wine in the glass a little, you'll see that it has no legs...'
'So. John,' Hilary took the chance whilst Cynthia was busied, 'are you glad that you came?'
'Well. This certainly is a fine old house you've got here. Did you say it was your sister's?'
'Yes. She's a spoiled brat. Never seen the place herself.'
'Still. Not a bad choice.' John looked around the ceilings.
'Look at me, John.'
'Yes?'
'Are you glad that you came? I want you to be happy here.'
'Well...'
'Cox?'
'I beg your pardon, Jackie?'
'Sorry, Hilary, I was just explaining that the poor choice of grapes was what gave the flavour of sour cox apples.'
'Ah. Cox's Orange Pippins.'
'John, you are an absolute classic.'

* * *

Cynthia got ready for bed, feeling on edge and thoroughly unfulfilled. She washed her face and then applied a series of moisturisers to the various parts of her body that demanded them. John didn't look like he would be any fun to sleep with and she needed relief. She thought about trying to masturbate herself to sleep, but settled for a Valium instead. It was, by now, the easier option. She slid into bed and pulled the sheets up to her chin. If only John wasn't the only man there. Perhaps she could phone someone tomorrow. Who did she know that would be prepared to drop everything and come to her rescue? She would rack her brains tomorrow. Tomorrow. She started to slide her hand down along her stomach but the pill was kicking in and she was asleep in seconds.

* * *

Hilary was alone downstairs, trying to tidy up after dinner. Trying to forget how stupid she must have sounded.
'John's alone in his room,' she thought, 'better make sure he has everything he needs. See if he wants me.'
She was a little tipsy and her heart was pumping loudly when she got to the top of the stairs. She knocked gently on his door.
'Who is it?'
She turned the handle and peered into the room. She closed the door behind her and let her eyes get used to the dark. She could make out John's shape in the bed.
'It's me. Hilary.'
'Hilary. I was just about to go to sleep.'
She moved over to the bed and sat down on the side of it.
'Have you got everything you need?'
'Yes, thanks.'
'Just thought I'd check. This bed's a bit lumpy.'
'Actually, you're sitting on my wrist.'
'Oh, I am sorry. Good night.'
Hilary leant over and kissed him on the forehead. Then she backed out of the room as quietly as she had entered.
In the dark, John gazed up at the ceiling, rubbing his wrist. What had he gotten himself into?

* * *

Over time, Charlie had made a little game of his regular raids to the pantry. He even had a little theme that he would whistle to himself as he crept in the shadows up the side of the house. Had it had words, they might have been something like this:

The weather's no good for fish or fowl
If we speak true and we do
But it ain't no use to grin or scowl
If we speak true and we do

If there's food on the shelf then take it for yourself
Eat it in your shed then go to bed
With a slug of gin afore you turn in
Wake up in the morning and then you're yawning

Having missed out on Sunday School as a child, Charlie was not overburdened by feelings of guilt at having to steal food. To his mind, he was simply doing what he used to have done for him by Alice. Anyway, a big house like that was bound to have leftovers. French beans and cheese quiches had been particularly welcome in the past. He reached the kitchen door at the back of the house and pushed his foot into the bottom corner. There was a creaking sound as the screws gave a little and the hasp bent inwards before the door popped open. He knew the house well and did not bother to turn on the lights. The dark kitchen held the remaining smell of a cooked dinner, which boded well for Charlie as he slipped into the pantry. Illuminated only by its dim, yellow glow, he began rummaging in the refrigerator.

* * *

Upstairs, Hilary's head was swimming in a mixture of alcohol and frustration. She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes as a snowstorm of insobriety raged before her. It was just her luck that Ooma would invite one of her friends - one of the shitty ones. Bad as it had been being caught out by the rain and made to look silly in front of her, it was nothing compared to the effect that Cynthia had on John. On Hilary's chances with John. All through dinner he had been staring at her chest, her probably fake chest. No woman as anorectic as Cynthia could ever have such big breasts. And she was so pretentious. The constant one-upmanship had left Hilary mentally exhausted.
Feeling uneasy in her stomach, she got up and searched her bags for indigestion tablets. She popped a square of mint-flavoured chalk in her mouth and sucked. Unused to having an en suite bathroom, she then went down to the kitchen for a glass or two of water.

* * *

In the pantry, Charlie froze, a piece of cheese half-way to his pocket, when he heard the sound of someone in the kitchen. He kept perfectly still and prayed to the god of thieves.

* * *

Up in the attic, the professor was shaking with hunger and a lack of blood glucose. It was with the greatest unease that he lowered the steps and trembled down them.
'If I don't get a proper sandwich I'm liable to lose my mind,' he said to the empty landing.
In his weakened condition, the stairs were a challenge, but he finally made his way down into the hall. He stroked the walls in search of a light switch and, finding none, groped his way along the wall to the well-lit kitchen.
'Oh good,' he thought, 'Alice is in the kitchen. I can give her a piece of my mind.'
He shuffled behind her and put his hand on her shoulder.
'I've a good mind to sack you, young lady.'

* * *

Hilary jumped. She felt like she hit the roof. She screamed a bit too, for good measure. It was all too much for her and she ultimately slumped to the floor.

* * *

'Well. That settles it. You can pack your bags tomorrow. After you've cooked me a decent breakfast, of course.'
The professor shuffled around Hilary's prostrated form and opened the bread bin.
'These rolls have holes. What have you been buying?'
Taking a tray, he loaded it with bagels and a jar of jam.
'Don't worry, dear. I'll take them up myself. See you tomorrow.'
With that he carried himself back up the stairs and sealed himself in the attic once more.

* * *

Hearing that it was now quiet in the kitchen, Charlie risked peeking out of the door. Lying on the floor was a woman.
'There's been a murder,' he thought, 'and I could be next. Quick steps!'
He filled his pockets with few more items from the fridge and grabbed a packet of biscuits off the shelf. Then he carefully closed the back door behind him and legged it back to his shed.
Feeling a bit safer, he lit a candle and assembled his loot on the floor in front of him. Dinner tonight was as follows: one packet of crumbled biscuits, one lump of cheese, three onions, a small pot of yoghurt. Not bad, considering the mortal peril he had been in. His jerked his head to one side in response to a noise.
'Oh. It's only you, Alfred. Want some cheese?'
Charlie broke off a piece and placed it on the floor. Alfred walked forward and started to lick and gnaw at it. Charlie tickled him between his raggedy ears and he started to purr.
'You don't want to kill me, do you? You just want a piece of cheese.'
The two of them ate in silence until all the food was gone. Then Charlie blew out the candle and went to sleep.

* * *

Chapter 6 - Thursday

Hilary awoke before dawn and found herself lying on the cold kitchen floor, barely able to move. She had a crick in her neck and in her back. The suspected that she had cricks in all of her major muscle groups.
'How much did I drink last night? It wasn't that much. Surely not.'
She rolled over, onto her hands and knees, then managed to pull herself to her feet. Every part of her was aching and she had a terrible, throbbing hangover. She poured herself a glass of water and climbed the stairs to her room. She had to lean against the door to get it shut and felt bolts of fire shoot through her shoulders. Going into the bathroom, she swallowed three aspirins, washing them down with gulps of water, and then got undressed. She closed the curtains and then slipped between the cool sheets of her bed. She massaged her temples, chasing the pain around her skull, and wondered how she could have let herself get into this state. She was a full grown woman, not some dizzy student who got drunk and passed out in the kitchen. What must John think of her? Did he want her to get drunk so that he could take advantage of her? He didn't seem the type, but Hilary wasn't certain. Men seemed to transform into conscience-free animals when they wanted sex. That was how her husband had been when they first met - when he had still been interested in her. Hilary allowed these thoughts to chase each other around her mind until exhaustion got the better of her and she passed into sleep.

* * *

John awoke with the previous night's wine hanging heavy on his head and feeling as though he still needed a few hours sleep. He rolled over in bed and picked up his watch. It was late enough. He hauled himself out of bed and went into the bathroom. Soaping himself under the shower, he wondered what Hilary had planned for the day. He had few preconceptions about the holiday, but knew that there were certain things one did in the countryside. Otherwise what was the point in coming? He rubbed himself down with his own towel and dressed for breakfast.

* * *

Downstairs, John found Cynthia, hunched over her typewriter and staring at what she had written the day before.
'Coming along okay?' he asked.
'Yes. I suppose so. It's a royal pain having to be your own editor. But that's just the way it goes these days.'
'Is Hilary up?'
'Haven't seen her.'
'I was wondering what the plan was for today.'
'Hilary's plans?'
'Yes.'
'She probably wants to drag you out into the fields.' Cynthia looked him up and down. 'You should probably make the most of it.'
'Right.'

* * *

John went through to the kitchen and found Jackie at the table reading a Ladybird book.
'Morning.'
'Good morning. Is Hilary about?'
'I think she's still sleeping.'
'Have you eaten?'
'No. I was going to ask Cynthia, but she's busy.'
'I'll get some breakfast on the go then.'
John prided himself on his cooking, but found himself completely at sea without the luxuries of Teflon and a gas hob. As he was setting two plates of crispy scrambled eggs on the table, Hilary came into the kitchen.
'Good morning,' she said, rubbing at her neck.
'Did you sleep okay?' John asked.
'Oh. Fine. Just a bit of a stiff neck.' Hilary straightened up, despite the pain.
'We were just about to eat. Would you like some?'
Later, and feeling more human for the food, Hilary sketched out a plan for the day. She and John would go for a walk and then go into the village to buy food for dinner. Cynthia showed no interest in leaving the house and vaguely assented to watching Jackie for the day.

* * *

'It's so peaceful out here. Out of the city.'
'It certainly is quiet,' John said, shaking off Hilary's arm and peering at the hedgerows. 'Do you think Jackie and Cynthia are getting on okay?'
'I'm sure they're doing famously. Hold my hand.'
'Is that a woodpecker?'
'John, you're not holding my hand.'
'Sorry. My hands tend to get terribly sweaty on hot days.'
'Then take them out of your pockets. Unless you want me to put my hand in there as well.'
Feeling hunted, John put a few quick paces between Hilary and himself and pointed to the horizons.
'Why don't we see what's over there, hey?'
Hilary said nothing, but ground her heels into the mud and set off after John, enjoying the sight of his firm, striding legs despite her frustration.

* * *

Back at the house, Jackie was experimenting with the alcoholic contents of the pantry. He had already learnt that Irish cream liquor did not go well with sherry and that crème de menthe would not mix with anything. He was currently tasting a concoction of gin, vermouth and peach schnapps. It was the least bad of his creations thus far.
Cynthia did not like him, he thought to himself, but he could not understand why. He had tried to make friends, offered to help her with her writing and asked about her car. Every time he had been told to "piss off". He had made her loads of cups of tea, but all remained undrunk. Some people were just mean, he decided.
Filling a wine glass with his new cocktail and tidying away the rest of his mess, Jackie tottered off in search of something to do.

* * *

There he was again, Cynthia noticed, taking off her reading glasses. That funny little man. Not so little, really, when he stood up tall. Cynthia adjusted her position in the window seat in order to have a better view between the curtains. Who was he? Did she care? Cynthia assumed that he was the gardener, judging by the fact that he was in the garden by himself. Her mother always used to say that gardeners had muscles like tree trunks. With reflection, this probably said more about Cynthia's mother than it did about gardeners. Unconsciously, her left foot started to swing back and forth.
'What are you doing?' It was Ooma's little bug-eyed monster, come to disturb her.
'What are you doing?' it asked again, taking a sip from a wine glass full of... was that juice?
'None of your business, Jane,' Cynthia snapped at the brat, trying to maintain her view. 'Go away.'
'My name's not Jane. It's Jackie. Is there something in the garden?' The child swayed in her direction, trying to look outside.
'No. Now go away. Why don't you go and pester your aunt?'
'I don't want to. And she's gone out with John. I'm lonely.'
Cynthia rounded on the child.
'I distinctly heard your aunt calling you. Go and find her this minute.'
Jackie obeyed, petulantly staggering out of the room as though only half awake.
Cynthia turned back to the window but the gardener was nowhere to be seen. Feelingly thoroughly peeved, Cynthia stood up and walked through to the dining room and then into the garden.
Out in the hot Sun, Cynthia could feel her skin beginning to glow. Better get things moving quickly whilst I still look my best, she thought. The man was bending over what looked like a vegetable patch (Cynthia couldn't be certain as she had never laid eyes on one before). Perfect. Making sure that her Ray Bans were straight, Cynthia leant forward and gave the man's buttocks a forceful tweak.
Charlie had been busily tending to his radishes and absentmindedly watching Alfred, who had been chasing butterflies in the bushes but was now watching the two humans. Charlie had not heard her creep up on him and was caught completely unawares. He had never had his behind treated this way before. Not even by the doctor. He let out the startled yelp and spun around, ready for combat.
'Why, hello there.' Cynthia lowered her sunglasses and batted her eyelids. 'Where've you been hiding, you naughty boy?'
Caught off guard by the fact that his assailant was a female, Charlie replied as best he could.
'In shed.'
In case the meaning had been lost he pointed to his current home.
'Well, now,' she took a step closer, 'why don't you,' another step, 'show me this shed of yours?'
Cynthia was now close enough to breath on him. She brought a tugging finger up to her lips.
'Why don't you show me this shed right,' she put a hand on his sweater, 'now?'
The screams could be heard quite clearly from within the house. Charlie's brain, with years of pent-up frustrations and latent misogyny had completely shut down, leaving him incapable of any reaction except to yell incoherently. Cynthia, who had realised that this man was not going to be any fun after all, was turning to leave when a cat appeared from out of nowhere and jumped at her. The cat was a mangy beast but had dug its claws in deep. She swatted at it but that only seemed to anger it further. Eventually she had reached down and ripped it from her, tearing both her dress and her skin in the process. At the sight of Cynthia's bloodied midriff, Charlie's body joined his brain and he collapsed onto the ground, convulsing. Flinging the cat away into the bushes, Cynthia bolted for the house. She pushed her way past Jackie on the stairs and locked herself in her room. The whole incident had taken less than a minute.

* * *

Even in his inebriated state, Jackie realised that something was wrong with Cynthia. He went over to the typewriter to see what she had been writing

The fresh air and simple, honest diet are marvellous for stirring romance and creativity...

Jackie didn't really understand what it meant but thought that it might be something dirty. He tried his hand at typing

my name is Jackie i am eight old i am typng itis fun noit is niot no no noxxxx

Tiring of this, he looked out into the garden. There was nothing much to see. He went over to the French windows and slid them open. Jackie enjoyed the hot air of the garden and decided that it was time for exploring. First he explored the outside of the house by pulling dead plants off the trellises. Then he went to the bottom of the garden and explored the dank puddle that had once been a pond. He found a long stick and tried to find dead fish by poking in the thickened water. In the middle of the garden was a statue of a lady. She was all covered in creepers. Jackie wondered if it was a naked statue like the ones he had seen on a school trip. He put one foot onto the base and reached up to grab hold of the vines. He tugged at them and they gave a little, making satisfying crunch noises as they released their hold on the stone. He took a step back and pulled some more - they gave a little more and started to slide away, gathering around the statue's arm. Jackie gave a final tug, putting his weight into it and wrenched at the creepers. The old stone gave way. For a split-second Jackie thought that the statue was trying to grab him. Then its arm landed on top of him, squeezing the air out of his lungs. As he fell back, the dismembered limb grazed a path down his legs and came to a rest across the bones of his ankle. Tears rolled down his cheeks and into his ears as he lay trapped. A wave of intense pain passed over him and he fainted.

* * *



By the time Hilary and John returned from their walk, neither was much in the mood for conversation. Their feet hurt and both bared the inevitable scratches from trying to make paths where the countryside obviously didn't want any.
'Anybody home?'
No answer. Cynthia's car was no longer in the drive but they had been too exhausted to notice the deep grooves in the gravel. John sat down on the front steps and prised off his shoes.
'I need a foot bath,' Hilary said as she dropped her shoes inside the front door and gingerly walked to the kitchen.
'Jackie, darling?'
Silence.
'Perhaps they've gone into the village.'
That left them alone together in the house, but Hilary could only think of her feet. John's body language suggested that he wasn't in the mood to massage them. He said that he was going to take a shower and left. Hilary put the kettle on and was just searching for a suitable basin when John ran in, wearing only his trousers.
'Jackie's in the garden.'
She followed him outside and saw the tangle at the base of the statue.
'Oh, Jackie!'
John lifted the fallen stone away and Hilary knelt at Jackie's side.
'I've had an accident,' was all that Jackie could mange before bursting into tears.

* * *

Bombing down the motorway, Cynthia was shouting into her mobile.
'That house is an utter death trap. There are dangerous people there and I had to leave. Hope you sort it out soon, because someone has to. And I don't trust Hilary or her boyfriend. Bye.'
Ooma might panic when she got the message, but that was her fault. What a thing to do. What a reckless, dangerous thing to do. Cynthia ground the palms of her hands into the steering wheel and drove homeward.


* * *

Everyone was too tired to make much fuss over dinner. Hilary cooked what supplies remained as a stew and served it, with wine from the cellar, without any fuss. They ate, mostly, in silence. Beneath the table, Jackie's leg was cocooned in improvised bandages. John had felt the bones and declared them unbroken. Hilary had given him half an aspirin to ease his pain.
'This certainly is a fine old house your sister has here,' John said, looking around the candle-lit dining room.
'What was it that Marx fellow said? "You should always buy land, because they're not making it any more."'
'Who's Mark?' Jackie asked.
'Karl Marx,' John said. 'He was a philosopher.'
Hilary was about to correct him, but decided to refill his glass instead. No point in worrying about his brains at this stage. Chancing the wine from the cellar had been a risk that had not paid off. When she removed the foil from the first bottle, where there should have been a cork, she had found only mould. The second bottle had been properly sealed, but a brief sniff had revealed that this was a wasted effort. The third bottle had, at least, been better and she and John had gagged through half of it before switching to the tangy supermarket champagne.
'I've finished dinner. Can I get my own dessert?'
Jackie pushed her plate away from her.
'Okay. But don't have too much ice cream. You don't want to get fat.'
'I won't. Thank you. Goodnight John. Goodnight Aunty Hilary.'
Without Cynthia being there to butt in all the time, Hilary now had John to herself. Yet, as was so often the case, her sexual desire left her unable to think of anything interesting to say. Or anything at all, for that matter.

* * *

Jackie snuck into the pantry and eyed the diminished array of booze. The brandy was out on the dining room table, but he found that a bit sharp for his tastes - even when he mixed it with orange juice. It would have to be gin for tonight. The bottle might be missed, but he was less likely to be caught if he didn't have to keep popping downstairs during the night. He tucked the bottle under his jumper and limped up to bed.

* * *

'How can anyone approve of revisionism? That's what I say,' Hilary slurred as she topped up her own glass and waggled the bottle at John.
'Where's Cynthia? I haven't seen her at all this evening.'
John looked over his shoulder in case she was there. She was not.
'We'll just have to try and have fun in her absence. Now, John, darling. What were you saying?'
Hilary tried to make bedroom eyes and failed. Her wrist was getting tired of waggling the wine at John, so she just filled his glass unbidden.
They left their dinner unfinished and, at Hilary's insistence, went in to the lounge. Hilary fetched the brandy and poured out two large measures, then joined John on the sofa. John did his best to maintain what distance he could, but Hilary kept leaning nearer.
'Now then. What am I to do with you?'
Hilary reached out a hand and playfully punched John on the arm, but in the process forgot what her other hand was doing and spilt brandy down her top.
'How clumsy of me. I've got whisky... brandy all over my boobs. I suppose I better take this shirt off.'
John put down his glass and got to his feet.
'I er, better be getting to bed. That walk really tired me out.'
He walked to the door. Looking back he saw that Hilary was still fiddling with her shirt.

* * *

He trod as lightly as he could on the stairs, but it was no good and they let out a telling creak.
'I'll be up in a minute, John dear.'
John shuddered in the hallway and did his best not to run up the stairs. The woman was clearly mad. They all were. As much as he felt sorry for the child, John felt a more pressing need for self-preservation. Hilary had put away nearly a bottle of wine over dinner and, if last night was anything to go by, he ran the very real risk of being raped. He wasn't safe in a room with no lock and now he had cornered himself upstairs. Looking around the landing, he noticed a cord hanging from the ceiling. The attic would hide him, at least until Hilary had gone to bed. Reaching up he hoped that the cord was in better condition than the rest of the fittings. To his relief, the hatch swung down on well-oiled hinges and he climbed the steps, closing the hatch fast behind him.
With his head clearing from the exertion, he realised that the attic should not have been lit. Peering in the gloom he found himself surrounded by books and worm-eaten furniture. On every surface were piles of paper. Even the slanting walls had been pinned with charts and obscure diagrams - some of which seemed to depict the human form. Picking his way into the room he found his legs knocking against boxes and stacks of textbooks. All of a sudden his attention was arrested.
'Alice? Is that you?'
'No. My name is John,' he heard himself reply.
Before him was an apparition, so dishevelled and gaunt did this old man first appear. His hair had the look of dusty cobwebs and his body seemed to have withered from within its skin, leaving it sagging in pouches about the eyes and jowls. There was a blob of jam on his left cheek.
'Funny,' the wizened creature said in a cracked voice, 'Alice normally brings me something about this time.'
'Who is Alice?' asked John, fearing for the integrity of his bowels.
'She is the maid, of course. You must be a guest. New to the place. Don't even know who Alice is.' The old man trailed off.
'Who are you? if you don't mind me asking.'
'Most people address me as "the professor", but you can call me... Well, "the professor" will do for now.'
'How long have you been up here?'
'I'm not sure. Who's the Prime Minister these days?'
John answered him.
'Never heard of her. Do take a seat, my boy.' The professor motioned towards a wooden stool covered in a two-foot high stack of papers. 'Don't worry about my notes. Just put them on the floor somewhere. You don't mind if I smoke, do you?'
John did as he was bidden and found himself sitting opposite the old man before he had the chance to think better of it. Still, this couldn't be as bad as being molested by Hilary. Could it? The old man was certainly a frightful sight, especially in the flickering glow as he lit his pipe, but he seemed harmless. At least not an obvious physical threat.
'Are you alone up here?' John enquired.
'Just me and my work, I'm afraid. Not much to look at yet. But you know, I think I'm nearly there. Nearly there.'
'What are you working on?' The professor stiffened somewhat at this question, 'That is, if you don't mind me asking.'
The professor paused briefly, puffing little clouds around his head.
'Not at all. Of course, when all this gets published the whole world will be able to benefit from the fruits of my research. As it were.'
'So...?'
The professor leaned forward, raising his tufty eyebrows conspiratorially. 'It's not smutty, you know?'
'No?'
'High and mighty types. That Mary... what's her name?' Another pause whilst the professor's finger waved in the air, searching for the right words. 'They don't know proper research if it's right under their noses. Think everything has to be about flowers and... atoms. All that will change once they see what I've got for them. They'll change their tune when I start to whistle.'
John was becoming increasingly uneasy and searched for a way out. He gave up on improvising a proper excuse and simply stood up.
'Well... must get on. You know how it is.'
'How what is?' The professor seemed genuinely to want to know.
'Well... it's past my bed time and,' he faked yawning, 'I've got an early start tomorrow.'
'Yes, yes. of course. Tell me, my man. You look like an educated sort and, well, I'd like to have your thoughts on this.'
He reached underneath himself and brought out a yellowed mess of paper, tied at the corner with string.
'It's the first draft. Please don't annotate it, but any suggestions will be considered.'
John accepted the crinkled manuscript and backed away towards the hatch.
'I'll leave it in the hall before I go.'
John waved and then virtually stamped the hatch open.
He was down the ladder and just closing the hatch when he felt a pair of arms encircling him.
'Guesh who...'

* * *

Chapter 7 - Friday

In the morning light, John turned uneasily and then awoke. It had not been easy getting free of Hilary last night. She had been too drunk for anything except sleep, but had kept passing out on top of him. Every time he would roll her off, she would awake and grapple him anew and his jacket was now stained with her drool. In the end he had borne her weight for twenty minutes until he was certain that she was out for the night and then crept downstairs to sleep on the sofa. On a chair next to him was the crumpled manuscript that the crazy old man had given him. Feeling too groggy to get up straightaway, he picked up the grubby sheets and tried to flick through them. Finding himself unable to focus on the pages before him, he slipped back into his clothes and crept into the kitchen.
Putting the kettle on, he leant against the sink and gulped down water. Assembling himself a cup of black coffee and some toast, he slumped down at the kitchen table and renewed his attempt on the manuscript. He hardly expected it to be anything of interest, but the further in he got the less he noticed the coffee cooling at his elbow.
The stack of papers, gone brown with age and tied with a grubby end of string, contained page after page of the professor's handwriting. It was mostly written in pencil, with the odd diagram in ink and occasionally a clipping from a magazine. The title had been smudged away long ago, as had the first few pages. As the text became clearer, John was able to make out the odd phrase:

Size in relation to primates...

... though a simple matter of lubr...

With the frenzied hind-bra... of a mort...

The next few pages seemed to be devoted entirely to clippings from lingerie catalogues on which circular targets had been draw with a biro. Skipping to the last few sheets, John found that they contained nothing but a series of circled and numbered discolourations on the paper. The translucent stains varied in colour and intensity from the barely discernible to thick brown smears reminiscent of espresso coffee. He scratched at one of them and found that it flaked away from the surface like dried paint. He flicked back a few pages until he got to a section that seemed to have been written more recently.

Concluding Remarks:-
... by far the greatest satisfaction is to be found in the granular emissions produced by a diet high in vegetable salts and low in protein. However, I leave it to future researchers to determine whether these findings can be replicated in wider settings.
Appendices A through 14 constitute samples collected in the process of my research and chemical analysis may offer molecular descriptions of the mechanisms by which the semen induces such varied experiences during its exit from the male organ.

* * *

Upstairs and packing his suitcase in a hurry, John could still taste the stomach acid in the back of his throat. After being copiously sick, he had considered burning the foul book, but had settled for binning it instead. Hilary was no longer in his bed, but it sounded as though she was in the bathroom next-door.
Next-door, in the bathroom, Hilary switched off the taps and dried her face. She could not remember much of what had happened after dinner, but to have woken up in John's bed was definitely a good sign. That she had woken up fully clothed and alone was less good, but Rome was not built in a day, after all. Noise from the bedroom informed her of John's return. Wrapping herself in towels, Hilary opened the door to be met with the sight of him stuffing clothes into his suitcase.
Seeing her, John waved his arm in the air, red in the face.
'Someone so perverted ought to be locked up.'
He picked up his suitcase and headed for the door, hesitating in the doorway when she called out to him.
'But, John?'
'Goodbye, Hilary.'

* * *

Jackie had woken up with a headache. He had heard the word "hangover" many times at school and was starting to associate it with the bad feelings that he had in the mornings. His head throbbed, as did his injured leg. His eyes felt gummy and dry. He rolled over and fell out of bed, cracking his knee on something hard. He lay there for a few moments, dazed, prone, swaddled, gritting his teeth to fight back the tears. Reaching underneath himself, he felt something cold and smooth. The gin. It had been a mistake, but Jackie was learning as he went along. He pulled himself to his feet and limped to the bathroom. He tried to put his head under the cold tap, but only scraped his scalp on the faucet. He rubbed water in his eyes and ate a little toothpaste as well. Returning to bed, he picked up the gin bottle and cradled it in his arms. He held it up to the light and saw that there was only a little left. Feeling that it would make no difference, he emptied the last of it into his mouth. Smacking his lips, he snuggled down in bed and tried to sleep.

* * *

In her room, Hilary was running round in circles. She was fully awake now and could feel a migraine coming on to replace her hangover. What the hell happened to John? Why did he call her a pervert? Jesus. What had she done? What did she do? Jesus. It must have been last night. She couldn't remember. She'd done something terrible and now he was going to tell everyone that she was a pervert. Balls! No. She knew she wasn't a pervert. Not even when drunk. There was that one time, years ago, when she was a student... No. That didn't make any sense. Anyway, she was fully clothed when she woke up.
It didn't make any sense. She pulled her clothes back on and went downstairs. She drank water, but it didn't seem to help. She tried sitting, standing, lying on the sofa, but couldn't stay in one place for more than a few seconds. She made herself some toast, but it tasted like ashes in her mouth and she ended up throwing it across the room, before picking it up and throwing it in the bin.
There was Cynthia's typewriter, mocking her from the window seat. A bloody Armani typewriter. And she can just leave it behind. Hilary slapped her hand down onto the keys, hoping she could break something. Instead she just hurt her hand. Controlling her rage, Hilary slowly picked up the typewriter and walked out into the garden.

***

Charlie was in his shed, but he was not feeling safe. He could hear someone outside, muttering to themselves. As soon as the coast was clear he would make a run for it. Ideally, he would have liked to take Alfred with him, but he hadn't seen him since yesterday. It was one thing having people murdered in the house, but now he was being attacked himself. As quietly as he could, he started loading his possessions into his jacket pockets.

***

Hilary's nails were cracked now as she dug at the soil with her bare hands. She scowled, her face twisted into a snarl.
'Take that you bitch. Let's see how you cope without this.'
She threw the typewriter into the hole and kicked earth over it. She started to run back into the house, but by the time she was half way there she was practically crawling. Tears flooded her face and her jaw trembled out of synch with the heaving of her chest. She wanted to die. She dragged herself up stairs and wandered into the first room she came to. Looking around her she saw that it was Cynthia's. Had been Cynthia's, before the bitch ran off. The smell of luxury cosmetics lingered in the air and burned some of the tears from Hilary's eyes. Clenching her teeth, she paced around the room until she noticed a silver packet of pills on the floor. It said "Diazepam 10mg". Half of them had gone, but Hilary popped the remaining four out into the palm of her hand. She took a deep breath and swallowed them.
Before the pills had even reached her stomach, Hilary felt a moment of pure elation. She laughed loudly. She left Cynthia's room and crossed the hall. Peering into Jackie's room, she found her asleep on the bed, fully dressed. Sliding off her shoes, she crawled beside her on the bed.
'I love you Jackie. Please don't ever change,' she whispered.
Her eyelids were getting heavy. This is it, she told herself, the final curtain. Her jaw went loose and she rolled over onto her back. After a couple of minutes she started to snore.

* * *

The professor was feeling restless. Ravenous, too. After days of starvation, the bagels had reminded him of what it was like to be full and he wanted more. But where was Alice? She certainly was late with breakfast. He looked at his watch, it said five to twelve. The watch had stopped several weeks ago, but by pure chance was showing the right time. Well, only one thing for it. He lifted himself out of his chair, sending a shower of crumbs onto the floor. He hauled on the ropes that supported the steps and once more climbed down.
How quiet it was! His wife was always listening to the radio, but not today. He made his way to the kitchen, finding it much easier in the light of day.
'Alice?' he croaked.
She was definitely losing her job for this one. Plenty of maids where she came from. Maids who didn't give injections, too. By now the professor felt an old hand at feeding himself. With an arthritic flourish he swung back the lid of the bread bin. It was empty. So was the wall cupboard nearest to him. He tried the metal vat in the corner. This at least had food in it, but it didn't smell very fresh. Just a load of scraps piled on top of each other.
'Hullo. What's this?'
He reached deeper and pulled out a bundle of papers. Wiping off the stew, he realised what it was. His lips trembled and his eyes grew damp. Not content with shirking her duties, Alice was also trying to destroy his work. He wiped the manuscript some more and put it on the kitchen table, where he sat down in a deep fug. Reaching into the pocket of his cardigan, he pulled at his pipe and lit match after match in an effort to make it work. He started dropping the matches onto the table as they burnt him.
'How dare she? How dare she?' he muttered to his pipe.
It took nearly the whole box of matches, his hands were shaking so much. Finally, he got a satisfactory ember going and tossed the last match, still alight, amongst its fallen brethren. This problem, her problem, wasn't going to resolve itself. He stomped his slippers back upstairs, meaning to compose an angry letter to someone. When he reached the attic he discovered that all this exertion had tired him out and he still hadn't had breakfast. He took his pipe out from between his teeth and placed it on its stand, then lay down on his bed. Just a quick rest and then he would show them what was what.
Downstairs, the pile of matches was gone. So was half the manuscript. In their place was a rapidly expanding cloud of smoke and more heat than the tablecloth could stand.

* * *

Charlie walked sheepishly into the Mad Duchess Tavern. He hadn't been in for nearly two years and was feeling apprehensive. What was the worst that could happen? Whatever it was, it was better than being murdered up at the old house. He approached the bar, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. When he reached it he looked up and was met my the face of the landlord.
'What'll it be?'
'Pint of mild,' Charlie's long-unused vocal chords rattled, 'and a whiskey, please.'
'Have you got the money? Sorry to ask,' the landlord showed no sign of feeling sorry, 'but we get all sorts in here.'
Charlie pulled what money he had out of his pocket, tearing it slightly in the process, and laid it out on the soggy bar towel in front of him.
'That'll see you for one, but not both.'
'Whiskey then. Please.'
A rattling of glassware and then one was placed in front of Charlie. The landlord removed the relevant change from the bar towel. Charlie took a look around the room and then knocked back half of the whiskey. Some of the faces in the room looked familiar, although he couldn't be certain. Two years of starvation and vegetable gin had left him no confidence in his memory.
Allowing himself a little relaxation, as the whiskey soaked through his stomach, Charlie eased himself onto a barstool. Feeling something in one of his back pockets he stood up again. It was a dead mouse. He tucked the rodent into one of his jacket pockets and sat back down again. The pub had not changed much since he had last been in. The adverts on the wall had changed and the jukebox was a lot smaller, but apart from that it was the same cosy, grimy tap room that it had always been. Charlie checked the ceiling above the bar and, sure enough, it still held the playing card that he had tucked behind a random drawing pin. It was the three of diamonds. Peering into a corner, he made eye-contact with someone he did not remember knowing. He quickly looked down and then turned back to the bar. It was too late. The man had gotten up from his seat and was walking the short distance towards him.
'Charlie, isn't it?'
'Yes.'
'You bastard.'
Charlie tried to cower, but the heavy barstool offered no room for withdrawal.
'I'm sorry,' Charlie said.
'I'm gonna kill you,' was the reply.
Charlie raised his arms in self-defence, fearing the worst, when he was saved by a shout from across the room.
'What the fuck is that?'
Both Charlie and his would-be destroyer looked where the man was pointing. Through the bottle-glass of the windows it looked like a black smudge on the skyline. It was smoke, to the North of them, in the direction of the old house.

* * *

Chapter 8 - Epilogue

The flames were dying down now and the fire fighters had started picking through the wreckage. One of them detached himself from a group that was huddled around a paramedic van. He tucked his white helmet under his arm and coughed, nervously.
'I'm afraid,' he said, 'that we've found the body of a child.'
There was a long, shocked silence as they took it in. Then, suddenly, Ooma collapsed against her husband.
'Why, Pat?' she screamed. 'Why did you have that vasectomy?'

Screen

The camera pulls away from the wreckage, over the surrounding woodland. We have seen enough of this misery.

* * *

Somewhere in the English countryside, somewhere quiet and peaceful, drone flies bobbed in the air and a gentle breeze carried seeds along with it. A creature was stalking through the long grass. He was moving on, looking for new territory to dominate. His name was Alfred and he had had enough of this place and was moving on. Moving on to somewhere else.




The End