Escape

By Ronald Chalmers

When Michael Rorke, a talented yet self-absorbed author, meets his untimely end in an accident, he awakens as a wanderer – a spirit caught between worlds, unsure of what afterlife, be it blissful or grim, lies ahead. In this liminal state, he is unable to return to the living and faces an uncertain path forward.

This twilight world is fraught with dangers, teeming with predators that prey on spirits like him. Michael’s urgent quest for resolution becomes increasingly complex as he encounters various beings: some mortal, some otherworldly. Among them is a determined stalker, an eternal entity tasked with guiding lost souls to either heaven or hell; a young, frustrated writer who is the sole person able to see and communicate with him; a captivating young woman who unwittingly lures him from beyond her grave; and an Angel who offers both guidance and warnings.

Escape is a taut, fast-paced narrative that weaves mystical and harrowing elements with unexpected twists. The story is driven by intriguing characters whose fates are inexorably intertwined, their lives and, for one, his very soul, dependent on each other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035803286

Ronald Chalmers

After a somewhat misspent youth of impulsive travelling, occasionally attending university classes and working at Disneyland, Ronald Chalmers has happily spent the last thirty-five years as founder and owner of Cameron Books, the last surviving bookstore in the area. He has been blessed with loving parents, a fantastic son and a great many good friends.

Book preview

About the Author

After a somewhat misspent youth of impulsive travelling, occasionally attending university classes and working at Disneyland, Ronald Chalmers has happily spent the last thirty-five years as founder and owner of Cameron Books, the last surviving bookstore in the area. He has been blessed with loving parents, a fantastic son and a great many good friends.

Dedication

To my son Rob, with great love.

And to Sister Therese, for many years of kindness and support.

Copyright Information ©

Ronald Chalmers 2024

The right of Ronald Chalmers to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035803262 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035803279 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781035803286 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Chapter 1

Michael Rorke smiled wickedly, his attacker coming at him, charging a half-dozen steps before realising his mistake.

From her vantage point some thirty feet above, the young woman watched the two struggling duellists, utterly fascinated, holding her breath as again they slashed away; feinting, each lunging boldly in turn.

That bastard Rorke has him! the man sitting beside her, her fiancé Lee, blurted sourly, each of them watching the white-clad younger man easily weather another assault, turning the tables on his now clearly exasperated opponent.

The woman, Brenda Hartley, reached for her glass of white wine, sipping discreetly, blue eyes following Rorke—a clear underdog among the crowd of onlookers—observing closely as again he grudgingly gave ground, turning gracefully at the baseline, the old-fashioned wood racket in his right hand answering his rival’s last shot with a strong forehand return.

The streaking, diminutive white ball they were fighting over rocketed just inches above the taut midcourt net, the other man—Richard Pearce, a young actor quickly making a name for himself in network television—shifting, running full tilt, barely reaching it in time, managing only a strained, wounded sort of fluttering lob in reply.

Rorke was on it like a hawk, attacking even as his adversary struggled to recover, desperately anticipating where he would strike.

Brenda tensed.

One quick, graceful stroke was all it took.

Off-balance, hung out to dry, the actor saw the ball slice cruelly beyond his outstretched reach, the look on his face that of a man who had just been run through the heart.

Game and set, Mr Rorke, the sombre voice on the loudspeaker intoned, a polite spatter of half-hearted applause accompanying both contestants as they exchanged sides.

Lee shook his head, drinking from his own plastic cup of wine. Pearce should have read the script before getting himself involved in the tournament…bet he wishes he had a stunt double to finish out the rest of it for him…

She shot him a sideways glance as he chuckled contemptuously.

It’s for charity, she scolded mildly. All for a good cause.

Again Lee shook his head. All for the greater glory of Michael J. Rorke.

Her eyes cut quickly back to the unknowing object of her fiancé’s scorn, the young upstart Rorke—a nobody among a considerable number of somebodies in the charity tournament sponsored by Lee’s country club—briskly towelling his face and arms before again making his way back onto the court. It was a handsome face, not TV handsome in the same respect as Pearce, but more than attractive, the dark, winning features intriguing beneath the tousled waves of longish brown hair.

Again, she looked curiously at Lee. And you dislike him so much because…

Because he’s a lying, cheating, social-climbing thief, he related caustically, aware of the harsh indictment, ignoring her little flinch of surprise. Most outsiders wanting to join the Club have to wait for an invitation from the board of directors that more times than not never comes.

Rorke not only bluffed his way into being introduced at one of their private meetings, but somehow managed to convince them they’d be absolutely mad not to offer him membership.

The man in fact is all bluff. The smile, the cheery self-assurance… the soft Scottish burr can charm your socks off, and he doesn’t stop there if you’re a good-looking woman…

His winning ways at tennis keep him in the Club, but don’t cover his gambling losses at cards or pay back debts to other members fool enough to loan him money for investment schemes he convinces them can’t miss but somehow always do, and which he soon after forgets about completely.

Brenda watched Rorke, racket in hand, again take his place at the baseline. It wasn’t unusual for Lee to critically lash someone he didn’t care for—a quality she found less and less appealing—but she’d seldom heard him go after anyone so sharply.

Ready, determined to fight his way back into the match, the embattled Pearce led off with a blistering serve, Rorke lunging right, fully extended, just able to waft the ball lazily back over the net.

Charging, ready for the kill, Pearce quickly chopped a well-angled shot the opposite way, Rorke twisting, again diving recklessly, a hurried back-hand swat lofting the ball back high and deep, forcing the actor to retreat.

She looked on as Pearce raced back the length of the court, Rorke righting himself, ready for the next exchange.

So what does he do when he’s not cheating at cards or seducing young women? she asked, Lee’s face clouding.

He tells everyone he’s a writer, he sneered derisively.

A writer? she echoed.

Not that anyone’s ever seen anything he’s had printed. No books published, nothing in magazines or newspapers. Nothing period. Don’t worry though, I’m sure you’ll be impressed as hell when he introduces himself at the Club’s fund-raiser and reception afterward.

She raised an eyebrow, Pearce running down the long, slow-sinking lob, firing a well-aimed return sheering fast and hard to the right.

He’ll be at the reception, where everyone hates him?

Standing at the net, Rorke slapped the sharp-breaking ball in bounds and away with a winning volley.

Lee nodded. To collect his damned trophy.

Brenda smiled, Rorke turning, pacing back towards the baseline with an easy, graceful gate, sunlight gleaming in his rich dark hair.

She could think of worse things than being introduced to Michael Rorke.

Chapter 2

California sunsets are among the most beautiful in the world.

The exquisitely landscaped veranda unfolded regally across the sturdiest of several rugged, deeply—ridged hillsides overlooking the perpetually crowded Los Angeles basin, then west further still to the blue Pacific.

A marvel of engineering, daring architectural good taste, the extended patio provided not only an elegant, crescent-shaped pool and tiled piazza, ringed by palms, flowering desert succulents, but in addition sported a secluded, slightly elevated deck half-curtained with trellised bougainvillaea, effectively affording a most stunning view of the valley and gently rolling ocean below.

Flint made his way across the sun-warmed interlinking tiles, the heels of his shoes guiltily announcing his presence.

Nearing the far edge of the pool, he saw her.

She was seated comfortably in a long recliner on the upper deck, a fan-shaped bower of creeping vines rendering shade, her tan legs stretched leisurely in a golden swath of sunlight.

They were very nice legs.

He knew her simply as Madam. The bathing suit she wore, its sheer fabric metallic blue, was cut high around the hips and thighs. She was in her early forties, her figure that of a much younger woman, the firmly rounded curves beneath the nylon blue finely sculpted, carefully maintained.

On first meeting, he had thought her hair a very pale blonde, a closer look quickly revealing the thick, lustrous twin falls swirling past both bare shoulders were nothing less than pure and perfect white.

Her uniquely blue eyes were masked by a pair of dark glasses, the heart-shaped face staring back at him instantly attractive, the skin smooth and clear, her complexion unmarked. Remove the sunglasses, and there was real beauty there.

She watched him come to a halt a few steps away. Flint sensed impatience. He’d arrived on time—he was always on time—yet the look on her lips conveyed a feeling he had kept her waiting.

She did not offer him the nearby chair within the shade. He helped himself to it.

He had no idea what was going on behind the dark glasses, but those lips were far from pleased.

You encountered difficulties in San Francisco…

Straight to business, then.

Though shaded from the sun, he felt himself warm uncomfortably. Of course she would have read the report. As usual, she was more than ready for him.

He sighed. As strange as it may seem, some people are not at all anxious to be released…

He saw at once he would have been much better off with a simple yes, ma’am.

Again, the dark glasses reflected disapproval.

Flint straightened in his chair, shoulders rising slightly. He was only thirty-six, a father with two little boys. His wife is not in good health. You can hardly blame him for being embittered, not wanting to leave them. At least, I couldn’t.

She crossed one long, shapely leg over the other. What he may or may not want is irrelevant. So are your feelings in the matter. The fact is you bungled it. Extreme measures, a very dangerous amount of force had to be used…

His expression hardened. The results you demand sometimes have their cost.

He knew the hidden eyes were boring straight through him, as if having to contend with someone utterly incompetent, unprofessional. She would deal with it—with him—as long as she got what she wanted, as long as he did not intrude upon her too long.

There can be no more such incidents, she stated tersely.

Then replace me, he shot back, ice in each word.

Regal, impervious, she ignored his ill temper. You are under contract, Mr Flint. A contract you were more than happy to accept. If you do not honour its terms, there will be dire consequences, for others as well as yourself.

He fought back a stab of real anger, an urge to rise from his chair, stalk away.

But he knew her warning was no idle threat.

The contract, and all it entailed, must be preserved.

And not for his sake.

Of course you are right, he conceded respectfully, choking down the bitter taste behind a perfectly pleasant face.

Fortunately, she did not press the point further, reaching instead for an elegant, long-stemmed glass of sangria on a small wrought iron stand beside her chair. Sipping slowly, victorious on one front, she turned directly to another.

Be prepared to leave again tomorrow. A recent sighting in Prescott, Arizona.

He frowned. I’ve only just got back last night.

As you know very well, we have no control over the timing of these incidents. We go when and where we are required.

He nodded sceptically. "We? Or could it be perhaps you save the most unpleasant tasks for me alone?"

She would not let herself show the anger, contempt he stirred in her with his appeasing eyes, the mocking hint of a grin. She had never wanted him working for her. That decision had been made from above.

The dossier, further details will arrive by messenger, she noted, taking another sip of wine.

Dismissed.

Flint eyed her thoughtfully, more than tempted to carry on the skirmish, toying with the notion of snatching off those damned dark glasses, throwing a scare into the haughty blue eyes behind them. Although certainly not above it, in the end he decided a strategic withdrawal was the better plan.

The contract…

He rose quietly from his chair, resigned. I hope the Agency will be providing better accommodations than in San Francisco. Perhaps you could open accounts with certain airlines and hotels, obtain discount rates for frequent assassin flyers…

The dark glasses stared disdainfully, the lovely curve of her jaw set, determined.

You are there for one purpose…to locate the subject, to provide release.

Murder.

Release, she corrected sharply, cheeks reddening slightly.

Lips pursed, he took things no further. You could only stick your head in the lion’s mouth so many times before having it bitten off…

I’ll bid you good morning, then, he concluded, briefly inclining head and shoulders in courtly recognition of her utter sovereignty.

Half-turning, he paused, the infuriating grin again flaring. An appreciative nod.

That is quite a lovely costume you’re wearing…but I still prefer the turquoise night dress with the see-through lace down both sides…

She watched him make his way back across the patio, diminished but defiant, obeying her command but leaving her smouldering with unvented anger, feeling guilty for again sending him back into an always dangerous wilderness alive with real monsters, dark waiting shadows.

Each of them knew it was only a matter of time.

Chapter 3

Michael stood silently in the soft glow of late morning sunlight pouring through the curtained bedroom window. The house was very quiet, very still.

Slipping into his trousers, he adjusted them about his waist, reaching for the shirt he’d discarded earlier on a plush chair brooding in the corner.

He heard her stir gently beneath the sheets behind him, a sleepy sigh. He stood quite still, never able to completely shake the icy little tremble of shame such moments still brought out.

He stole a glance back at the large, exhausted-looking bed, its fine, crisp white sheets a dishevelled wreck, a glimpse of naked shoulder amid a cloud of honey-blonde hair barely visible as she slept, her pretty face turned away from the muted glare of the window.

He didn’t blame her. They’d both enjoyed quite a workout.

Buttoning his shirt, he let himself think ahead to this afternoon. He had a very important meeting with Giles Luckman, his agent, who had promised to deliver significant news one way or the other concerning the book they had been trying to interest a major publishing house in over the last several months. In addition, he was struggling with the next chapter of his current work, knowing it was going to take considerable time and effort before he was satisfied with it. This morning’s pleasant diversion did not erase the difficulties facing him with this most recent manuscript, his fourth, waiting for him at home.

He turned, looking about for his shoes, the woman shifting lazily, rolling onto her back.

Are you leaving? she asked sleepily.

Brenda Hartley sat up in bed, the rumpled sheets gathered before her. Michael caught the disappointment in her eyes, seeing he was already dressed.

He nodded, locating his shoes where he had rather hurriedly tossed them several hours ago beside a looming dresser near the window.

She fought back a guilty yawn, bare shoulders flexing beneath their silken dusting of soft gold curls. He smiled inwardly. Like most women, she looked absolutely beautiful after being thoroughly ravaged.

Will you be coming back later? she asked, not quite able to mask the note of hope in her voice, letting the sheets sink a little lower. Unlike many women, a single bout in bed, however satisfying, only seemed to whet her appetite for more.

Lacing his shoes, he stood, considering. It was certainly tempting. She was a generous, giving lover, demonstrating it more with each meeting.

He hesitated, a tiny sparkle of light drawing his eyes to the nightstand alongside the bed. His gaze focused on it yet again, the delicate silver engagement ring with its modest cluster of diamonds. She took it off whenever they were together.

He had been introduced to her at the dinner and dance reception after the tournament. She was at once intelligent, pretty…interested. He’d quickly noted the ring on her finger, just as quickly dismissing Lee Edwards, the man who had given it to her, as both a reckless drinker and ungallant bully. Already with two or three stiff belts in him, Lee had made several disparaging comments on the quality of play that afternoon. Michael had smiled, not rising to the bait, Brenda stepping in, deliberately—he was sure—diverting the conversation to books and writing.

Narrow eyes glazing over with disgust, Lee soon after sulked away in pursuit of another refill.

Left momentarily together, he had quickly made up his mind.

Her knowledge of literature was impressive, much more in depth than his own. She asked him what he was presently working on, someone having evidently told her he was a writer—in—waiting. He’d muttered a few self-deprecating remarks on his most recent project. Her eyes smiled, and he guessed it had been some time since Lee had paid her much real attention.

As seductions go, it had hardly taken a major effort on his part. He was in fact convinced she had made things as easy for him as possible. When several Club members insisted on pulling him away for a celebratory toast, he had only time to excuse himself with a hurried smile, saying he looked forward to talking to her again sometime. Later that evening, in a crush of departing guests, she had—unseen—pressed into his hand a slip of paper inscribed with her phone number.

Things proceeded rapidly from there, abetted by the disagreeable Lee being called out of town on business for a week. She was good company from their first dinner together; very feminine, lady-like, yet with a good sense of humour and quick wit readily demonstrating her college education had not been a waste of time. She had made it quite clear she wanted him, and he was happy to comply, yet he also found that betrayal did not come easily to her, and—to his surprise—that she genuinely cared for Lee Edwards.

He himself had simply come along at the right moment; someone she could share her passion for fine writing with over dinners in secluded, out of the way places, and later another kind of passion altogether as they wrestled across the welcoming battleground of her waiting bed whenever and as often as possible.

Still, of late he had begun to sense a shift, subtle but unmistakable. She was starting to get serious about the two of them, the reckless fun, the lust in her eyes, her smile, beginning to dull, cloud over with something deeper, more heartfelt when she looked his way.

Red flags everywhere.

It was time to get out while he still could.

Looking across at him now, she saw it in his face, knowing suddenly—without a single word spoken—that it was over.

Later would come resentment, anger at him for trampling through her life. For using her, then leaving. But for the moment there was only hurt.

Of course he was sorry. He never set out to cause pain, be hurtful. Still, he had to admit it was how most of his encounters ended. If that made him wicked, self-centred, then to hell with it. Life moved too quickly to waste time with regrets. He wasn’t going to despair over it, any more than he lost sleep over borrowing money from a number of friends and acquaintances to bribe his way into the tournament to begin with, knowing full well he would seldom if ever pay any of them back.

Brenda would make someone a lovely wife. Hopefully not Lee Edwards, but some fellow who would be good to her, appreciate her.

In the meantime, there was that pretty waitress at Marie’s who had been paying him extra attention of late…

Chapter 4

Dying was the last thing on his mind.

Michael Rorke had long wondered what this moment of first real success would feel like…a moment he had waited, worked hard for every day the last seven years.

He gazed down thoughtfully at the neat, tidy stack of papers, the freshly signed contract with Universal Publishers for his novel, ‘Wanderings’, lying on the office desk of his agent, Giles Luckman.

His eyes darted over the handsomely printed topmost page, paragraph after paragraph of technical verbiage spelling out terms, conditions, limits, percentages, options…and money.

A truckload of money.

He smiled. The moment felt good. Damned good.

Leisurely making his way around the room’s massive executive desk, Giles paused briefly before a beautifully finished floor-to-ceiling bookcase, carefully picking out a distinctive, elegantly sculpted bottle from several there.

He grinned, securing a pair of small crystal tumblers as well.

To the next literary wonder, he proposed, pouring a measure for each of them, handing one to Michael.

Rorke nodded. Long may he reign.

Giles raised his glass. "Dunguile 1895. Normally I’d toast this with champagne, but I know you don’t care much for the grape."

Michael lifted his own glass. They could toast it in chocolate milk for all he cared. As long as it had happened. As long as it was real.

They touched glasses, drinking; Rorke with a genuine taste for a truly fine blend of whiskey, Luckman looking as if he had just varnished the inside of his mouth.

Setting his drink down on the desk with a hollow knock of glass on polished wood, Giles eyed the waiting stack of other correspondence close at hand. For him the moment of triumph was over, already gone. Michael saw him even now looking to tomorrow, to the next campaign, next conquest.

Monday morning we’ll have a crack at those bastards in Hollywood, he declared with the same hungry lick of his chops Hitler once displayed for Paris.

Rorke made no reply. Giles was his agent; as such he would vigorously pursue each and every possibility in which money could be one way or another wrung out of deep corporate pockets. It was his job, and he was good at it. He had negotiated an excellent deal with Universal, and if he could stir up interest among the film industry it would mean an additional windfall for them both.

Michael knew it was important business, but it really didn’t interest him much. He wasn’t naïve, knowing full well that any potential producers, screenwriters, editors would leave his original story all but unrecognisable by the time their film reached the theatres. Of course, Giles couldn’t care less about that, as long as the money kept rolling in. Giles had no idea what had gone into writing the bloody thing.

But he did.

He knew the days, months, years it had taken to fill those pages. He alone knew how deeply he’d had to search, reach within himself…the feverish rush of creation, the torment of doubt, despair when the work faltered, did not stand up to its own demands.

He knew all too well the sacrifices, loneliness which crept into the soul when you risked everything in pursuit of the dream you chose to follow, fight for, because not to do so was to waste the gift that was perhaps the only thing that was truly yours alone, and that brought a sort of damnation all its own.

Michael looked down at his empty glass, wishing he had time for another.

Well, let Luckman go after them for whatever he could get…a film, even a television series, which he himself thought the story was better suited for. What mattered to him—above the money, above the glamour of whatever success, notoriety Giles stirred up—what mattered most was seeing that bound and finished book, holding it in his hands, knowing he had done it.

The rest of it wasn’t that important. Not really.

Distracted, he realised Giles was talking, was in the midst of explaining something to him.

…To never be sure of. But of course, they’re going to want confirmation that a second book is in the works. Even if you don’t have anything definite, scribble down some notes, an idea for a follow-up, so I can tell them you’re at work on another novel. If sales are good on this one, they’re going to be banging on your door for more.

Michael nodded doubtfully, more to show he was listening than with any real agreement.

He frowned inwardly. Of course there would be another book. And another. He had plans, restless if undeveloped scenarios in mind for future works. But that was for later, another day.

He wasn’t ready to slip back into serious thought over it all just yet.

Now that the deal was confirmed, now that he knew the publisher was committed, before anything else he wanted somewhere private, a place to himself where he could make a few phone calls to friends, acquaintances from the passing years. There were several people who would like to know, and whom he would like to know, that he had accomplished what he’d set out to do long ago.

And there was one young woman who would never know…

I’ll need those notes, proposals by Wednesday, Luckman persisted, looking to him for assurance they would be delivered. Rorke nodded curtly to shut him up, annoyed at being interrupted again. If he didn’t get out soon, he would say something they would both regret.

I’ll have two outlines for you on Monday. You can dream about them all weekend long, Michael promised through a mocking smile. He nodded at the bottle.

Thanks for the whiskey. A pity it’s much too good for the likes of us.

Chapter 5

The blank TV screen deliberately seemed to be taunting her, a black, vacant eye staring at her across the room.

Sneering back, Agnes again wondered what was wrong with the miserable thing. Hadn’t been working for days now. No matter how she fiddled with the remote or the dials…no sound, no picture.

Piece of junk.

Through the walls of her apartment, she could hear her neighbour’s set blazing away…game show music and canned laughter.

She shook her head…a hundred channels to choose from, and nothing good on any of them.

But at least their set worked. Again, she eyed the stubbornly silent television, thoughts shifting like frail, elderly pages fluttering in an aged book. Perhaps she should check to make certain it was still plugged in…

She looked down at the thin, spindly legs slumped before her, the gnarled hands folded in her sunken lap. It didn’t seem worth the trouble of getting out of the well-cushioned chair.

Perhaps they should see if she needed to be plugged in.

She sighed, the sound more of a tired old wheeze.

Some Merry Christmas. She thought back, remembering Christmas mornings years ago…Angela dragging Frank and her out of bed scarcely before the sun cracked the horizon, hurrying them to the living room, opening her presents beneath the tree.

She could see it, clear as yesterday.

How had things become so muddled? It was more than just the passing of years, she told herself, though Lord knew there had been enough of those. She had seen more than a few of her long-time friends, neighbours, wander helplessly into thickening veils of senility, or dementia—what an ugly word—as it was now more commonly termed, losing their memories, and eventually themselves, to its insidious advance…drifting further, further away until there was nothing left at all.

She had to admit, the worry of going that way herself was no stranger to her. Lapses in memory, trouble concentrating over the last several months. Yet it went beyond these. Vexing, unsettling, hard as it was to describe, there was now a feeling…of being there, and yet not there.

Something had happened, had changed, though she had no idea what.

Her reflection stared back at her when she looked in the mirror. The voice inside which had always framed her thoughts still spoke to her throughout the day. But in nearly all else there was something wrong…a lack of substance, of form. She had sight, but little recognition. There was memory but no understanding. She could touch but somehow not feel…

As if she were becoming more ghost-like than real.

Almost as if she were haunting herself.

It was this…this vague sense of detachment that concerned, frightened her more than any worry over Alzheimer’s or such.

Again she stared at the dead television screen, the volume from next door throbbing to a crescendo of battling dinosaurs or some tortured car chase screeching through city streets…

Agnes shifted her gaze as the man walked in through her kitchen doorway, a smooth, matter of fact entrance, as if he had lived here as long as she had, his step so leisurely her only reaction was a single blink of her large, China blue eyes.

He moved across the centre of the room; tall, broad-shouldered, a certain languid grace in his carriage. Confident…an actor entering a stage.

Taken aback, speechless, she tried desperately to place just what he was doing in her living room. Was he one of the apartment complex managers? No, of course not…she had never seen him before. One of Frank’s old friends, perhaps someone he had worked with? Had she been expecting company and simply forgotten? But how…?

He came to a halt, acknowledging her with a slight if gallant inclination of his head and shoulders, seating himself on the sofa next to her ‘Lazy Days’ recliner.

Still trying to recognise him, she was unable to put a name to the handsome face. He reminded her somewhat of a movie star from the thirties or forties, his thick brown hair styled, neatly combed, his quick, intelligent eyes well acquainted with the room—and somehow her as well—a gentle hint of a smile warming the lips beneath a narrow, well-trimmed moustache.

And how is it with Agnes this afternoon? he inquired in a pleasant, distinctive voice softly rounded with English inflection.

It startled her he knew her name, though the smile was quick to try putting her at ease.

I’m…I’m sorry, she managed through her confusion. But I’m afraid I don’t recall your name…

He nodded, chuckling softly, an agreeable sound. It would be quite extraordinary if you did, Agnes. We’ve never met, you see.

This left her only more uncertain, uneasy. But you know who I am. Who…what are you doing here?

He gave her a slow, knowing look, saying nothing.

The flicker of alarm which had sparked inside her when he’d first walked in now suddenly flared sharp and hot through her confusion. A stranger, a man she didn’t know had somehow found his way into her home, was sitting almost within reach of her! Much younger, fit, powerfully framed, he would be able to do whatever he wished…she would be powerless to stop him. The local news, the Prescott neighbourhood talk was always about home break-ins and assaults, especially on seniors…

She felt herself begin to tremble, her thin, arthritic hands and fingers shaking helplessly. She clasped them together in her lap, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

He had broken into her home, she was sure of it. Was he looking for money, jewellery? When he found that she had none would he grow angry, become violent? Would he attack…beat her…subject her to something even worse?

Flint saw the stricken look in her tired, anguished face, fear gripping, burning feverishly, draining the already light blue eyes of all colour, turning them almost silver.

In another few moments, she would begin to panic. He had seen it enough times; the cruel, silent stir of slow-rising terror that overtook a helpless soul as they began to realise the truth…

Things could go very badly, very quickly.

It’s all right, Agnes, he said quietly, his voice soothing.

How do you know my name! she snapped, anger momentarily outstripping the fear and dread ghosting through the elderly face, tightening the brittle jaw, her words biting sharp and quick. What are you doing in my home!

Again he was silent, waiting. Like so often before, the sudden tempest of useless fury ended quickly, rage giving way to regret, surrendering to sorrow.

She struggled to slow her rapid, shallow breath, fear alone returning to the misty, troubled eyes staring at him from their hollows of pale, wrinkled flesh.

Her other questions unanswered, she had strength for only one more.

Are you going to kill me? she whispered.

He couldn’t help a small stab of surprise. His dark eyes looked into hers.

Is that what you’d like me to do, Agnes?

Remarkably, she did not answer. Even more remarkable, the lined, age-withered face seemed to relax, ceasing its silent struggle, the years melting away.

Her eyes, a clearer, younger blue now, gazed slowly about the familiar old room, settling momentarily on the darkened television, a quiet look of understanding crossing her face.

He shook his head. None of them ever seemed to realise what was happening, what had already happened. Often, almost always, they made things much more difficult, more terrible than it had to be.

But Agnes understood…the look in her eyes when they again turned his way no longer frightened, uncertain, her gaze perhaps that of a young woman anticipating the welcome touch of her first lover…

Through the apartment walls, a muffled swell of Christmas music rose briefly, a flourish of holiday carolling quickly lost with a click to the next channel.

Watching her closely, smiling gently, Flint leaned forward on the careworn old sofa, his hand reaching slowly for hers…

Angela Bothner opened the apartment door, stepping inside.

The late winter afternoon was settling into dusk, daylight fading rapidly behind her, little more than a grey smudge through the curtained windows.

She stopped in the centre of the room, her gaze falling on the dark screen of the television moping silently in the corner. How many times had she and Mum sat here together watching news, game shows, old black and white movies on the Hollywood Classics channel?

She loved those old musicals and screwball comedies that made you laugh no matter how silly they were. Mum had always felt better after watching them.

She let her eyes wander over the rest of the room, feeling that strange little whisper of uneasiness you get from being in someone else’s home when they’re not there.

Mum had moved to Prescott shortly after Angela’s divorce, some six years ago. It had been good for both of them, being close to each other.

Angela stared at the big old easy chair. Empty.

It wasn’t until recently Mum had begun having trouble…

She let her gaze wander to the little curio cabinet between the TV and window, the cherrywood shelves thick with books, porcelain birds, knick-knacks and two silver-framed photos…one of Dad in his uniform just after coming home from the war, the other of the two of them on their fiftieth anniversary trip to Hawaii.

She smiled. Years later Mum had still been talking about how beautiful the flowers were.

Sighing heavily, she stepped over to the easy chair. The room was too quiet.

She picked up the remote control from the little table on the right, aiming it at the TV.

Clicking the power button, the television blinked instantly to life, a handsome-looking man appearing on the screen, expertly delivering the evening news in an expertly tailored dark suit and tie.

Glad for the company of another voice, Angela set the remote back down.

Stepping into the bedroom, she returned a moment later with a large, empty cardboard box.

Setting it on the floor, she knelt in front of the shelved curio