Page 23 of Kept
Lucky for her, I was full of blood tonight.
Still, I think I should limit my meetings with her, at least until the bulk of the garden is done, because my resolve might weaken, and she might end up buried in the backyard – and one can’t have that.
I close the book and shake my head, smirking. I notice the flaws in people’s faces too, always have, but more than that, I notice straight away if people like me or not. Margarita says I imagine it, but I don’t. I can tell what someone thinks about me the moment I meet them.
James, for instance, his eyes said they liked me, he was interested in me for some reason, not sexual, something else. It was part of the reason I’d agreed to this date. I was interested in him too, in his background at least, it is not every day you meet someone immersed in the occult.
Still, even though I would like to know more, now that it is time to meet him. I really don’t feel like going and wish I could think of an excuse. But I guess he might be an interesting diversion for an evening. And I do have my new haircut and colour to show off, so there is that too.
But first I have to feed the cat.
I’m about to go into the kitchen when one of the news items on the muted television catches my eye. Another young socialite has been found dead. This time they say it was a tragic accident involving the large wrought iron gates outside her mansion.
I turn up the volume to hear what the announcer is saying, and almost laugh at the stupidity of some people. Apparently, the automatic gates were malfunctioning. She had got out of her car to open them but left her vehicle in gear, and somehow it had lurched forward and pinned her between the bonnet and the barrier. She bled to death before she was found.
I snort and collect a cup of kitty biscuits before heading out the fire exit.
Tonight is extremely dark, the moon completely obscured by clouds, but I know the cat will be somewhere behind the big metal dumpster, it seems her usual haunt.
“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”
I hear a rustle further up the alley and look up to see a tall man striding towards me. There are sometimes homeless people sleeping here, but he, I know, is not one because the shape of him, everything about him, screams power and violence.
For once I don’t second guess myself, or wait and see if I’m imagining things. I act.
The hair stands up on the back of my neck as I drop the cup of biscuits, gripped by a sudden and inexplicable terror. Squeaking pathetically, I turn and rush inside, slamming the door behind me. A big thud bangs into the door at the same time as I shut it, and I know, without knowing how I know, that he had tried to grab me, and just missed.
Shaking, my eyes wide, I push the double lock across the door and bolt up the carpeted hallway to Mrs Swinstone’s.
“Mrs Swinstone, Mrs Swinstone, it’s me, Josie, open up.”
I bang on her door a few more times, but it is clear she is not home. Then I remember that on Friday nights she sometimes goes to stay at her daughter’s house in the suburbs to mind her grandkids while her daughter and ‘no good’ son-in-law have date night.
“Shit,” I spin back to my door, still wide open as I left it, and rush inside, slamming it behind me and double locking it, before vaulting over to the coffee table and tipping the book upside down. I know I have officer Reynold’s number in there on a card, I was using it as a marker.
Shaking and shaking, I see a small, purple flower fall out along with the police officer’s card. The flower is flat and transparent, like a dismembered butterfly wing, and flutters to the floor at my feet.
Ignoring the flower, I dial the officer with shaky hands and explain what happened.
No less than five minutes later he is at my door, and I invite him in, almost throwing myself into his arms in relief, but restraining myself in time.
He tells me to sit on the couch while he pulls out his gun and makes his way out the back door. But he is back in a few minutes.
“Nothing,” he says quietly as I open the door to him again, “look, I can see you are shaken, would you like me to make you a drink?”
“Yes,” I nod, my voice still shocked and hushed, “tea, please.”
While he is in the kitchen, rattling around, my breathing begins to settle down, and I glance at the carpet and see the flower. Picking it up, I see it is a violet, maybe, it still holds a faint perfume, and it has been perfectly pressed and preserved within the pages of the journal. I tuck it back into a random page as officer Reynolds returns.
“Here,” he smiles, handing me a hot cup of tea.
“Thank you, ah, Officer.”
“It’s Blake,” he smiles, “Blake Reynolds.”
I can’t help but notice that his eyes look at me appreciatively. It has been a long time since blue eyes have looked at me like that, and I feel a little shiver of anticipation in my lower spine as I look back at him, my own eyes, I know, showing my interest.
“Thank you, Blake.”
