Diary Diary VI - Section II
8. August
Part I
During the first week of August, Louise took Cathy into town by means of the bus. Now in a relationship, she dared not look too hard at the lovely girls she saw: she had her own sitting right next to her. Every so often she looked sideways at Cathy, checking out the thick-edged lens nearest her. She thought “what is her prescription, minus 18 or so? About the same as Emma’s?” There was no Emma around to ask. And she had myodisks: there were upsides and downsides for those, like her, who loved the look of thick lenses. Admittedly she loved the look of her own glasses, especially as her better eye was steadily catching up her worse one: 11.5 vs 14 and steadily closing, but as for myodisks, they made the sideways view a little thinner, but the tradeoff was the full frontal view: that looked so much more interesting, and for Louise, deeply alluring. She loved the view of a pair of little eyes, behind two walls of crystal, and surrounded by a circle. Even a line was good. The problem was that they were very rare: Emma was the only person she’d seen wearing them, although she’d seen photos online. Not for the first time, she began to hope that she could get Cathy interested in such. That was a very good idea as far as she was concerned, but for the snag: Cathy wasn’t keen on them. She mused further along those lines, realising that she’d need to do some serious persuading. Then the bus stopped, thus allowing them to get off; they then headed straight for the shops.
They spent some time roaming around looking at clothes, Louise taking the lead, drawing Cathy into shops and toward fashionable examples of such. Cathy wasn’t entirely ignorant of current fashion, it was just that she wasn’t really so keen to try it, and wasn’t really inclined to wear what everyone else was wearing. But Louise started wearing her down, saying to her enthusiastically,
‘here, try this, try that with it, this top too. You’ll look great in it, I know you will.’
‘You say that every time you see clothes’
Cathy replied dryly.
‘Ahh, but just go and try them, you’ll see.’
Cathy didn’t utter one of her trademark sighs of exasperation: she’d realised that on Louise, they usually made little difference, so she went to try them. She came out wearing the top, leggings and jacket Louise had found for her. She commented as she viewed herself in the mirror,
‘mmm, this is acceptable - in fact, it is quite good. Really quite good.’
Another girl looked her and nodded. Louise said,
‘see, someone else thinks you look really fab.’
Cathy sent her a knowing look, and one of her brief but sincerely meant smiles. The new outfit was duly purchased. Once outside, Louise reiterated her challenge to Cathy.
‘I’m determined to get you in a short skirt. You’ll look super-scorching-hot in one, with your legs.’
Cathy nodded, warily, and answered,
‘they’re not really my style, I think you’ll see that when I try them’
‘sometimes style finds you.’
Cathy didn’t know what to say to that.
After some time, during which Louise led Cathy around looking for more clothes and particularly with short skirts in mind, they decided to stop for something to eat: so they went to the local branch of BFC - named for some US state, but Louise couldn’t remember and didn’t really care which, the logo of the man with the banjo meaning nothing to her. Once they sat down, they heard two young women behind them, arguing thus:
‘Hairy face, hairy face, you just get your hair in your eyes! Ha ha, I don’t have to tie up my hair!’
‘Ahh, leave me alone, that’s mean! I like tying up my hair!’
Then,
‘oh and yeah, your face is so boring and childish, you’ll never get a proper job like me, you don’t look serious. Baby face, baby face!’
The other girl replied,
‘so? I don’t care.’
‘Oh, what’s that thing you do when you look into the wind? Blinking is it? Blinky blinky blink blink...’
‘I’ve had enough of you!’
She got up and stormed off in high dudgeon, followed by further taunts of ‘baby face, blinky blink.’
Louise turned to look at the girl walking out: although she was attractive, she did not wear glasses. The girl left behind had two things on her face: a big satisfied smile, and glasses. Louise looked back at her girlfriend, and commented,
‘you don’t see that every day.’
Cathy readily agreed. Then she asked
‘Louise, did you ever get teased at school?’
‘Yeah, of course. I got over it somehow. And you?’
She answered sadly,
‘what do you think?’
Louise laid her hand on her arm and said soothingly,
‘don’t worry about it. That girl knows how to deal with it.’
Cathy seemed a little perturbed by that. Louise reassured her,
‘no need to worry, you’re perfectly good looking to me.’
That went down very well with Cathy. Then Louise continued,
‘but your fashion sense - that needs work.’
They sat eating for a while, then Cathy reached into her bag for her notebook, which she opened at a specific page. She told Louise with a serious note to her voice
‘I’ve been thinking.’
‘You’re always thinking. What about? Something mathematical?’
‘Yep. It’s to do with the Spechunter. I think I can predict when he will strike next.’
Louise’s eyes blinked softly behind her thick lenses at that news.
‘Really? How? Show me.’
Cathy, as usual, did her best to explain it, but as usual Louise was lost pretty quickly. Louise thought she heard her say “Differentiable Manifold” and “Normal Distribution”, both of which meant nothing to her. Softly, she put her hand on Cathy’s arm and told her,
‘but he’s not normal.’
Cathy met her gaze and her mouth opened a little, obviously uncertain as to what to say for a moment. Then she said,
‘that’s not really the point - oh, mmm, perhaps it is. I see what you are saying. Yes, yes, I have to account for a differential variable - maybe something to do with Heisenberg...’
She paused again and said to Louise, admiringly,
‘you’re a genius. I never really knew till now - I’m so glad I met you. Not just a pretty face, with thick glasses like mine.’
Louise gave a smile, and then struck out, trusting to luck and her natural friendly persuasiveness, asking her
‘sooo - about those myodisks.’
Cathy’s face fell instantly into dismay. Unhappily, she said
‘I thought we agreed that we wouldn’t talk about them.’
‘I can’t understand: they look cool on my sister Emma, her prescription is similar to yours.’
Cathy retorted
‘I’m not your sister Emma.’
‘I know, but can’t you at least try?’
‘How, I have none to try, do you?’
‘Erm, no, but I think I can borrow a pair of hers to show you.’
Cathy looked a little disappointed: she was plainly hoping she could avoid this. There was an awkward pause.
Louise resolved to keep trying, so said
‘I don’t understand your problem, they will make you look so beautiful from the front. Tell me, what is wrong with that, please?’
Cathy started talking about angles, refraction, image size and all sorts of technical stuff, in a pedantic fashion, as if she were explaining it to a child. Louise cut her off sharply
‘Cathy, that’s bullshit, and you know it.’
She stopped and stared angrily at Louise, who continued,
‘for someone talks about logic so much, you do get angry a lot. You need to calm down and think. What’s really the problem? Did you just make your mind up once and then decide you couldn’t change it?’
Cathy looked bitterly at her, so Louise gently touched her arm. She flinched away. Louise tipped her head and said calmly
‘I thought I was your very important friend? Don’t you want that?’
Her girlfriend looked as if she was going to cry. Louise sighed, and told her firmly,
‘look, you silly cat, I’m into you and I’m not going anywhere. But - we need to trust each other, right? I mean, trust each other with our unpleasant little secrets: I told you all about my patching.’
She watched Cathy looking at her uncomfortably, so then suggested,
‘perhaps we need to go shopping again instead.’
Cathy nodded, then Louise got up and went out, followed by her girlfriend. Once outside, Cathy pressed herself up to Louise and gave her a hug, murmuring into her ear “you’re my favourite genius.” They returned to shopping as before, with Louise dragging Cathy into various shops and pestering her to try things on: Louise got the impression that by now Cathy wasn’t quite so resistant to her ideas; for that, she was grateful.
In one shop Louise found her a short skirt and made her try it on with another top. Cathy went into the cubicle, and a minute or two later, the waiting Louise heard soft singing. It came from within the cubicle. Curious, she knocked at the door and asked
‘Cathy, is that you singing?’
It stopped, and Cathy replied, sounding a little embarrassed,
‘yes, it’s me,’
then with a more normal tone to her voice continued,
‘hang on, I’m nearly ready to show you.’
The door opened, then Louise’s refracted and much corrected eyes widened in delight. She exclaimed,
‘oh wow, look at the superhottie! And she can sing! And do sums in a microsecond! Wow, I so lucky to know you!’
Cathy rolled her eyes, saying with mostly mock exasperation,
‘oh, you do get so excitable, Loopy. Calm down, dearie.’
She then whirled a little in front of the mirror, the pleats swishing and swirling as she moved, and commented,
’it’s quite agreeable, I accept that. I’ll have this. Now, about that skater dress you showed me...’
Later, on the bus home, Louise asked her very important friend Cathy about the singing she’d done earlier,
‘oh, but it’s nothing really. You know mathematics is the basis of sound?’
Louise shook her head, and held up her hand to forestall a complicated explanation of music theory and how mathematics explained it all.
‘All I care about is how it sounds, and to me it sounded amazing. You ought to consider a career in music.’
‘I’m a mathematician, not a singer.’
‘You could be both.’
‘mmm,’
Cathy replied, a dubious note to her voice.
Then her expression firmed, which Louise recognized as her “thinking expression”. She turned to Louise, and said
’I think... I think I’ll try your sister’s myodisks. If you think it appropriate for me to do so.’
Louise smiled and replied,
‘yes, I don’t think she’d mind. I wish she were around to ask her for permission.’
Cathy watched her, and said,
‘perhaps she will be found soon. That the police haven’t found a body is encouraging: she may well be still alive, probably held captive.’
‘Well, I hope they let her go. She wouldn’t go quietly, I know her, she’d be more like to kick and scream till she’s free.’
Louise smiled at that thought, until she started to worry about her again.
Part II
The next day, Bernie waddled into the conference room for another boring departmental meeting. Then he clapped eyes on his young friend Kirsty already sitting there, and thus the meeting suddenly promised to be much more interesting, in his opinion. It was such a shame that she couldn’t have stayed in the lift the other day, he and she could have had a little snuggle, possibly more. As he made a bee-line toward her, he mused “those glasses, those curves, which was the most attractive?” He didn’t really know. As he sat heavily beside her, he greeted her by name which he had learnt by dint of some discreet enquiries, observing that she was showing her normal shyness and reticence when he was around: he thought that perhaps she was afraid to show her obvious attraction to him. He hoped that next time they were in the lift together, or someone else similarly quiet, she’d be more forthcoming: in his opinion, she was almost certainly a volcano of desire waiting to explode, and he knew that he ought to be the one who would uncork it. That thought gave him a thrill.
He introduced the subject matter, then as quickly as possible handed over to someone else, and listened to them boring the pants off everyone else. Meanwhile, his hand casually dropped and made its way toward his friend’s leg. She met his eyes: he saw a determined glint in her bespectacled, heavily corrected gaze. He interpreted that as her wanting to go further, but then he felt something sharp jab into his hand, which he instantly thought of as her playing hard to get, an interesting development in his opinion. It happened again - which he interpreted as her being very hard to get.
He then saw her write something on a bit of paper, which he thought would be a love note; he knew it could be nothing else. She pushed it before him so that he could read it. It said “get your hand off my leg!”
He wrote on the back and returned it to her. It said “oh, but I know you really want a fuck with me.” He saw her take another bit of paper and write on it. His eyes opened as he read it: it said “go fuck yourself.” It was his turn to look determined. The thought of a girl with a temper as hers seemed to be made him feel so excited, he was now really looking forward to getting into bed with her.
He gave her leg a little squeeze. She made a little noise, got to her feet and announced,
‘sorry, everyone, I don’t feel well. I feel sick.’
She hurriedly walked to the door. Bernie got to his feet and made to follow her, but someone else asked a work-related question of him which stopped him in his tracks. Another Section Leader offered to assist her: a woman named Rosie, who followed the distressed Kirsty to the nearest female toilet. Kirsty honestly almost felt like puking: the thought of being touched by Bernie did that to her. As she sat in the cubicle staring at the door, she heard Rosie come in. She said kindly,
‘now, you know Bernie likes young women like you, with glasses. You really ought to save yourself some hassle and get yourself contacts.’
Rosie heard a sharp little intake of breath from inside the cubicle. Concerned, she asked,
‘are you okay, dear?’
Kirsty swallowed and said,
‘yeah, I’ll be alright. Just give me a little while, after all it’s only sick.’
The night after that, Kirsty opened her eyes to a scene of devastation: a land of mud and torn trees, smashed buildings, all illuminated by regular, violent explosions in the sky and on the ground. She stood in a trench near the shattered remains of what appeared to be farm buildings, behind which cowered were a few people of both sexes dressed in combat fatigues, holding rifles and all wearing little round wire-frame glasses. Diana stood before her and asked
‘General, what are your plans? Do we attack or retreat?’
Kirsty felt and looked confused. Her life was difficult, but not a war zone, or so she thought. Diana patiently waited for Kirsty to give her orders. Kirsty stalled by asking her,
‘what’s the situation here then?’
Diana patiently explained,
‘the Intendant’s army has been probing our positions for some days now, it’s widely believed amongst the resistance that he intends to attack here.’
Kirsty looked over at the shell-torn landscape. Another shell whizzed over: Kirsty could have sworn the whistling sound it made whilst travelling though the air sounded like “geek face”. She met Diana’s eyes, who said
‘they won’t break us. We must hold.’
At that, swarms of black-clad troopers clambered out of the trenches opposite, then began shooting their guns at them. Kirsty saw that the bullets they fired turned into kitchen knives as they flew through the air - one hit one of her soldiers, and another stuck quivering into the remains of a wooden roofing beam nearby. It had writing on: Kirsty went to look, and saw that it had the words “four eyes” etched on. Another one hit nearby: it said “window face” on it. Kirsty then saw one whizzing toward her, and began to realise what to do. What to try, anyway. She made no attempt to dodge, but instead said coolly to their assailants,
‘so? What does it matter? Did you just notice? Maybe you people need glasses too!’
The knife seemed to turn to rubber, and bounced off her shoulder. Their leader walked over to her and taunted her,
‘can’t you see, silly girl? We all can, without glasses; you all have to put up with looking so stupid and ugly, just so that you can see.’
Kirsty shrugged and said,
‘well, what can I do about that? What can any of us do?’
He seemed to freeze, as if uncertain. Kirsty continued,
‘maybe you think you are perfect, that you have perfect vision, but maybe you will find you need reading glasses later in life. So maybe you’d better mock yourself.’
His facial expression turned from mirth to disbelief, then he vanished in a puff of black smoke.
Kirsty looked around her at her troops, still hard pressed by the dark-uniformed enemy soldiers. What to do? Could they believe that wearing glasses was unimportant? Kirsty had long accepted that. She knew what to do. She held up her hands and cried,
‘stop! Stop now! This it stupid and pointless!’
They all stopped and looked at her. She continued,
‘listen to me, glasses are something to be proud of, not something to be ashamed of or frightened of. If you can’t make yourself believe that, I will believe it for you!’
At that, the entire world, including all the soldiers on both sides seemed to shatter like broken glass, her view fading into fog for a heartbeat, then quickly clearing. Kirsty found herself standing on a carefully manicured lawn before a fairytale chateau. She heard derisive laughter, and a voice called out mockingly,
‘you don’t really believe that, do you?’
At that she woke, and dimly realised that her bedside light had fallen on the floor, thus causing the bulb to smash, pieces of which lay on the carpet waiting to cut an unwary foot.
The following Monday found Louise walking up to a grave: it was obviously new, since the turf hadn’t settled yet and also there was no headstone, just a simple wooden cross with a name written on which she could read easily in the distance. It was that of her old girlfriend, Michelle. She crouched beside it, struggling not to weep. She murmured
‘Michelle, I will always remember you. My first love.’
‘I always knew you were crazy, I don’t know if it was that, the stutter or those shimmering plus lenses and big friendly fluttering eyes that drew me to you. Now I half wish I had done as you wanted me to do. Or perhaps not, because you seemed to get crazier the more I was with you.’
She paused, and then continued
‘I have a new girlfriend: her name is Cathy. I know you would approve of her. Compared to you, she is both wonderful and strange in different ways. She is working on a way to trap that horrible Spechunter, and I’m going to help her. We will catch that evil man who killed you, I promise.’
She wiped a tear away, and then reached into her pocket, and said to the grave,
‘here, I have something of yours.’
She placed two small things just in front of the headstone: one was the lens she’d given Louise, the other the black lens blank she’d made her wear. She stood up and remained there for a few minutes in silence, gazing at the lump that covered what formerly was her girlfriend, and then approvingly of the spot chosen for the burial: pretty trees around a quiet, secluded area.
Her phone beeped, breaking into her musing: it was a message from Cathy, with a sticker of a confused-looking cartoon cat with a question mark above its head. It read,
‘hello Loopy, where are you?’
Louise replied to it,
‘oh, just visiting someone I used to know. I’ll be with you soon, Puddytat.’
‘Mew. Okay see you soon, I’m in the town centre, wanting a coffee and wanting you too .’
‘OK, I’m coming now.’
‘nod nod.’
With that, Louise out her phone back in her bag and started off, her footsteps crunching away on the gravel path between plots. A gardener looked up her: she gave him a lovely smile. She doubted she would ever be coming back here again.
Three days later, Amy let Alan guide her from the car to the college entrance: she could see it perfectly well in the early evening light, but was happy to let him do this: huddling up to him as was normal for either twin. She thought how her silly little deaf and blinder sister would never twig her little subterfuge, and had to stifle a giggle at the thought. Alan was a decent bloke but a bit of a boring dork: the sex was ok and his company was bearable. He led her into the corridor, where Amy’s “confused blind girl” act wasn’t quite an act: she could probably have found the right room number, but would have meant some annoying searching and squinting around this completely unfamiliar place. Silently, she allowed him to lead her there.
Once inside, he took out his camera, for her a small red brick, and asked her to pose against a blank wall. He took many photos of her, some facial, some including her body, a few full length. He made to finish, but Amy wanted him to do more: she was loving the attention and he was enjoying the variety of poses she had. He said to her,
‘you seem much more - animated than last time we did this.’
‘Last time? Oh, yeah, last time. Well, I was just getting used to the job back then!’
She asked to see the previous set: these were of the real Melissa - the nice, quiet, shy Melissa who always went whining to big sister Kirsty whenever Amy came first. She did her best not to laugh, but failed. Curious, he asked,
‘what’s so funny?’
‘Oh, they - erm, I look so dull - perhaps I’d overdosed on glum tablets that day?’
He chuckled, and said,
‘you do look sad.’
‘Perhaps I was waiting for some enhanced attention from you for too long.’
She sidled up to him, and touched him on his chest and said slyly,
‘well, perhaps I need some of that now.’
He grinned. Before long, he had taken her home and was happily giving her all the enhanced attention he possibly could.
Melissa was in a bit of a panic: that lovely red top she’d bought a few weeks ago had gone missing: she rummaged around hoping to find it in the back of the wardrobe, but to no avail. It wasn’t in the little pile of bags with other clothing she’d bought recently and hadn’t bothered finding homes for yet either. She called for her sister Amy, but then realised she’d gone out. She thought to herself how odd it was to be meeting a client on a Friday night, and also that she seemed to be meeting a lot of clients at odd times these days. “A glutton for punishment,” she mused, as she went across the hall and into her sister’s room. She wondered if her naughty slightly older sister had pinched it; she resolved to murder her if she’d done so. But then, as she looked and rummaged around, she remembered all the times she’d borrowed clothes from her slightly older sister: it was just something that happened between twins and the clothes always fitted so well. Maybe she hadn’t realised that Melissa hadn’t worn it yet, or perhaps had taken it just to look and then forgotten to return it. Melissa thought to herself how silly Amy could be, especially considering that she had the better eyesight too. But there was no sign of it there either. She couldn’t think where else clothes might be, so gave up and wore something else instead, finding something that needed washing whilst deciding. Said item she took down to the wash basket, whereupon she realised that there was another place to find clothes, namely in the washing. A quick rummage around in the basket ensued, and then she came upon it. She inspected it closely: it was a little creased, and had quite obviously been worn - the tags were gone and it didn’t smell fresh. She meekly put it back in the laundry basket.
Part III
Almost a week later, Cathy was in her bedroom scribbling down mathematical symbols in her notepad, then happened to look at the time.
‘Shiittt... Mum, I gotta go!’
Her mother walked out of the kitchen: Cathy could hear the news being read out over the radio.
‘Going to see that nice Louise girl again?’
‘To me, she’s much more than nice, Mum.’
‘Yes, I guessed that. Go on then. Take care of her, she’s a good ’un.’
Cathy got herself ready in nothing flat and flew out of the door, while the newsreader told those who were interested in hearing that the gang leader called “Sir Hedrah” had died in police custody. Cathy wasn’t at all interested in that: her only concern was not being late for a meetup with Louise.
The next day, Alan took Melissa to a club for a while, then he took her to his flat, with him saying as he parked his car in the drive,
‘don’t worry, I’ll be giving you some enhanced attention very soon.’
She looked confused, and replied,
‘what? I don’t know what you mean.’
He smiled, thinking she was playing around with him,
‘you know, that special thing...’
The penny dropped.
‘Oh, we’ll have sex. Well, I knew about that. Comon, I’m ready when you are.’
After that special thing had happened, he got up and fetched his camera. He asked
‘Melissa, do you mind me taking some more photos?’
She replied,
‘yes, ok. Is this for the charity website thing? If so, I think they’ll want me wearing clothes.’
‘Ah, okay. I don’t mind, as long as you aren’t too stuffy.’
‘Stuffy?’
‘Never mind.’
She got dressed, after which he started taking photos of her, during which he found that he had to direct her more than the last time at the college. He commented,
‘you don’t seem so outgoing today, is something wrong?’
Melissa was again puzzled. She replied,
‘this is just me. I thought you liked my posing the first time around, it’s just the same.’
‘Yeah, but the second time was much better.’
She looked bemused, and asked,
‘the second time? I thought you didn’t like it.’
‘I did.’
‘I’m really confused now. Ahh, never mind that, can I have another glass of wine please?’
He did as she requested, then excused himself so that he could use the toilet. She reached over to the table where he’d left the camera, and started looking through the photos. She looked closely, as befitted someone with such poor vision as her, seeing pic after pic of her posing by the wall, looking at the camera or around the room. She did wonder as to why so many photos were needed, and that they didn’t seem all that interesting, so she skipped some, then some more - and saw a pic of herself at the college. Although her feeble vision gathered little detail, she could recognise the colour of the wall, and also the top she was wearing that day. It was the red one! Her mouth opened a little. She did look very good in it, even her vision could see that; but the problem was she could have sworn she’d never worn it at the college. She flipped through the photos one by one. Her astonishment grew and grew: her poses were akin to those Alan had tried to persuade her to do, but in these photos she seemed rather less forced and uncertain, more natural and outgoing. And then she found the ones she did remember, wearing a blue top. These seemed much stiffer and more staid - and there were only two of them. Just as she was about to flick back to the ones of her in the red top, the battery died. Unfortunately, Alan did not have a replacement to hand, but promised that he would buy more tomorrow. Soon she had another glass or two of wine inside her, and then soon after didn’t really care.
Louise checked that the coast was clear during the last Saturday afternoon in August, then crept over to Emma’s bedroom door. It had been many weeks since Emma had disappeared, and despite her newfound love with Cathy, she still worried about her, hoping she was okay, and wishing she would come back soon safe and sound. All those horrible murders scared her: she didn’t want to be standing over the grave of another loved one again soon, or ever again if possible. She opened the door - it creaked a little, tiptoed in, and continued thus toward the wardrobe. She knew exactly where to look: Emma’s spare emergency glasses, tucked underneath the wardrobe, their hiding place masked by a piece of the wardrobe at the bottom that could be pulled off with some effort, hardly obvious to the casual observer. Knocking or pushing at it wouldn’t move it: she had to wrench it off. She then felt underneath, her fingers found and grasped the glasses case; which she pulled out, then checked that they were still in there. She heard a noise, and turned.
Kirsty stood there, arms folded, her demeanour both icy and curious. Louise had noticed how stressed she was these days, so she said carefully,
‘sorry Kirsty, did I wake you up?’
She softened, just a touch, saying,
‘no, not really. What are you doing with those?’
Louise swallowed, and replied
‘I... I was going to put them on the altar at Emma’s church, so that the people there wouldn’t forget to pray for her.’
Kirsty looked at her askance, as if not entirely believing her. Louise continued
‘I’m really really worried about Emma... I thought it was a good idea.’
Kirsty nodded slowly, then said,
‘ahh, alright. I suppose it can’t hurt. Go on, then.’
Louise went back into her room, then breathed a soft sigh of relief.
Two days later, Kirsty got off the bus intending to go to Davis and Taylor, her regular opticians that she’d been going to for years. It seemed to her she’d already tried a hundred times, but perhaps this time she’d be lucky, being as her need for visual relief had not declined. But then as she walked, she heard lots of noise, shouting and commotion ahead - there were reports of rioting after the death of Sir Hedrah in police custody - it was just that she’d forgotten all about that. The noise got louder as she walked towards the optician. She thought to herself “now what’s going on?” She heard chanting up ahead, from the direction she was headed
‘Sir-hed-rah! Sir-hed-rah! Sir hed-rah!’
Turning the last corner quickly revealed to her what was happening: there was an angry mob, chanting the gang leader’s name whilst trying to break the police line and smash up the shops beyond for no other reason than to vent their fury. Some of the shops had already been smashed and looted already, some had not. The mob charged over and over at the police line, their chants accelerating and merging into one
‘sirhedrahsirhedrahsirhedrahsirhedrah...’
Kirsty gave a little moan of dismay, then thought “oh no, oh - not again! Please, please not again!!”
She wasn’t sure if could get to the opticians, being as it was currently protected behind the police line. She didn’t even know if it was open. She couldn’t really tell, but hoped that it just might be. So, she tried to get past the police line. They weren’t interested in her pleas, and certainly not in her energetic attempts to get past them. Kirsty desisted, trying to stop herself bursting into tears. She thought “Again? AGAIN??? Arrgh!!!”
She cried out in frustration, causing several rioters to glance curiously and smile at this well-dressed, bespectacled rioter. One of them said to her,
‘glad you’re with us, darling!’
Kirsty felt like no-one’s darling and that nobody was with her: she felt angry and frustrated. She looked around for some way past the police line: there were alleyways further back, and she’d spent so much time getting herself here in recent weeks for failed appointment after failed appointment, she thought there was a good chance of evading them, so she went to look. The first alleyway had a policeman at the entrance. Kirsty tried her best to look like an innocent bystander: he advised her to get away from the area, but that was the last thing on her mind. She needed to get to the optician and no stupid riot or policeman was going to stop her.
The second alleyway was the same, but there was a third one further back, which had no policeman guarding it. She ran down it, only to find that around a corner, it ended in a brick wall about 2 or 3 times her height: a dead end. She sighed, and her shoulders drooped: but she had to try, so she laboriously pushed a bin against the wall, then lifted an old wooden pallet onto it sideways so it leant against the wall. It was the best she could do, so she started to clamber up it. Pretty quickly her office clothes became dirty and dishevelled, but she’d done that before trying to keep an appointment. Her hand reached for the drainpipe she was aiming for: it turned out to be loose. As she did this, a policewoman came around the corner and cried out at her,
‘stop! Stop right there!’
Kirsty was too desperate for new glasses to comply with that. The policewoman ran up to her and tried to climb up behind her. Kirsty felt her grab her ankle, but she wriggled up, swung over the top of the wall and then started to shimmy down the drainpipe. It bent under her weight, pulling away from the wall, and dropped her to the ground into a puddle. She scrambled to her feet, ignoring her scrapes and now stained clothing: she could get them dry-cleaned another time, as in her desperate opinion, she needed to get to the opticians immediately.
She ran down the alleyway and appeared further down the main street, behind the police line and more importantly, near Davis & Taylor. She stopped, straightened her clothing and then walked with apparent calm toward the place, with her inner anxiety and anger barely bottled. And then she noticed the sign: she hoped it wasn’t closed after all her climbing. She drew closer, and saw that it was. She stopped and cried out angrily,
‘no, no, it can’t be closed!!! It can’t be!’
She screamed in distress, then ran towards the shop, right up to the door and then started trying to bash her way in with her fists and feet. Her blows and screaming were utterly futile: all the shopkeepers had shut once they realised there was a riot starting in the area. But Kirsty’s desperate, crazed attempts to get in attracted the deserved attention of a couple of policemen: this screaming and crying young woman with glasses, hammering and battering at a shop doorfront could have easily been mistaken for a rioter or looter. Although looting an optician’s didn’t seem to make that much sense to them, they knew they ought to intervene. Despite the ferocity of her anger and desperation, she was easily pinned and her wrists restrained behind her with handcuffs.
After some minutes, she sat in a police van, her hair dishevelled from its former neat businesslike appearance, wrists pulled behind her back, her face streaked with tears, looking and feeling exhausted and bedraggled. Outside, she heard a couple of policemen talking,
‘that one with the glasses, if she got any angrier she’d be turning green and ripping her clothes.’
‘I’d like to see that!’
Then another one piped up,
‘if the next one is a hairy caveman who pulls dinosaurs from up his arse, you can have him.’
It wasn’t until some time later, when she was sitting in a prison cell, that she managed to calm down enough begin to make sense of it all. And then she started crying again. Her head hurt.
Bernie sauntered down the corridor, accompanied by the custody officer with whom he chatted idly. He wasn’t really interested in him, more in what he had been told by his friend Tommy, the superintendent in charge of that particular police station. There was this girl that worked at his insurance office, the one with glasses, quite attractive if a bit crazy, who had been arrested at a riot and was being held in custody pending processing. Bernie instantly knew who that was, and a moment later, smelt an opportunity. After a recent attempt to convince her of his charms, and her less than enthusiastic reply, he wondered if he could find another way to get her interested. After all, it seemed as if she’d put herself right in the brown stuff and needed help to get out, although he knew he wanted something in return.
And then he went alone to her prison cell door: there she sat, looking quite dishevelled and even more forlorn. Her distress was plain, her face streaked with tears, her darting eyes showing her stress: “easy meat,” he thought carnivorously to himself. He had no time for complacency and kid gloves now. She glanced up at him, and the look on her face changed from despair to a pinched scowl. He wondered again why the pretty ones always seemed to be so good at looking cross. He began,
‘hello, Kirsty, how are you feeling?’
She replied bitterly,
‘like shit, how about you?’
‘Ahh, you are still feisty. I like that.’
‘What you like doesn’t interest me. You make me sick!’
‘Are you sure it’s me? If you have the wrong prescription in those lovely shiny lenses, you can end up feeling quite queasy, as you were a couple of weeks ago.’
She shrugged numbly. There was a pause.
Then he began again,
‘you know, you are in some trouble here. One word from the office leader to headquarters could see you demoted or dismissed. And there’s nothing much to stop him finding out.’
She glared up at him, again exercising her skill at looking angry: she hissed, and then said bitterly, sarcastically,
‘and you propose what? To stop him finding out? Oh, how grateful I shall be to you.’
He gave her a smile which hinted at the ravenous. She asked,
‘and you want what in exchange for this service?’
His smile broadened a little. She sighed,
‘yeah, I thought you might want that.’
‘Ahh, I can see why you advanced to Section Leader so fast: you’re a perceptive young woman.’
There was an awkward silence.
‘Well, what do you say?’
‘No deal.’
‘What?? There was me thinking you were intelligent! Perhaps there was some mistake in your promotion?’
She hissed angrily at him again. So he tried harder, saying,
‘okay, perhaps I should make myself clearer. Instead of hiding this incident from the office leader, I could slip him a little note about your little run-in with the law - perhaps even embellish it a little?’
She got up and came to the bars, glaring angrily at him, and said,
‘you b...’
‘Now now, my dear, I’m only trying to help.’
‘Blackmail your way to an easy fuck, more like.’
‘Oh, you insult me again. I want no such thing, unless you see fit to grace me with the intimacy that your lovely self so plainly desires. I wish only a single dinner out with you, at a date and time of your choosing within the month. Or else it’s “no deal” from me.’
Kirsty’s shoulders slumped visibly: she was beat, and she knew it. Quietly she said
‘I accept.’
‘I can’t hear you.’
Unhappily Kirsty said, more loudly
‘I accept!’
‘Good! Now let’s get out of here!’
He waved the custody officer over, whereupon he undid the cell lock and let her out. After some talking with Tommy, she was allowed to go home with nothing recorded at the police station: Bernie saw to that, but then he wanted his night out, and whatever else he could get from her. Kirsty felt too exhausted to feel sick: that would wait till morning, when she realised what she’d agreed to.
9. September
Part I
It was the first Thursday in September when Louise went to Cathy’s house, and not for the first time: her mother was very pleasant and welcoming, Cathy much more so, as soon as they were alone together in her bedroom. Louise found herself pinned unresistingly against the door, being urgently and passionately kissed and more besides. Cathy’s usual rather cold, aloof manner and obsession with mathematics belied a fierce passion for life, she’d discovered: it was just a case of finding it. When she let go, Louise reached into her bag, saying whilst Cathy went to sit on her bed,
‘here, I have something for you, puddytat.’
She handed her the case containing Emma’s spare glasses, which she opened. Louise watched her facial expression change from pleasure to uncertainty: she wasn’t exactly excited to see them, but nor was she refusing to touch them. Louise was really hoping she would take to them, but expected her to require some encouragement. Cathy took them out, unfolded and looked at them, then held them up and looked through the lenses. She made a face and said,
‘my vision will be restricted, I know it will be.’
‘No it won’t, don’t be so silly. I thought you knew all about this, Cathy: you are such a whizz at glasses stuff. Emma says she gets just as good a field of vision as with normal glasses: the extra lens width doesn’t help with the field of view, and the myodisk also gets the lens nearer the eye, so it’s not much different. Can you see out of the side of your thick lenses? I can’t, and yours are stronger than mine.’
Then came the other predictable complaint
‘I’ll look weird.’
Louise gave almighty sigh, and said
‘Cathy - you look beautiful, but that’s just my opinion because I love you like crazy. Don’t look at me like that! But - you can’t hide your myopia, so why not flaunt it? And I’ve seen a lot weirder than myodisks!’
Cathy looked very dubious. Quietly she muttered,
‘this is why I didn’t have a girlfriend for ages...’
‘Why, because they might have told you the truth? I thought you liked scientific truth!’
Cathy’s eyes met hers, glaring from behind her flat-fronted lenses, but said nothing. Louise suggested,
‘you know, you could regard this as a scientific experiment, if you like. Get some myodisk glasses, wear them for a week, and see how many people stare at you, look away or tell you look weird.’
Cathy turned and looked away from Louise, pondering her argument for a minute or so. Louise could almost hear those wheels turning inside her head. Then she looked back and slowly admitted,
‘your suggestion has some merit, I admit.’
She paused, then continued,
‘it’s just that - I don’t have your self-confidence. I wish I did.’
Louise reached out and held her hand, looked into her eyes, and said kindly,
‘borrow some of mine then. I have a lot of confidence that you will be absolutely fine. Aren’t you going to try them on then?’
Cathy took off her own glasses: Louise had seen her uncorrected eyes before: they looked oddly big and also rather awkward because they couldn’t see very well. She carefully slipped Emma’s onto her face, and her eyes sprang to life again, looking around without moving her head. She made a little “oh” noise, looked surprised as she glanced at Louise, then started viewing the rest of the room. She commented,
‘mmm, these are about my strength, although the astigmatism is wrong. I can feel my eyes complaining already.’
‘They’re not your glasses.’
‘I know that, silly!’
Louise let her look around, allowing her to have a taste of myodisks for the first time in her life. She then got up and looked in a mirror, made a dismayed sound, then exclaimed,
‘they look so ugly!
‘They look how they look. You might say yours look ugly too.’
Cathy pushed her ginger hair up with one hand, and then turned her head to look at Louise.
‘Tell me honestly, how do I look?’
‘Like a sexy superhottie!’
Cathy sighed, and observed,
‘you say that all the time.’
‘that’s because it’s the truth.’
Louise then tried another tack, improvising,
‘look, you get some myodisks, come out with me one day wearing them, I’ll wear a clown suit and people will be staring at me, not you.’
That drew a rare bout of laughter from Cathy.
‘No, no way. I don’t want to go out with a girlfriend looking like that!’
‘But I do want to go out with a girlfriend looking like you do now!’
She looked at Louise, and asked curiously,
‘are all your sisters like you?’
‘Like what?’
‘Clever, difficult to argue with, and very determined?’
‘You could say that - you’ll have to meet them.’
‘You said to me that you hadn’t told them about us yet. When were you planning on doing that? In two hundred and ten years?’
‘Okay, okay, I’ll tell them. Soon. Okay, you get yourself some myodisks, wear them outside, and I’ll tell them? And also continue to truthfully and happily tell you how wonderful you look too?’
‘Alright, deal!’
Cathy removed her borrowed glasses, replaced her own, and they spent some time messing around with makeup: a lot of it was Louise showing Cathy things she didn’t appear to know. They ended up lying next to Louise on her bed facing each other, contemplating each other’s made up faces. Cathy kissed the flat front of each of Louise’s lenses, leaving a blurry smudge which Louise would struggle to see clearly through. After a while, Louise got to her feet and saw in Cathy’s mirror what it looked like: the marks were rather obvious if the light fell the right way across her lenses, so she wiped the mark off the front of her strongest lens. Cathy commented dryly,
‘so now who’s worried about how they look?’
‘No, I just want to be able to see. Look, I’m leaving it on my other lens. I’ll be able to shut my left eye and see your lips before me anytime I want.’
Cathy smiled at that, then they launched into a bout of farewell kissing, being as Louise needed to go home. She left Emma’s glasses with Cathy, having urged her to try them again.
Kirsty sat tapping away at her laptop just over a week later
‘Hello, Diary, sorry I have not told you very much recently, it’s been so busy here and at work. The first thing I have to tell you is that I’ve been blackmailed by that horrible Bernie at work, I have to go out to dinner with him in a week or two, I know it will be torture, I feel so angry at him for taking advantage of me. He found me after I got arrested - yes, another failed attempt to get new glasses, apparently he knows the police inspector or whatever he’s called and got him to let me go without charge. And still I have no new glasses! At this rate I will probably have to resort to armed robbery! I’m almost getting used to the headaches now.’
She stopped to rub her temples, then continued
‘erm, maybe not.’
‘I do still wonder and worry about Emma, but it seems to me that if she had been caught by the Spechunter, a body would have been found by now. That doesn’t meant there isn’t a body to be found - it really chokes me to think these thoughts. Come back soon Emma safe and sound. Please.’
‘Lastly there is something odd going on with Louise. Ummm... I think I’ve thought this before, but the other day I saw her in the hall. There was this odd mark on one of her lenses, I saw it when the light reflected off the front of her glasses, it looked like a pair of lips. Maybe that was my overactive imagination, or else it’s my wonky eyesight. But I asked her about it, and she told me her hand slipped doing her makeup! I told her she ought to wipe it off, but she said she liked it! I did tell her she ought to like clear vision, but she ignored me. Well, one of us needs to see clearly around here, and that’s another reason for Emma to come back soon. But Louise, she has at last got rid of that weird stuttering girl with those thick glasses that make her eyes big. Goodness knows why she got friendly with her, maybe she felt sorry for her, I know Louise is kind hearted but really that was being a sucker for a sob story. Now I think she has a boyfriend on the go, which ought to keep her from making more odd friends. Ahh, I hope she doesn’t do something stupid and get herself pregnant though. Did I remind her about contraception? Can’t remember. Where is she now?’
She heard crying, and quickly typed
‘oh, that’s Annie crying, it’s Vicky’s day off and Melissa is out with her boyfriend too. Why can’t Louise find a decent man like him? Sorry, got to go.’
Part II
Eight days later, a Saturday, found the Bride standing resplendent in her wedding dress, waiting for the signal to come into the other room where she was to be married. To begin again: her sins washed away and to start anew. Her dress was strained in places, particularly over her bust, where it threatened to rip, but apart from that she looked appealing and felt quite ready for her marriage. Then the music started: she heard an old cassette player giving a rather wobbly rendition of “here comes the bride”. She reached out to the door surround, it being fuzzy but visible to her, and used that to guide herself through. Bereft of glasses, she saw little, but could tell the shape moving toward her was the man she loved. After all, there was nobody else here. The groom - dressed in a battered old suit, which the Bride had spent some considerable time trying to clean and repair - walked over to his beautiful, busty and highly myopic bride, who was slightly hesitant due to the lack of correction. And then they stood together. He began,
‘as God is our witness...’
Kirsty stood in the shopping centre in town, waiting patiently under the clock for her “date”. She looked around, trying to ignore the irritating fuzziness and distortion that she saw in the distance, and also not so far away. She looked up the clock, then looked at her watch. She’d been absolutely dreading this for the last week: the man was horrible, just horrible. Old, fat, balding and very boring - and he didn’t seem to realise any of that! Kirsty thought that any remotely normal woman would run a mile, and despite everything, she classed herself as such. But here she was, stuck waiting around for the date he’d blackmailed her into. But she was in quite a bit of trouble: she wondered if it was perhaps worth her while asking for some advice from Amy and Melissa on how to keep her temper when things were going wrong. She wondered “was he coming? Then, with fingers crossed,“oh, please, oh please, please, please let him not come so I can get out of this!”
And then there he was, unmistakably so, and her heart sank. Alas, it, sorry he was coming, and she couldn’t get out of it. He walked up to her and said jovially
‘Hello-Kirsty! Good-to-see-you-after-hard-days-work.’
Kirsty nodded, teeth clenched. He said,
‘lets-go-then. Are-you-hungry? I-am.’
She grudgingly said ‘yes.’
‘Good-to-see-we-are-on-speaking-terms. I-would-not-like-sit-there-with-you-in-silence.’
Kirsty would rather not sit in the same restaurant with him, but had no choice. With the tiniest morsel of sincerity, she said,
‘well, lets go then,’
leaving unsaid the obvious “lets get this over with”.
Once at the restaurant, which was mercifully not far away, he insisted on sitting facing her. He joked,
’that-waiter-is-thinking-I’m-your-father.’
Kirsty’s stomach turned itself in knots, but she smiled gracefully, her face a mask of faint pleasure and replied,
‘who knows?’
Kirsty sat there silently wishing the starter would come quickly and this this black farce would be over soon. She became increasingly annoyed with his constant eyeing her up, seeming to see through her sensible, smart business suit. He kept on looking at her face: every time she looked at him, his eyes seemed to be looking at her. Discomforted, she chose a way to deflect this attention, asking,
‘look at that, isn’t that a...?’
She started looking around, pointing out the most banal things on the walls, till she ran out, and then started on people, trying to ignore her fuzzy distance vision. For some reason the pointless conversation edged onto him asking after her family, but then mercifully the starter came. Kirsty let out a sigh of relief, then excused herself by telling him she was hungry: she didn’t care if he was convinced by that or not. She sat wishing it were over right now.
The Bride and Groom shared themselves with each other, she giving him unstintingly all the wedding present she could, all the while still wearing her dress, which was now starting to rip around the seams due to both their movements and its tightness. Then he got up, having spent himself inside her willing body, and went to fetch her new glasses, patiently and lovingly crafted to correct her myopia and give her perfect vision. And as soon as he plucked them from their case, the front door slammed open, and a man came in: his visage and manner crazed, his eyes searching avidly for victims for which to inflict destruction on though means of the bright kitchen knife he carried in his right hand. The Groom went to the bedroom door, wondering who this interloper was, and then after seeing the intent on his face, quickly deciding what to do about it. He cried out, just as the knifewielder stormed into him,
’Emma! Get behind me!’
As he was pushed back, the knife slashed his left wrist: blood sprayed from the wound, and the Groom cried out in pain and alarm. The Bride struggled to interpret what she saw, but could hear the scuffle and vivid cries of pain and distress from her new husband, and also the grunted words of his assailant,
‘get out of my way, fool: I want her.’
‘she is mine. You’ll have to kill me first!’
‘Agreed.’
Emma saw only a useless fog, needing guidance to find her way around, but she could still hear: and it seemed to her that she’d heard that voice before, some years ago. She just couldn’t place it, being as there were so many people she’d met in her former trade; some friendly, some misguided and some very dangerous.
The Groom was pushed back toward the visually struggling Bride, who had decided that searching for a weapon was pointless without glasses. She asked,
‘where are my new glasses? Please, tell me?’
‘On the dresser. No, that way.’
His attempts to guide her were unhappy failures in the face of further bloodthirsty attacks. The Groom managed to delay him by pushing him onto his back with a chair, which promptly splintered at force of the blow - and then he backed away, took the Bride by the hand and guided her into another room. Once there, as she heard two things: firstly, the man coming for them, and secondly, the sound of a door being opened. She’d heard that unpleasant sound before: it was the storeroom. She wondered what was he going to do, wondering if perhaps his plan was to hide in there with her till the man left.
His intent soon became apparent: he shoved her toward it, and once she realised what was happening, she struggled and fought energetically to forestall it, exclaiming,
‘darling, no, no, I want to help you.’
‘No... Emma, I will protect you. I’m sorry for this!’
He kicked her legs from under her, then pushed her hard into the storeroom. As she struggled to her feet and her fingers reached for the door surround, she dimly saw the two of them struggling, for her an undefined mass of humanity. There was a cry and a groan, then an energetic spray of blood which spattered her dress. Their assailant was again pushed back, then her groom returned to the doorway to bid her farewell,
‘dear wife, go. Go! Save yourself! Go toward the light! Find the handle below the light!’
He pushed her back in again, and slammed the door shut. Something snapped near the edge of the door: she pushed at it door, but it would not budge. She heard further sounds of scuffle, then the soft thudding sounds of something being pushed hard into something else. The sounds of struggle quickly ended, followed by a howl of frustration; she could see and hear the door being hammered as the victor above sought to open it, presumably with the intention of attacking her.
Bernie watched Kirsty between courses: she was indeed a pretty, attractive girl and he felt very pleased at her willingness to cooperate. She actually talked more than he’d thought she might: he was expecting monosyllabic answers and unhappy glares. Well, he got a few of those, but she smiled too: this was turning out to be quite a pleasant evening. He wondered if maybe she might be persuaded her to do more. He asked about her family and about this “Emma” who he’d heard had gone missing. It wasn’t that he really cared about that: he just wanted to see if Kirsty would talk more about her life rather than business, just out of idle curiosity, of course. She got up and excused herself, saying
‘I’m sorry, I need the loo. I won’t be long.’
When she came back, he moved the conversation along to something else: business. Well it was that, or start asking really personal questions, as he couldn’t think of anything else banal or irrelevant to say. He asked,
‘so, what do you think is the best way to sell insurance? Hard sell or be the customer’s friend?’
‘Oh, now that’s an interesting question,’
replied Kirsty, not entirely lying, and continued,
‘it’s sort of a bit of both: you’ve got to be out there in the market place, but not so out there that you look desperate. And offer something useful, not those stupid free gifts, they get broken and thrown away; no why not offer gift vouchers? Or - why not do something like arrange a car show with a dealer and do a sort of double deal, buy a new car and insurance at the same time? Or the same for houses?’
His eyes twitched at that, and then he said,
‘ahh, now I see why you were made a Section Leader. Soon to be Department leader I would say - certainly not just a pretty face.’
Kirsty struggled not to cringe at that remark, then continued,
‘how about getting our contact numbers into people’s wallets? Or maybe give away the wallet with the details printed on?’
He was very impressed, even though he was rather more interested in getting into something else, or someone else: he was beginning to really get his hopes up, now that he’d got her talking.
The Widow heard a knocking sound - then heard it again. The man cried loudly “go away!” to no avail: the knocking was repeated. She heard him tramp off. She wondered what to do, wondered what was happening. She called softly to her husband, but there was no response. She began to weep a little, but something of her old self reasserted herself: she couldn’t stay here. She heard someone talking outside,
‘hello, sir, can I interest you in our latest insurance deal? We have policies ideally suited for agricultural premises.’
She didn’t wait to find out the fashion of her late husband’s murderer replied: instead, she began to grope her way to the light. The hole in the door it spilled through wasn’t large, but even for her, enough to see by. The urgency of her escape was encouraged by noises above: she heard their mysterious assailant return, laugh manically, then say,
‘here, try these on for size. Hmmm, glasses suit you, especially as you are dead. Hold still while I take a picture. Smile please!’
She saw a bright flash around the edges of the door, heard the click of a camera taking a picture, then he called down to her
‘I never forget a female face - but men’s?
He started kicking at the storeroom door, calling to her,
‘they are so easy to forget!’
Emma heard that clearly, and a very unpleasant memory began to surface, or perhaps a feeling of terror associated with such: she couldn’t remember the details, but somehow felt she’d been in danger the last time she’d heard that voice. She was in danger now too, so as quickly as she could, did as her late husband had instructed her.
Some urgent groping at the door just below the light allowed the Widow to find what she assumed was the handle he’d advised her of; she pushed it down, the door opened and then she staggered out into the back yard of the farm, the bright dazzling light much softened by her myopia. She knew she had to save herself - to run - but where? She had no idea, being as it all looked the same to her: a featureless brown-green mass. Then she vaguely remembered there was a patch of woodland over to her left, so she picked up her skirts and ran. By the time she was halfway there, she’d tripped and fallen twice, further marring her once pure white dress with large areas of brown mud to go with the red of the earlier violently shed blood. She heard someone calling out for her: she didn’t dare turn her head in order to look, even if she could have seen anything beyond a few feet. Then the green mass of the wood loomed before her: she breathed a sigh of relief, and steadily groped her way into its dark sanctuary, safe she hoped from searching eyes far keener than her own, and grateful for the camouflage afforded by a liberal coating of blood and gore. She remained silent and immobile whilst the madman cried out threats of murder and rape at her, all to no avail: she was too well hidden inside an old grub-infested log. Some hours later, when she was well and truly sure he was gone, she pulled herself out, groped her way to the edge of the wood and started walking, her eyes and ears searching for aid.
Part III
Kirsty sat reading the dessert menu. She wasn’t really keen on having a dessert, but hoped that if she did this, she’d have done as she promised and he’d leave her alone. So she sat perusing the menu. He said,
‘you-don’t-have-to-have-dessert-if-you-don’t-want, but-I’m-having-one.’
Kirsty peeped over the top of the menu and replied,
‘oh, okay, I’ll have the icecream.’
She thought that she might as well be doing something while he ate whatever it was he was having. His choice happened to be some gigantic knickerbocker-glory type concoction in a deep glass and a long spoon. Kirsty groaned inwardly. Mercifully it came quickly, and those piggy eyes of his began leering again. She cried out silently to herself, “ohh, please let this be over, please, please!” She couldn’t make up her mind what was the worst thing about him: the boring voice, the leering, the arrogance, the stupidity or the sheer nastiness. She sat struggling to keep her anger under control.
And then her phone rang, bringing the blessed relief she fervently hoped for. It was someone from the local hospital, asking,
‘is that Miss Johnson? Miss Kirsty Johnson?’
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘We have your sister Emma here, she’s alive, although she’s had quite an ordeal.’
Kirsty thought that she wasn’t the only one, but no, it sounded like Emma’s was worse: At least she was alive. She answered,
‘okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
She addressed him
‘Bernie, can we - adjourn this? My sister Emma has been found: I need to get to hospital.’
She held up her hands to forestall any complaint he might have made, saying,
‘don’t worry, I’ll make sure we have dessert together another time, if you wish. I wouldn’t want to short change you.’
“Or else I’ll have to go through all this again”, she thought unhappily. He offered,
‘shall-I-give-you-a-lift-to-the-hospital?’
Kirsty began to shake her head, but then admitted to herself that it would be helpful.
‘Alright. Thank you. I assume your car is in the multi storey car park? I’ll meet you at the end of the road.’
Kirsty purposely sat in the back of his car: she didn’t want any stray hands to wander off course while he searched for the gear lever. He soon took her to the hospital and went with her into the building. She did direct a rather curious look at him, wondering what his problem was now. He looked rather shifty, as if looking for some