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Authors: Geoffrey West
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hours and her telling me more about her childhood, her parents, the
village where she grew up. As I held her hand I noticed that the third finger
of her left hand was slightly shorter than the rest, by about half-an-inch, and
the nail was missing.
“It was an accident,” she told
me, pulling her hand away.
“What happened?”
She closed her eyes, shook her
head as if she was trying to suppress the memory. “I was with my father in his
workshop – he had a workroom with woodwork machinery in the cellar of our
house. Daddy was always making things out of wood, that’s what gave me the idea
to do the same thing. He made me a dolls’ house, and all the furniture to go
inside...” She looked up at me, smiling at the memory. “How I loved to watch
him. I’d go down to watch him for hours, cutting all the timber and drilling
and sanding. One day I was on my own down there. I’d seen him switch on the
circular saw so many times that it was almost like second nature to me. I
copied what he did. My finger was too close.”
I recoiled at the mental picture,
trying to blank out the scene.
“There was hardly any pain at
first. All I can remember now is the blood and the panic and my mum screaming
and poor Dad crying – I’d never seen him cry before. Then the frantic car
journey to hospital. All I lost was the top bit. It healed up fairly quickly.”
“You were lucky.”
“I was stupid. Nowadays I keep my
hands well away from the blade. But it’s not machinery that scares me now, it’s
people. The idea of being attacked. You must think I’m ridiculous, Jack. Scared
of my own shadow.”
“You’re just sensitive. More
aware of the dangers that everyone’s afraid of, that’s all. Maybe you’re more
realistic than most.”
She nodded. “Do you know, Jack, I
have this awful premonition. The feeling that I’m going to be killed.”
“What?”
I felt a cold shiver run along my
spine.
“It’s stupid. There’s no logic to
it. But that’s why I’m paranoid about my personal safety I suppose. I have this
terrible feeling that I’m going to be murdered one day. I suppose that’s why
this business in town is upsetting me so much.”
There was nothing I could say.
I noticed the first whisper of
dawn through a crack between the curtains. A single bird began singing. Lucy’s
voice went on, quiet, reasonable, as eerily dreadful as the sound of weeping.
“I’ll be thirty eight very soon. And ever since I was young I had this feeling
about the number thirty eight – a horrid sort of obsession, I suppose. I have
this awful foreknowledge that I’m not going to live to see that day.”
I gulped. “It’s rubbish.”
“Maybe. I try and be rational
about it, but there’s nothing I can do. I feel as if I’m kind of marked out or something. As if there’s nothing I can do to stop the inevitable.”
“It won’t happen,” I choked out.
“I won’t let it happen !”
She smiled and shrugged. “Forget
about it. I do whenever I can. As you say, it’s stupid and irrational and when
I’m forty I’ll look back and laugh. Forget I said anything.” She stopped
talking, staring out at the strip of window, and I noticed that the chink of
sky had a streak of pink across it. “What are you afraid of, Jack?” she broke
the silence at last.
“Dying alone.”
“Really?”
“Ever since Van Meer – I told
you, the man who held me hostage. For most of those three days I was certain I
was going to die. Everyone says that in a situation like that you just accept
the inevitable. Maybe that does happen in, perhaps, a natural disaster, just
before the end. Say if you’re in a plane that’s going to crash. But it wasn’t
like that for me. Every time he put the gun in my mouth I thought that was it,
and every time the fear was just as fresh as it had been the times before. And
Van Meer knew that. He was enjoying it.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died. He came after me,
nearly killed me for a second
village where she grew up. As I held her hand I noticed that the third finger
of her left hand was slightly shorter than the rest, by about half-an-inch, and
the nail was missing.
“It was an accident,” she told
me, pulling her hand away.
“What happened?”
She closed her eyes, shook her
head as if she was trying to suppress the memory. “I was with my father in his
workshop – he had a workroom with woodwork machinery in the cellar of our
house. Daddy was always making things out of wood, that’s what gave me the idea
to do the same thing. He made me a dolls’ house, and all the furniture to go
inside...” She looked up at me, smiling at the memory. “How I loved to watch
him. I’d go down to watch him for hours, cutting all the timber and drilling
and sanding. One day I was on my own down there. I’d seen him switch on the
circular saw so many times that it was almost like second nature to me. I
copied what he did. My finger was too close.”
I recoiled at the mental picture,
trying to blank out the scene.
“There was hardly any pain at
first. All I can remember now is the blood and the panic and my mum screaming
and poor Dad crying – I’d never seen him cry before. Then the frantic car
journey to hospital. All I lost was the top bit. It healed up fairly quickly.”
“You were lucky.”
“I was stupid. Nowadays I keep my
hands well away from the blade. But it’s not machinery that scares me now, it’s
people. The idea of being attacked. You must think I’m ridiculous, Jack. Scared
of my own shadow.”
“You’re just sensitive. More
aware of the dangers that everyone’s afraid of, that’s all. Maybe you’re more
realistic than most.”
She nodded. “Do you know, Jack, I
have this awful premonition. The feeling that I’m going to be killed.”
“What?”
I felt a cold shiver run along my
spine.
“It’s stupid. There’s no logic to
it. But that’s why I’m paranoid about my personal safety I suppose. I have this
terrible feeling that I’m going to be murdered one day. I suppose that’s why
this business in town is upsetting me so much.”
There was nothing I could say.
I noticed the first whisper of
dawn through a crack between the curtains. A single bird began singing. Lucy’s
voice went on, quiet, reasonable, as eerily dreadful as the sound of weeping.
“I’ll be thirty eight very soon. And ever since I was young I had this feeling
about the number thirty eight – a horrid sort of obsession, I suppose. I have
this awful foreknowledge that I’m not going to live to see that day.”
I gulped. “It’s rubbish.”
“Maybe. I try and be rational
about it, but there’s nothing I can do. I feel as if I’m kind of marked out or something. As if there’s nothing I can do to stop the inevitable.”
“It won’t happen,” I choked out.
“I won’t let it happen !”
She smiled and shrugged. “Forget
about it. I do whenever I can. As you say, it’s stupid and irrational and when
I’m forty I’ll look back and laugh. Forget I said anything.” She stopped
talking, staring out at the strip of window, and I noticed that the chink of
sky had a streak of pink across it. “What are you afraid of, Jack?” she broke
the silence at last.
“Dying alone.”
“Really?”
“Ever since Van Meer – I told
you, the man who held me hostage. For most of those three days I was certain I
was going to die. Everyone says that in a situation like that you just accept
the inevitable. Maybe that does happen in, perhaps, a natural disaster, just
before the end. Say if you’re in a plane that’s going to crash. But it wasn’t
like that for me. Every time he put the gun in my mouth I thought that was it,
and every time the fear was just as fresh as it had been the times before. And
Van Meer knew that. He was enjoying it.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died. He came after me,
nearly killed me for a second
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