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Authors: Dana Cameron
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flirting with her to make me feel good—I didn’t date much, before Jane.”
I didn’t say anything. Plain, earnest, honest-looking Greg would have made the perfect foil for Andrew’s glamour; I wondered whether there was anything deeper than that to his affection for Greg. As for innocent flirtation with Jane, when I looked at the picture again, I realized that Andrew was every bit as engaged with the photographer as Greg was. It didn’t look the least bit innocent to me.
“Here’s a nice one, of me and Gran and Aunty Mads.” Greg pointed to another picture in a metallic gold frame, the surface glinting greenish with age. “That one’s Gran, the smaller one, that’s Auntie Mads Crawford. Well, I call her Auntie; she and Gran were great friends. They raised me after my parents died in a car crash.”
I saw another even younger version of Greg, this time with shorter hair and heavily rimmed glasses and a navy blue leisure suit, flanked by two older women. A tall, stout woman with gingery hair, which although pinned into a large bun was clearly every bit as wiry as Greg’s, was obviously his grandmother. The other woman was shorter, thinner, and thin-lipped, with lighter hair. Both women wore spring suits and hats that were dated, even for this photograph, with corsages and looks of well-satisfied pride. Young Greg, his head tilted down, smiled shyly for the camera.
Greg continued. “That was the day I left school. I thought they would bust, they were dead chuffed. Of course, they never said much about it to me—”
“But just look at them,” I said.
“Absolutely. They worked very hard, the two of them, to pay my fees. I had a small grant but it didn’t cover everything. I think back now to how hard that must have been for them, but they never said a word about it. They were tough old birds then, and Mads still is. I think it was the war, you know. They’d gone through so much then that I don’t believe they ever believed anything less would ever stop them after that—”
“Greg? Where’ve you got to?” Jane called from downstairs. “I need to ask you about Bonnie’s notes, and Emma needs to get to sleep.”
Greg and I exchanged a smile and said good night again. I went up and washed at the little sink in my room—complete with a towel, herbal soap, and a clean “toothmug,” as Jane had called it—and then fell gratefully into bed. I slept almost at once.
I don’t know how long it was later, but it was still darkwhen I abruptly woke up. Still groggy and blaming my confused circadian mechanism, I was about to roll over and try to get back to sleep when I realized that I had woken up for a reason. My door was opening.
At first, I thought it must be the fault of the door itself—the house was old, and the door frame was probably out of plumb—but then I saw a form in the faint light of a streetlight shining through the hallway window. There was a man in the doorway.
Still uncertain that I wasn’t dreaming, I couldn’t find my voice for a second, but then I smelled the distinct sour smell of beery sweat and heard the man’s harsh breath.
“Who—?” I managed to gasp out, but that was all. I summoned my breath for a scream, but then the stranger surprised me by speaking himself.
“You stubborn little bitch,” he said in a low voice. “D’you have any idea what you’ve put me through?”
Shocked, I watched the stranger fumble for the light switch and then was blinded when the overhead light banished the darkness. When I was able to unscrew my eyes open, I realized that the stranger was in the same boat as I; he squinted back at me, disappointed and every bit as confused as I.
“Who the hell are you?” we demanded simultaneously.
Chapter 4
I GRABBED THE FLASHLIGHT FROM THE TOP OF MY nightstand, grateful that I’d brought the big metallic one that weighed about five pounds instead of the tiny one I use for taking notes in dark auditoriums. Its heft comforted me a little,
I didn’t say anything. Plain, earnest, honest-looking Greg would have made the perfect foil for Andrew’s glamour; I wondered whether there was anything deeper than that to his affection for Greg. As for innocent flirtation with Jane, when I looked at the picture again, I realized that Andrew was every bit as engaged with the photographer as Greg was. It didn’t look the least bit innocent to me.
“Here’s a nice one, of me and Gran and Aunty Mads.” Greg pointed to another picture in a metallic gold frame, the surface glinting greenish with age. “That one’s Gran, the smaller one, that’s Auntie Mads Crawford. Well, I call her Auntie; she and Gran were great friends. They raised me after my parents died in a car crash.”
I saw another even younger version of Greg, this time with shorter hair and heavily rimmed glasses and a navy blue leisure suit, flanked by two older women. A tall, stout woman with gingery hair, which although pinned into a large bun was clearly every bit as wiry as Greg’s, was obviously his grandmother. The other woman was shorter, thinner, and thin-lipped, with lighter hair. Both women wore spring suits and hats that were dated, even for this photograph, with corsages and looks of well-satisfied pride. Young Greg, his head tilted down, smiled shyly for the camera.
Greg continued. “That was the day I left school. I thought they would bust, they were dead chuffed. Of course, they never said much about it to me—”
“But just look at them,” I said.
“Absolutely. They worked very hard, the two of them, to pay my fees. I had a small grant but it didn’t cover everything. I think back now to how hard that must have been for them, but they never said a word about it. They were tough old birds then, and Mads still is. I think it was the war, you know. They’d gone through so much then that I don’t believe they ever believed anything less would ever stop them after that—”
“Greg? Where’ve you got to?” Jane called from downstairs. “I need to ask you about Bonnie’s notes, and Emma needs to get to sleep.”
Greg and I exchanged a smile and said good night again. I went up and washed at the little sink in my room—complete with a towel, herbal soap, and a clean “toothmug,” as Jane had called it—and then fell gratefully into bed. I slept almost at once.
I don’t know how long it was later, but it was still darkwhen I abruptly woke up. Still groggy and blaming my confused circadian mechanism, I was about to roll over and try to get back to sleep when I realized that I had woken up for a reason. My door was opening.
At first, I thought it must be the fault of the door itself—the house was old, and the door frame was probably out of plumb—but then I saw a form in the faint light of a streetlight shining through the hallway window. There was a man in the doorway.
Still uncertain that I wasn’t dreaming, I couldn’t find my voice for a second, but then I smelled the distinct sour smell of beery sweat and heard the man’s harsh breath.
“Who—?” I managed to gasp out, but that was all. I summoned my breath for a scream, but then the stranger surprised me by speaking himself.
“You stubborn little bitch,” he said in a low voice. “D’you have any idea what you’ve put me through?”
Shocked, I watched the stranger fumble for the light switch and then was blinded when the overhead light banished the darkness. When I was able to unscrew my eyes open, I realized that the stranger was in the same boat as I; he squinted back at me, disappointed and every bit as confused as I.
“Who the hell are you?” we demanded simultaneously.
Chapter 4
I GRABBED THE FLASHLIGHT FROM THE TOP OF MY nightstand, grateful that I’d brought the big metallic one that weighed about five pounds instead of the tiny one I use for taking notes in dark auditoriums. Its heft comforted me a little,
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