Which could be thirty minutes. Or an hour. Whenever; it did not affect his plan. He was strong enough to stop Cupid twisting the door handle and bursting through. Then, when the ride arrived, he would plunge out through the front door and sprint to the cab. If Cupid was averse to being seen by anyone except his victims, he would not follow. Not if there was a chance he would be spotted by the driver.
The handle stopped jerking. Silence.
Somewhere deep in the house a cupboard door squeaked open. Michael knew which one: the cubby hole under the kitchen sink. Melissa had nagged him to oil the hinges but he never had. Probably, she saw this as a indication of his worthlessness.
He can’t even be bothered to get some WD40 . . .
A muffled clattering followed. Cupid was looking for something.
Michael realised exactly what it at the exact moment the hand axe chopped into the door. He had bought the axe years ago, before he met Melissa. He had lived in a cottage with a logfire and he needed it to -
A thin bulge swelled from the door. Splinters scattered on the floor.
Chop . Chop. Chop.
Shit! thought Michael.
Chop. Crunch. Thunk.
The door paint split. A crack appeared.
In his mind’s eye Michael saw the crack widening and Cupid’s face leering through. Here’s Putti!
Letting go of the handle Michael ran to the front door, yanked it open and stumbled outside. Cupid continued chopping, not realising his prey had gone.
Michael shut the front door and locked it.
He stood in the driveway, panting. Snowflakes fell like feathers. Groaning, Michael stumbled onto the garden, dropped on all fours and vomited ferociously, braying like a donkey.
When he raised his head, wiping tears from his eyes, he saw Cupid on the living room window sill, a dumpy silhouette gripping an axe.
Slowly, the axe drew back, preparing to shatter the glass.
Michael grimaced, waiting for the blow to fall.
Cupid paused, stamped his foot in frustration then cast the axe aside.
Michael understood. Cupid did not dare break the window because he did not want be seen and, on a quiet street, late at night, nothing got neighbours peeking out of their homes as much as smashing glass. A beer bottle, a taillight - it barely mattered what had smashed, as long as something had smashed, and it was made of glass.
Checkmate , thought Michael. Then, No. Not quite.
Cupid might find a silent way of getting outside. Through the chimney, for instance. It would be tight but the cherub was small - and squashy - enough to squeeze up through the flue. There were other possibilities too. Maybe it could pick the lock on the front door with an elongated fingernail. Or prise up the floorboards and burrow like some hairless mole. If Cupid was thousands of years old, and Michael suspected he was, he would have learned a few crafty tricks.
Michael grabbed a flowerpot, holding it up so Cupid could see. He pulled back his arm as if preparing a throw.
The threat was clear. Step outside and I will break glass.
Cupid was defeated. And he knew it. The cherub stumped along the sill, kicking ornaments flying with its ugly little feet and making obscene gestures, some understandable and others, belonging to days gone by, wholly mystifying.
The stand-off lasted fifteen minutes. The taxi pulled up outside the house. Michael wanted to make an obscene gesture of his own but Cupid was already gone.
Since his drinking habit began, Michael had grown reckless with money. Alcoholism was an expensive vocation in itself. Even if one favoured cheap booze, the amounts imbibed thrust a man swiftly into debt. But there was another reason for Michael’s financial carelessness: he had stopped believing money was something that existed outside himself. Spending cash on liquor had become so natural, so fundamental to his way of life, the cash itself seemed to be an aspect of himself - something that was as much part of him as his lungs, hands and feet.
He could have chosen a cheaper hotel than
The handle stopped jerking. Silence.
Somewhere deep in the house a cupboard door squeaked open. Michael knew which one: the cubby hole under the kitchen sink. Melissa had nagged him to oil the hinges but he never had. Probably, she saw this as a indication of his worthlessness.
He can’t even be bothered to get some WD40 . . .
A muffled clattering followed. Cupid was looking for something.
Michael realised exactly what it at the exact moment the hand axe chopped into the door. He had bought the axe years ago, before he met Melissa. He had lived in a cottage with a logfire and he needed it to -
A thin bulge swelled from the door. Splinters scattered on the floor.
Chop . Chop. Chop.
Shit! thought Michael.
Chop. Crunch. Thunk.
The door paint split. A crack appeared.
In his mind’s eye Michael saw the crack widening and Cupid’s face leering through. Here’s Putti!
Letting go of the handle Michael ran to the front door, yanked it open and stumbled outside. Cupid continued chopping, not realising his prey had gone.
Michael shut the front door and locked it.
He stood in the driveway, panting. Snowflakes fell like feathers. Groaning, Michael stumbled onto the garden, dropped on all fours and vomited ferociously, braying like a donkey.
When he raised his head, wiping tears from his eyes, he saw Cupid on the living room window sill, a dumpy silhouette gripping an axe.
Slowly, the axe drew back, preparing to shatter the glass.
Michael grimaced, waiting for the blow to fall.
Cupid paused, stamped his foot in frustration then cast the axe aside.
Michael understood. Cupid did not dare break the window because he did not want be seen and, on a quiet street, late at night, nothing got neighbours peeking out of their homes as much as smashing glass. A beer bottle, a taillight - it barely mattered what had smashed, as long as something had smashed, and it was made of glass.
Checkmate , thought Michael. Then, No. Not quite.
Cupid might find a silent way of getting outside. Through the chimney, for instance. It would be tight but the cherub was small - and squashy - enough to squeeze up through the flue. There were other possibilities too. Maybe it could pick the lock on the front door with an elongated fingernail. Or prise up the floorboards and burrow like some hairless mole. If Cupid was thousands of years old, and Michael suspected he was, he would have learned a few crafty tricks.
Michael grabbed a flowerpot, holding it up so Cupid could see. He pulled back his arm as if preparing a throw.
The threat was clear. Step outside and I will break glass.
Cupid was defeated. And he knew it. The cherub stumped along the sill, kicking ornaments flying with its ugly little feet and making obscene gestures, some understandable and others, belonging to days gone by, wholly mystifying.
The stand-off lasted fifteen minutes. The taxi pulled up outside the house. Michael wanted to make an obscene gesture of his own but Cupid was already gone.
Since his drinking habit began, Michael had grown reckless with money. Alcoholism was an expensive vocation in itself. Even if one favoured cheap booze, the amounts imbibed thrust a man swiftly into debt. But there was another reason for Michael’s financial carelessness: he had stopped believing money was something that existed outside himself. Spending cash on liquor had become so natural, so fundamental to his way of life, the cash itself seemed to be an aspect of himself - something that was as much part of him as his lungs, hands and feet.
He could have chosen a cheaper hotel than
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