To Indigo, Tanith Lee [best ereader for comics .TXT] 📗

of the fence to the alley, trusting the packing would protect the glass dog.

The day was miserable, gloomy. No one was about. Birds sang however, and up in the fir there came the flutter of wings.

Looking over the fence I felt a fool. But there was no time for that. I lowered both bags with care; they only had to drop the shortest distance. Then I took hold of the barrier. Thank God, it at least was in decent repair. I kicked the ladder away and heard it skid along the paving, then launched myself across and down.

A boy could do that. Now and then I had, as a boy, done such things. But I’m no longer a boy. I landed awkwardly but not badly, scraping my hand on the fence, and one knee on the concrete of the alley. In the fir the birds took flight with disapproving cries. And he rose from the shadow where, unseen in black, he had crouched, smiling, and helped me to my feet. I write books. I was a book. And he had read me all before, it seemed.

Blood was seeping through my trouser leg where I’d grazed my knee like that boy I wasn’t anymore.

He looked at that. “Oh dear.”

“Take your bloody hands off me.”

Smiling, he stepped back. And before I could think, he’d picked up both my bags. “We’ll go in the front way. Can you make it OK, Roy?”

“The door is barricaded.”

“I’m sure I can shift it. Don’t worry.”

“There’s more there than last night.” I didn’t sound defiant, only meaningless.

“Well, I’m strong. Come on. Won’t take a minute.”

I stood where I was. I said, “Why don’t you leave me alone?”

“Because I like you.”

“I don’t – like you. Go to hell.”

“How do you know I don’t already, on a regular basis?”

An awful laugh burst out of me. I sounded madder than he did. “Right,” I said. “Are you going to give me back my bags?”

“Of course, if you think you can manage.”

“Give me my fucking bags.”

He widened his eyes at me. It reminded me of a woman’s facial gesture. Maureen had never done this. Others, especially Lynda, had.

“Take this one, then.” He handed me the holdall. “But this one, it’s smaller but it feels heavier. What have you put in here? Your secret wine cellar? Better let me carry that.”

And turning from me, he sauntered back along the alley and turned the corner towards the front.

I could have let him go, run the other way – my knee wasn’t bad – got out by the alley’s other exit nearer the Crescent. I would, I think, have got away.

But the bag he had hold of contained my books, my discs, and my MS of Untitled. I realised in those seconds that I, too, was definitely unstable. In the holdall I had my passport, all crucial documents, even the house deeds – even now the glass dog. Yet I went after him. I hurried.

He was already at the front door using the keys when I reached him.

“Mmm,” he said contemplatively. “I can feel it’ll be a bit of a push. That’s all right.”

Just then the front door of 72 opened. Out ambled amiable George, with the big kitchen scissors he uses to trim the hydrangea on his front lawn.

“Hello, Roy. Oh, hello…” he added, beaming, to Sej.

“Hi. How are you, Mr Fulton?” politely inquired Sej.

“Oh, we’re fine, thank you.”

I said, “George, I need to have a word with you.”

George looked vaguely concerned. As I moved forward, Sej got in my way, putting an arm over my shoulders. I thrust him off.

“George, this man is not my son. Go indoors. Call the police.”

Stricken, George stood there, like a child on Christmas morning finding the presents are gone and the tree has died.

Sej spoke to him before I could do so again. “Sorry, Mr Fulton. It’s all right. I think I explained a bit about this before. He’ll be OK now I’m here. Just leave it…”

“George,” I said loudly, “for God’s sake do as I say. Please.”

“Er, Roy – well, er…”

As I took half another step in his direction, he performed a most determinative action. Largely I think it was subconsciously dictated. But then, I’ve never known them well, my neighbours. How could any of them be sure what or who I really was? He pointed the scissors at me, the points towards my chest, and backed up the lawn, in at his door. He was still saying, almost still amiably, “Er, well, er,” as he closed it.

I had my own mobile in my hand by then. Better late than never, but it was not. It was too late.

“Now, Roy,” said Sej, not even glancing but predicting once more with total accuracy as he spun the phone out of my grasp. It hit the path. There was a crack. Had anyone else seen or heard? If they had, so what? We all have troubles of our own.

“Give me the bag,” I said.

“Not yet, Roy. Let’s get the door undone first.”

Leave it, you fool, leave it all – sentimental glass dog, documents, manuscript, disc, book, DNA, house. Escape, you confounded fucking idiot…

But instead I came at him, I, who cannot fight to save my life and never even scrapped with anyone since I was fourteen and Ben Oggey stole my fountain pen. Ben won, incidentally. No great amazement, that.

Sej simply caught me and somehow swung me round, and as he put me down again he thrust with our combined weight at the front door. The pans went over inside with a stupid noise of armour, the chairs went too, even the armchair had shifted just enough.

The wind was knocked out of me. He pushed me in through the open slice of door, then threw the bag of books over my head and along the hallway. Perhaps he thought I’d be impelled to race after it like a stick-addicted puppy. But I merely leaned on the wall and in he came, squeezing past the fallen barricade,