Читать книгу Waiting For Michael - Kathy Sr. Sampson - Страница 4

Waiting alone in the empty lecture room was an unnerving experience, one not to be repeated out of choice. It was eerie in the gloom, the only light being that filtering through the glass windows high on the wall which ran alongside the corridor. Close to the corner was the entrance, a single door. There was no other way of getting in, no alternative means of escape should it be required. Not that it would be. At least, it hadn’t seemed necessary when she’d first entered. Now, Estelle wasn’t so sure.

There were a few people about. Echoing footsteps could be heard accompanied by the odd murmur of conversation, students there to attend night classes most likely. Occasionally a door would open or close. These sounds were inconsequential - they were ordinary, quite comforting in a way. The noises to worry about were the ones that couldn't be heard, because tell-tale sounds were avoided at all cost by those individuals who were up to no good - and there were bound to be some of these characters hovering in the shadows. It was in the genes.

She tried to find something to concentrate on which would take her mind off the imagined dangers of stalking rapists and perverts, returning to the problem which had haunted her for most of the day - the woman on Jason's phone. Though much later in the day, the memory of that voice and what it might mean continued to torment: "I'm afraid he isn't here. May I ask who's calling?"

She had never phoned Jason before and had rehearsed her opening lines carefully, including a brief message in the event of confrontation by one of those intimidating answering machines. But when the woman answered, Estelle found herself dumbstruck and had lapsed into temporary emotional shock. Hollow might have been a better way to describe her feelings as she hung up the receiver without saying another word. The heavy silence which followed consumed all but the thud of a pounding heart, evidence that the dream had been dashed by unexpected reality. Later, she just felt misused.

How could he have done such a thing? How could he have deceived her? Six months ago he had appeared to her as a saviour, or at the very least a lone spark of decency and sanity in her otherwise turbulent world. It had been a belief to cling to, a first positive step up from the depths of depression towards a promising light which rekindled hopes presumed long gone. Now it seemed, all of her aspirations had suddenly been laid waste by the tones of a woman's voice which he might regard as dulcet, but which continued to grate in her memory as the most vulgar sound she had ever heard. So much for men, was the eventual conclusion. They were all as bad as one another!

This shock to her emotional system had occurred nine hours previously. Now that a semblance of composure had returned and there had been time to think, she had to admit that assumption had, perhaps, clouded judgement somewhat, but she could hardly be blamed for that. He had said so little about himself, just that he was a widower, and the rest had been left to guess-work. He might, at least, have told her! He could have said there was another woman in his life! Wouldn't that have been the decent thing to do, instead of leading her on?

She had left home early, intending to catch him before he started tonight's class. Disappointment and bitterness had been the motivator, courage not an issue. Even if his explanation turned out to be devastating as expected, she needed to hear it and was prepared for the worst. But the wait had been too long and the main fear had transcended from an agony session with Jason to the imaginary, yet very real dread of an impending attack by person or persons unknown.

Pull yourself together, she chided, You’re twenty-eight, a grown woman, and you’ve got a self-defence course under your belt! But the advice went unheeded because she had picked up on and was listening to heavy footsteps coming closer. Both the tightening knot in her stomach and the habitual chewing of her lower lip underlined a grave possibility: could it be that some rapists didn't care if their victims heard them coming?

Instinct dictated a need to hide, but that wouldn't do. Any self-respecting attacker would take it as a sign of weakness. Worse still, if it was actually Jason, she could imagine the kind of impression she might create when he found her grovelling on the floor under one of the desks! No - she must somehow project an air of calmness and composure. Above all, she must remain seated, in control. As the footsteps paused outside the room and the door began to open, despite the fervent resolution, she knew she had started to rise, but was unable to stop herself.

Captive breath escaped in a whisper of quiet relief as a hand reached in and groped for the light switches. Even as a mere silhouette, it was undoubtedly his, recognisable anywhere - strong, slender fingers; perfect, manicured nails. The aristocratic hand stroked down the painted wall. Her heart fluttered briefly, quelled in an instant by that cruel memory and the pain of denial. He could touch the wall; he could touch the woman on the phone; but Estelle might never know the passion and tenderness of that simple intimacy.

He found the switches. There were two soft clicks, then buzzing. White light began to pulse from above as the fluorescents came to life and she was suddenly squinting through a dazzling haze, seeing only his shadowy image as it glided into the room.

"Estelle!" he said in surprise. "What are you doing, sitting in the dark?"

Jason's voice! It was, as always, a warm sun melting the grey of a Winter's sky, a whispered promise, an intoxicating elixir. She had steeled herself for this moment, knowing the golden timbre of his voice would weaken resolve, knowing it had both bewitched and betrayed, and that its siren call must be resisted at all cost; but the spell fate had cast when it had brought the two of them together would not be easily broken. It would take more than a voice on a phone line, more than her own jealous supposition before she would relinquish her claim on him.

It would take Jason himself to say it, to declare in his deep, satin, captivating way that he had given his heart to another, that there was no longer - and never had been - any hope for Estelle who was, after all, just another of his students. If he actually spoke the words, then, and only then, would she accept it was over.

A puzzled frown had crept across his brow. "Are you okay? You look a little shaken."

Thoughts were hastily gathered and she returned a curt nod. "Yes, I'm fine." A tremor in the voice was all-too evident and she attempted to bring it under control. "I was a bit pre-occupied. I didn't hear you come in. You startled me, that's all."

Jason produced his inimitable comforting smile. "This is me you're talking to, Estelle, not your husband."

No, damn it, not my husband, she thought. I only wish to God you were!

"What's wrong? he prompted.

Did she tell him? Could she? Estelle swallowed. "I - I just... needed to... see you...." She was stumbling, making a complete mess of it. "I phoned this morning....." It had almost come out, what needed saying, but there was no good way to do it.

"Yes," he said. It seemed he had understood the omission perfectly. His head turned as the door behind opened and a young couple entered. He waved that hand and extended the new arrivals that smile. "Hi," his golden voice called across the room as he pushed reluctantly off the desk against which he had been leaning.

More footsteps. Talking. More students. The room was filling with people. Estelle experienced them as a black cloud choking intentions, smothering her dying hopes. She hated the intrusion. Then a flash of brilliant blue was piercing her dark thoughts and Jason was looking at her.

"My Sister told me someone had called. I thought it might have been you." The smile was natural, casual, and he seemed blissfully unaware of the total relief the words had generated. "We'll talk in the break." He started out for the rostrum at the front of the room, then paused and turned. "By the way, I've got that information for you." A blue eye winked, comforted. "See you later."

After that, Estelle recalled settling behind one of the desks, but little else. The sound of his voice drifted in and around the strange void of her heady, dream-like state, but the spoken words were interpreted as those she wished to hear and for her alone: "Yes, Estelle, I have a Sister - not a lover, not a mistress who keeps house for me and takes my phone messages, nor even a step-cousin three times removed who lives with me - just a Sister."

When the class took a break, it was as if mere moments had simply slipped by, yet it must have been at least half an hour since he had put her ghost to rest. He came to meet her, nodding to a corner of the room which had been deserted by the students in favour of the drink-vending machine in the hallway. She recalled him saying: "Let's go over there." It was a gentle, coaxing suggestion. But as they walked and he asked: "Did I come across okay tonight?" the question seemed incongruous with the healing and compassion she had been anticipating.

Estelle was suddenly back-tracking. "I'm sorry?"

"The topic - Aboriginal influences on localised ecology - is my lecture making sense?" He searched her eyes for understanding, but could find only those delightful hazel gems flecked with silver, and a deal of preoccupied bewilderment. "I guess not," he decided eventually. "You're bored to tears, aren't you?" The disappointment was genuine and apologetic.

"Oh, it's not your fault." The response was too spontaneous and condescending, the tone apathetic. Not surprising, really – hers was the only ecology that mattered, and his the major influence on it. He couldn’t know this, of course, because she hadn’t told him. Could she now? How would he take an admission that she was in love with the man, not a lecturer in Natural History who taught the class she attended two nights a week? Would he forgive her for being distracted by passion and accept, nay welcome, the promise that it wouldn’t happen again as long as he never ever left her? Then a burst of laughter from the corridor shattered resolve and she offered meekly: "I've had a lot on my mind lately. I'm sure your lecture is wonderfully informative - they all are. I'm just finding it hard to concentrate."

They were still standing and she had to look up at him. At five foot seven, Estelle wasn't exactly short, but Jason was easily over six foot, not too tall, just nice. Everything about Jason was nice. Each time she saw him, another aspect of his personality or appearance emerged as irresistibly likeable. First it had been the athletic physique and broad shoulders, then his flaxen hair and, of course, those magnetic blue eyes. Their very first handshake had sent a magical tingle coursing up her arm, and the true meaning of nice had arrived.

From that moment on she had amassed quite a collection of nice things which were Jason, almost to the point of creating a shrine for him in her memory; but it was growing tiresome to merely worship his image and the ground he walked upon. She could do without Jason the Saint, as long as she had Jason, the man.

"It's Michael, isn't it?" he offered tentatively, very aware of the pain the subject of her husband would undoubtedly cause.

No, Jason, she wanted to say, it's YOU, you're my problem because I can't have you. I've already got a husband, as you well know, and he's a Bastard! "Yes," was the eventual reply because it was easier to focus on a disastrous marriage and the ramifications of recent developments. Unlike romantic fiction, this was her reality - plain, unvarnished and inescapable. "He's up to something. I know it. Something big this time and I don't think I can handle it. I don't think I even want to know what it is."

"For fear of becoming involved?" Jason watched her. She remained tight-lipped and replied with a timid, anxious nod. He was aware that he was staring and how uncomfortable this made her, but he couldn't help himself. Estelle really was the most attractive, beautiful, and probably the most vulnerable woman he had ever met. It was a crime that she was married at all, let alone to a pig like Michael Ventura.

He had never met the man personally, had really only seen the effect of a relationship turned sour, a situation advising a very wide berth by an outsider. That was the way it started, but Estelle had advanced beyond being a refreshing new face in the classroom with a few issues at home. She had grown into the kind of friend any considerate person would want to know more about, would want to help.

When he had offered - in his capacity as a gentleman, naturally - there had been reluctance at first, but she was gradually coming out of her shell. The more insight he gleaned, the harder it was to offer mere platitudes while an insidious husband continued to destroy someone he was coming to care a great deal for. Yet, he had kept his distance. Recently, however, all of that had changed. When she had confided the nature of her latest dilemma, Jason had thrown caution to the wind and seized the opportunity to ease her suffering in a practical way.

That had been the intention, anyway - to put her mind at rest - but it hadn't quite turned out as anticipated. Far from it: Estelle's suspicions were looking less like the emotional paranoia of woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and more reminiscent of a B-grade spy mystery. His sigh was an admission of genuine concern. "I'd like to be able to tell you not to worry, but I believe you were right about Michael being up to something."

Her eyes widened and the hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle. "You've found out about the false passport, then?"

"Jeffrey's ninety-nine percent sure that it's the real thing."

Estelle’s trepidation was obvious. "Jeffrey? I’m not happy bringing strangers into this."

"Don’t worry – Jeffrey’s completely trustworthy. And he just happens to be in Immigration. He feels inclined to believe that it's genuine, that Michael somehow invented a new identity - George William Truscott - and applied for a passport back in 1987. Everything checks out: name, address, even the photograph."

The frown became a scowl. "Do you mean to tell me that for the past two years I've been married to not one, but two bastards, both at the same time?"

Jason glanced to the window which overlooked the street, but didn't attempt to see through the glass, preferring instead the reflection of the two of them standing side by side. They seemed right together. "There's more," he said, and watched her reflected expression change from anger to apprehension. "The visa is also genuine: it was issued last week by the US consulate, before Michael left for Bangkok."

"Is that significant?"

He dragged his eyes away from his dream to concentrate on reality. "I did some digging myself and found out that George Truscott is booked on a Qantas flight to Los Angeles via Sydney on Saturday afternoon."

"This Saturday?" His discrete nod increased concern. "But that's only the day after Michael arrives back from Bangkok! What's he scheming now?"

A row of perfect nails scratched absently at his chin. "I think he's planning to skip out."

Estelle's eyes were suddenly alive with fresh hope. "On me, you mean?" The excitement soon waned and her head shook. "I couldn't be that lucky." Jason didn't respond the way she expected. "What's wrong? Is there something you're not telling me?"

"It's just a feeling," was the grim admission. "Obviously, I can't know what Michael has in mind. It could be any number of things. Look, Estelle," he said, the inflection of warning unmistakable. "I don't think you ought to go back to the house."

"Why ever not?"

"I have to admit I was a little sceptical about your claims that he was using his Import business as a cover for some other shady dealings, but this passport affair started me wondering. I know what I'm about to say will sound a bit cloak-and-daggerish, but Michael hasn't gone to all this trouble for a few cheap imitation artefacts. Please don't ask me to expand on that, because I'm only guessing, but I'd rather you were out of the way until this is over. He's a dangerous man, Estelle. You said so yourself. And you also maintained you didn't like or trust his business partner, Keith.... what was his name?"

"Dunbar. Keith Dunbar," she added. "No I don't. He doesn't know anything about Eastern Art and I'm pretty sure he carries a gun."

"There you are, then - it's too risky." A noisy murmur rolled in from the corridor as the class began returning after the break. Jason checked his watch and seemed irritated that they had run out of time. He caught Estelle's arm and squeezed it gently. "Please wait for me afterwards." He noticed she was chewing her lip and seemed unable to make up her mind. Someone called his name and he waved a hand to acknowledge, but never turned his eyes from Estelle. "Please, Estelle. Promise me you'll wait."

Wasn't it typical - there had to be a crisis before he would say those words, and the meaning behind them wasn't anywhere near as romantic as it had been in her dreams. Still, at least he'd said them, and it was the first real chance to make something better from not much at all. She smiled and nodded. “I promise.”

When the lesson finally concluded, her smile lingered, as did most of the class, armed with a barrage of questions relating to the mid-year field trip which was due to begin at the weekend. Not being a part of it, Estelle had given it no thought until that moment. Perhaps Jason wouldn’t be delayed for too long. A glance in his direction as she was skirting the mob was met by raised eyebrows, a plea for her to honour their agreement. The best reply she could convey was less than convincing and words were out of the question, so she just headed for the door.

Although heart said run after her, the head nagged about responsibility to not just one, but all. And, it seemed, the majority ruled. “Well, are they, Professor?”

The milling heads were scanned until a neatly-permed grey one was located. “Sorry, Mrs Teasdale?”

The old lady’s eyes shifted almost imperceptibly towards Estelle’s receding back before returning to Jason with a knowing twinkle. “I was asking about pets.” The connotation, though not malicious, was there all the same. “Are we allowed to take them? Only, Mitzi-Poo doesn't like it in kennels because she tends to fret. We’re very close, you see.”

The apparent naivety of the old lady was both a tonic and a sham. He knew it, and she knew he knew. The fact that she had deduced what no-one else in the group had seemed to, made their little secret most special. If only there were more discrete, canny old ladies and less criminal husbands, the world would be a better place.

Unconcerned for the world in general, Estelle continued to pace her small part of it and was ready to scream. Much of her exasperation was directed towards a series of particularly drab abstracts hanging along the corridor wall, merely accentuating both the gloom in her thoughts and the austerity of the surroundings. Then a buzz of excitement heralded the departure of the class as it spilled from the lecture room and hurried towards the exits. Hearing her name a couple of times, she flapped a vague hand of farewell while her eyes remained glued to the open door.

When Jason eventually came out he looked frazzled. He was taking his time, stuffing papers into a brief case as he walked, and on entering the hallway he glanced at the backs of the departing students to ensure none of them were watching, then rolled his eyes up into their sockets. "It's turning into a nightmare," he whispered conspiratorially. "I'm beginning to dread these trips."

She extended him a sympathetic smile. "It's your own fault - you radiate too much confidence. You're like a Guru to them."

Jason tutted. "I think you're right. I'm sure they see me as some Antipodean Indiana Jones and they're convinced I'm going to lead them to discover the fossilised bones of a dinosaur that will make them all famous."

"Or maybe they expect to get chased by a tribe of long-lost Aboriginals protecting the secret of the Dreamtime." They proceeded towards the exit and Estelle was beginning to feel less agitated, safer too. "I'm sure it will turn out fine. It will probably be fun."

Jason paused. She stopped and looked at him. He held her gaze. "I wish you'd reconsider, Estelle. Especially in the light of these latest problems. I meant what I said earlier. It could be dangerous for you if you stay here. Why don't you come on the trip? If this affair blows up in Michael's face, you'll be out of the way. If not and we're making mountains out of molehills, there's no harm done. Your husband knows you take this evening class and the field trip is an official part of the course, so I don't see how he can object."

"You don't know Michael."

"No, but I'm starting to, and the more I learn of his character, the less I like you being around him." Jason realised he was over-stepping the bounds of propriety and lapsed into an embarrassed, contemplative silence as he started walking again. Turning at the end of the corridor, he said: "At least let me buy you that coffee. Maybe I can get you to change your mind."

Estelle was smiling to herself. "You obviously chose the right vocation. You never give up, do you? Always patient and persistent - the mark of a good archaeologist."

"And don't forget optimism," he reminded her. "When you know you're probably going to have to dig half-way to China with a dessert spoon, you have to believe there's at least a couple of bones or the odd chipped teacup to be found."

"One without a handle, of course." She was warm inside. He was doing that to her, dissolving her troubles with his wonderful aura. Just being close to him made her want to laugh and dance. He was a breath of fresh Spring air gusting into her dank prison of a thousand years. She wouldn't over-react, though, for fear of driving him away.

"Of course," he replied and the smile on his face broadened considerably. "Anything but a handle."

They drove down the hill into town, Estelle leading in her shiny, metallic-blue Laser with Jason rattling along behind in his battered Land Cruiser which had seen better days and would doubtless see a good many more. Fremantle was quiet, but then it usually was in the back streets away from the West End, and it was still only Wednesday.

Although nowhere near as busy as it would be on a weekend, Market Street clung doggedly to that Mediterranean air of gaiety and je ne sais quoi for which Fremantle as a whole and this area of the City in particular was famous. Despite the chill Winter wind and the promise of rain, a few ardent, outdoor types sat beneath flapping umbrellas and leaned on the tops of side-walk tables, warming themselves over the steam rising from their cappuccinos. Far outnumbered by those who preferred the interior warmth of the trattorias, they ignored the insinuations of the glances tossed at them through the windows, confident that they were proving a point, even if they were so cold that they couldn't remember what it was.

Estelle found a parking spot large enough to accommodate both vehicles. They began the trudge back to the main street and as they were walking past the Norfolk Arms the pleasant sounds of light conversation and chinking glasses drifted out on a heavily supportive aroma of hops and malt. Jason nodded at the limestone-walled beer garden and said: "Would you prefer something stronger?"

Estelle's head shook. "Just a very hot coffee - I'm freezing." It was the truth. She hadn't been thinking clearly when dressing that morning - not surprisingly - and it had been reasonably warm then. It was only by sheer chance that there happened to be a light cotton jacket on the back seat of the car and, although better than nothing, it imparted little in the way of protection. A brief, sideways glance found Jason's arm to be invitingly close. Could she slip her own through without compromising the position of either of them? It was doubtful. Pulling the front panels of the jacket together, she fumbled with the zipper.

The wind hit as they turned onto Market Street. They pushed into it with their heads down, then the rain came. Before she knew what was happening, Jason's hand had enveloped her own. "We'd better run for it," he said, almost having to shout to make himself heard above the whistling squall. "Do you think you can?"

Did my heart just stop? Isn't it now beating nineteen to the dozen? "Yes, I think so." I know so.

There was a break in the traffic and they raced across the road, not waiting for the lights to change. "Where do you want to go?" called Jason.

"I don't care. Anywhere."

Had he known the recklessness with which she had become temporarily infected, he would have dashed back to the car and driven her straight to that mystery destination 'Anywhere'; but being ignorant of both this and her deep feelings towards him, he guided her to Miss Maude's instead.

Considering the inclement weather, it was surprisingly busy. Despite this, it didn't have the atmosphere Jason would have preferred. From his point of view, the place had become impersonal since it had ceased to be Pappa Luigi's, but that, he supposed, was progress. Anyway, it was the closest cafe and had saved them from drowning, so it was deserving of a little loyalty.

They took a table next to the window and while waiting for their order to be brought over, Jason tried once more to change Estelle's mind about the trip. It was strange, but now that they were out of the wind and rain and he had released her hand, the old fears began to return and she felt as if she was standing apart from the rest of the world, being watched by it. A sigh of disappointment said far more than the words that followed. "Honestly, Jason, I can't. I'd love to come, but Michael's expecting me to pick him up from the airport on Friday evening. He'll throw a fit if I'm not there to meet him."

"If he is planning to skip the country on Saturday," Jason reminded her, "He won't have time to come and look for you - he'll be so busy fitting together the pieces of his dirty little puzzle. The field trip lasts a week. In that time, your sleazy husband will be long gone."

"And pigs might fly," she mumbled disconsolately. Conversation died when a young waitress approached with the coffees. The uncomfortable silence lingered a few seconds until she had walked out of earshot. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound cynical, but nothing good's happened to me for the past two years and I can't imagine my luck suddenly changing."

"Not unless you make it."

Doesn't he think I want to? Jason must know how I feel about him! Not until you tell him, silly, she reminded herself. "I don't see I have a choice. I simply have to meet Michael's plane, even if he is going to run out on me - especially if he is."

Jason was sipping at his cup as he listened. He paused and looked across at her. "I don't understand. Why especially?"

A centimetre of froth had attached itself to his upper lip. She resisted the urge to smile. "Because my being there is part of his plan. If I don't show up it might cause a chain reaction which could upset everything. He may not have time to put on his George Truscott hat.” Or a false moustache…? Jason must have picked up on her thoughts, because a napkin rose and wiped away the distraction. That was a relief. Cute, though. Now, back to being serious. “What if he misses the LA flight? You said earlier there was every chance this could blow up in his face. To be perfectly honest, I hope it does, and that has nothing to do with revenge - I don't want to be seen as the one lighting the fuse, not prematurely, not at any time. Michael’s fate has to be entirely his own doing."

His blue eyes were watching her intently, capturing each movement of her hands, every nervous twitch, but he remained silent. Estelle was glad, because there was more to say. "I've just this minute decided - I will come to Kalbarri, but only after Michael has gone. I don't love him, Jason - I don't believe I ever did - but he has to leave me. If he does, I'll be free of him for good. If I walk out on him, especially now, I can expect to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. You do see that, don't you?"

An odd sensation was taking hold of Jason, one which heated blood and left a rosy glow tingling on nerve endings. At first he fancied it might be a simple re-emergence of that special love he had known, the once-in-a-lifetime happening thought to be lost and buried along with Helen; but this, surprisingly, was deeper. The only other emotion it could be equated to was pride, and the level was so great that it transcended worldly admiration. This could be compared to the adoration of Saints and Martyrs. She was afraid - no doubt of it - but her courage far outweighed fear and he loved her all the more because of it.

The buzz of tingling energy which had been slowly building inside began to swim through his system, reached his hands and accumulated there, preparing them to slide across the table and join with hers. A simple touch might be all that was needed to unite two lonely souls in a wonderful, newfound togetherness. A few centimetres was all it would take. A little courage to cross the void. One of his fingers twitched. It was the false start he didn’t need. The coward in him returned ringing alarms. The erstwhile energy cooled and beat a hasty retreat behind the skirts of common sense. He slumped inwardly. Maybe he did love Estelle - dare he say as much as, if not more than Helen? - but at this point in time she was a married woman. No matter how strong, no matter that she felt the same, it was a love forbidden both by convention and conscience. It could not be!

"Jason?" she urged softly. "Are you okay? You've gone funny." Her hand moved over the table top and rested on his.

The touch sparked a resurgence of excitement, causing him to feel exposed and embarrassed. Cheeks glowed hot, and ears began to burn. "Er - yes, I'm good, really I am. I didn't mean to be rude. I was listening. I was trying to find an argument stronger than yours, but you seem to have covered all the obvious moves." In particular the one with your hand, he thought.

Withdrawing his own from beneath hers, he dipped into a pocket for a handkerchief to mop at the droplets of rain on his brow. It was a poor excuse for breaking contact, but uncertainty precluded the invention of anything better. Then something leapt to mind and the hand dived inside his jacket and came out with a wallet.

Removing a business card, he turned it over, slid a pen from his top pocket and began scribbling. He heard Estelle ask him what he was doing. Instead of replying, he simply raised a hand begging continued patience, then wrote faster. Once finished, he glanced over the card briefly before passing it to her. "Those are numbers where I can be contacted in Kalbarri. The first one is the caravan park where we're staying, and this -," the ball-point indicated the second number, "Is the Ranger's residence. He'll know where we are on any given day - I always notify him when I take a party into the gorges, just in case."

Sitting back, he leaned heavily into the chair, methodically replacing his wallet and pen to their respective pockets. It was a way of returning to business as usual, disappointing in many respects, but all he could handle at the moment. "I'm setting off early tomorrow morning, but I'll ring you first and again as soon as I arrive at Kalbarri. After that, you won't hear from me until Saturday night. All being well, Michael Ventura alias George Truscott should be out of your life by then. I'll be expecting you to tell me what time you're leaving Sunday morning."

"Leaving?" She sounded bewildered. "Where am I going?"

"To join us in Kalbarri," he stated positively. "You said you would and I'm holding you to that." He sat forward again. "If I get no reply, or Michael answers, or you sound the slightest bit anxious, then I'll be straight in the car and heading South before you even get a chance to hang up."

"That's silly. I'll be okay__"

"I'm sorry, Estelle, but I want your word on this. If anything goes wrong, anything at all, phone me - day or night, it doesn't matter. I need to know that you're alright. Will you do that for me?"

"Well...." Her head rocked from side to side as if calculating the odds. Not that she needed to. Finally she said: "If it means that much to you."

"It does." You do.

She nodded. "If anything happens, I'll call." She waved the business card at him.

"And I'll ring you as arranged."

"I'll be expecting you." I'll be sitting right by the phone.

~o~o~o~o~

She let herself in through the side door from the garage as usual and went straight to the kitchen. Although she had been unable to eat a thing all day, there was nothing appealing in the fridge, so she carried on into the lounge and switched on the television. A minute later she got straight up and switched it off.

She wandered, stopping occasionally, abruptly, to dart the odd glance, or listen attentively. What was to see, to hear – nothing, surely? So, why the jumping nerves? This ought to have been a time to savour – no Michael, home alone, nothing to fear. Or was there?

The coffee table looked unusually large, bare. Why was that? Memory clicked in - there was no mail cluttering the glass top because she had omitted to clear the box. It had completely slipped her mind.

She walked directly to the front door without thinking, not realising until her hand was on the knob and turning it that she would have to go back and find the key in order to undo the dead-lock. Letting the knob spring back, she was about to turn away when her eyes happened to stray to the gap between the door and the frame, that part where both locking bolts could be seen silver and glinting in the light. There were two bolts - one for the ordinary door latch, and one above which was the dead-lock.

Only one was visible. The top bolt had been unlocked!

Her pulse was suddenly racing and breath was coming in short, sharp pants. She was positive she'd locked it before going out. It was habit born of dire necessity because Michael had a phobia about burglars, and to ignore any ‘royal’ command was a punishable offence. A hasty re-cap of the morning’s events brought back Estelle’s anxiety over the woman's voice on Jason's phone. That must have been it – reason enough for forgetting to lock up properly.

Temporarily convinced of it, she opened the door and started out onto the porch. The rain had eased and was now little more than a light shower. She jogged down the path to the mailbox, took out the small bundle of envelopes and advertising circulars, then trotted back.

In the process of closing the door, she managed to drop the mail. Sinking to one knee, she began to gather it up, then froze. Rising just enough, she was able to see a large wet patch on her jeans. A hand went to the area of carpet beneath. It was sodden. Surely not her doing? A hand went to the sole of a shoe – barely moist. A glance up at the ceiling detected no evidence of a leak from the roof. How, then?

There seemed only one explanation: someone had come in earlier when it was raining hard. Estelle hadn’t forgotten to lock the door. Someone had unlocked it after she’d left! Muscles were tightening, hands trembling. Who? Who had been in the house? Who might still be inside?

Unlikely though it was, there seemed to be only one possible answer and she spoke the name as a hoarse, bewildered gasp:

"MICHAEL?!!"