Blue Moon Read Online Free PDF Page B

have done my job satisfactorily, but it is the reader who must decide. The reader of these pages will have many more difficult issues to resolve.
    How did such a seeming monster of cruelty and passivity as the young Evelyn Dick become Elizabeth Delamere? Or—you may wish to put the question in a different way—how did Evelyn Dick overcome the deprivations of childhood and young adulthood to become a great writer?
    In any event, here is the last book written by Elizabeth Delamere. I leave it to you, the reader, to make your own adjustments—as I did many years before.

PART TWO
Evelyn Dick

8
    Almost every night, I take that drive. I borrow the black Packard sedan, once my car, from Bill Landeg, the garage owner to whom I sold it two years before. It is a late winter afternoon, twilight quickly descending as I drive up John and Arkledun Streets and up the Mountain—really, more of a hill—where about a third of Hamilton’s population lives. Quickly, the sky becomes enshrouded in a sullen blackness. Soon, I leave the city behind and reach open countryside. Only a few lights draw my attention as the car sways on its appointed path. All of a sudden, there are only the lights from the car itself, and I have to pay close attention to the twisting road. There are no stars, nohelpful points of light to assure me I am not alone in the universe. Snow begins to fall.
    A rabbit jumps across the road, dexterously avoiding the car. Enormous rocks—boulders really—guard the side. They are the only real signposts. I labour to pay attention. I want to be safe, but I know this is impossible.
    Is this how I felt
that
night, on 6 March 1946? Or is it my dream state that makes me aware I am soon to be confronted with some form of the unending horror?
    All of a sudden, there is the other car—an Oldsmobile—on the opposite side of the narrow road, its headlights beaming. This is the rendezvous point, the Incline. I slam on the brakes, put my cigarette out, look automatically for a split second at my lips in the rear view mirror. The lipstick seems faded, but my face is pure white, much whiter than I ever try to make it. I brace myself, open the door and start walking towards Mr. Romanelli. He walks at a fast clip in my direction, searching for something—the expression on my face. He wants to know how frightened I am. He takes out a lighter, flicks it in my direction and seems satisfied at what he beholds.
    He has mean, darting eyes. He is medium in height but looks much shorter, his height diminished by his thick camel-hair coat and a thick waist. I catch a glimpse of a brown striped suit under the coat. He is what we used to call a
real Dago:
Huge nose, a sinister twist to his large mouth, a line of moustache that could have been painted on, and dark, little pig eyes. Having located what he had hoped to find, he does not hesitate. “We are short of fellows, tonight. Plans have changed.” He motions me back to the Packard.
    â€œHow changed? What does it matter if some of your men are not here?”
    Now, he laughs. Really, he snorts. “Evelyn, you and I are going to take a ride.” This is said as a joke. Now, I am even more confused.
    â€œI was told John would be safe if I came to pick him up.”
    â€œOh, John is going with us.”
    For the first time, I feel a semblance of relief. Perhaps I do not have to worry quite so much. Perhaps this horrible misunderstanding will finally be over. Tm glad he’s safe. I was sure this mess could be sorted out.”

    This remark seems to astound my companion, He tells me to wait. He will fetch John. He walks back to his car and reaches into the back seat. Slowly, he pulls himself back to the road, a huge Santa Claus bag trailing behind him. He walks slowly back to me, accompanied by a man carrying a large parcel in front of him. I expect the man to be John, but he is someone I have never seen before. Mr. Romanelli opens the back door