Death in Disguise Read Online Free PDF

fists into their mouths like naughty children. They put on po faces as people stared and Perry shouted: ‘It was him with his hat in a bag.’
    Ten minutes later, bored with the game, they got up and left, mocking the man on the platform, kicking the seats on their way out. Reaching the swing doors, one of them—Sylvie—turned and looked back. Half a step away from chaos (as she was later to recognise), something had compelled this movement. She returned to sit quietly on the wooden seat, heedless of raucous beckoning shouts from the stairwell.
    The address had soaked into her, warm and soothing as honey balm. Afterwards she had been amazed that an evening which had so utterly transformed her life was so hard to recall in detail. The only complete sentence she remembered was: ‘We are all standing in our own light.’ Although she’d had no perception as to what the words actually meant they’d struck her then (and did still) as immeasurably profound and consoling. Even in those first moments she had been aware of a longing to take that sideways step away from her old tawdry self. To crack open and shed the carapace of a loveless and ugly past. Those hate-filled drunken days and love-starved nights.
    When the talk was over the speaker put on a coat over his long blue robe. In this he was assisted by a small bearded man. Then he drank a little water and stood, looking over the rows of empty seats to where the girl sat. He smiled and she got up and moved towards him, feeling (although she could not then have described it so) the pull of sheer disinterested goodness. She seemed to sense in the slight figure an overwhelming concern for her wellbeing. The sheer novelty of such a situation struck her as unbearably poignant and she began to weep.
    The Master watched her approach. He saw a thin tall girl in a lewd outfit. A gleaming silver cake-frill of a skirt and halter top no wider than two ribbons. She had a wild fuzz of pale hair, eyes smearily ringed with kohl and a scarlet jammy mouth. She smelt of gin and strong perfume and sour embittered dreams. As she lurched closer her sobs became more raucous and by the time she reached the dais she was shouting; terrible wails of grief and woe. ‘Ahhh…ahhhh.’ Rocking on high sparkly heels, arms folded tight across her barely covered breasts, she stood and howled.
    So long ago now it was hard for her to recall the intensity of that despair. She reached out and took her companion’s glass.
    â€˜Do you want some more tea, Master?’
    â€˜No. Thank you.’
    There was a deep crevice between his brows. He looked tired. Worse—Suhami noticed the drooping skin beneath his eye—he looked old. She could not bear the thought that he was vulnerable to the passing of time. For was he not the fount of all wisdom, the never-ending source of blessings? He was there to love and protect them all. If anything happened to him…
    As she moved towards the door, Suhami realised that knowing someone was mortal and truly comprehending it were two different things. She had convinced herself he would be there for them for ever. She thought of Tim. What would he do without his beloved protector and companion? What would any of them do? A spasm of fear seized her and she ran back and pressed his hand to her cheek.
    â€˜What on earth is it?’
    â€˜I don’t want you to die.’
    She thought he would smile and tease her out of her distress but he simply said: ‘But we must. All of us.’
    â€˜Aren’t you afraid?’
    â€˜No. Not now.’ And he withdrew his hand. ‘I would have been…before. But not now.’
    I am afraid, thought Suhami. And her face was deeply troubled as she left him.

    Flowing from an open casement on the ground floor of the house came a torrent of glorious sound. May seated at her cello, legs sturdily apart, size eights planted firmly on sea-grass matting, was playing the Boccherini