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earshot as he headed
into the girl’s bedroom.
    Emily and Amy both looked up
from their play and greeted him enthusiastically. He was eleven –
four years older than Emily and Amy. He bothered to get on with the
girls more than other boys his age seemed to because Amy and Emily
accepted him and he valued that, so he happily joined in their
games, even if it meant helping dress dolls and playing “girly”
games. They also had a different games console to his, which was an
added attraction. Jason didn’t have many friends – none that he saw
out of school; it was one of the reasons he didn’t go out – as well
as being frightened that he might bump into those that picked on
him. David Renshaw and Mikey Kent, two boys from school, lived in
his block a few floors down from his home. They hadn’t hit him or
anything, just taunted him about his dad leaving, and anything else
they could think of. He chose to avoid them. It made things
easier.
    He sat with Amy on the floor
and idly joined her in some drawing. He could hear Emily behind him
on the other side of the room talking firmly to herself or her
doll.
    Emily’s voice was suddenly
harder and louder and in his ear. “Stop it!”. He yelped as she
thumped his back, more through surprise than pain.
    “ What was that
for?”
    “ You started it. You kept
calling my name!” She frowned moodily.
    “ I didn’t call you, you
idiot.”
    “ I’m not an idiot,” she
sulked.
    “ He’s been helping me,”
Amy defended.
    Jason laughed as he frowned at
Emily and shook his head dismissively. “Idiot!”
    “ I’m not...” she mumbled.
She looked about her room at the piles of teddies and dolls.
“Someone called me...”

Chapter Three

    Albert Taylor marched
purposefully down the stairs. He didn’t like to take the lift when
he was in his undertaker’s uniform. It tended to make people think
the worst; that someone had died in the building. He also disliked
making pleasantries with people he knew or recognised. It wasn’t
becoming of a mourner, or indeed a chief undertaker. His very job
was to be discrete and create a solemn sense of
mourning , somethin g he didn’t feel he could do while
talking about the weather with Mrs Jenson, the football results
with Bob Chanter or listening to Rose McCarthy’s
gossiping , or whatever with
whomever else he could encounter in the
lift. It just didn’t seem right.
    Despite the fact he was on an
early call and was unlikely to meet anyone, he still descended the
ten floors by foot in his heavy black suit, well tailored to his
broad towering build. Despite his sixty-three years and the
exertion of descending six flights of stairs, he still walked with
a stiff back and a regimental even step. He saved his cheer and his
slouching for when he was at home with his wife Iris. Two years
more and he could retire and be with her, for against his solemn
dark look when working, he was a warm sensitive man with a deep
love of his wife and cosy home and distant children, and maintained
a jovial outlook on life. He could handle the descent and the
climb, but he was glad the storm of a couple of nights ago had
ended the heat wave; the stairs had been hot and airless. The crepe
wrap on his black top hat trailed softly and ghost-like in his
wake.
    Slowly Albert’s pace lost
its rhythm. At first he ignored it. He was a stubborn man. He only
wanted to weaken and take his medication if it was necessary, not
just at any twinge. A belt of pain cinched his chest sharply and
forced the air from him. It took both his hands to steady himself
on the banister. His hat came lose and fell from his head, toppling
down the middle of the stairwell with the black crepe trailing and
flapping gently behind as it disappeared. He fumbled for his spray.
He heard his hat hit the ground with a hollow slap that sounded out
in an ever-decreasing echo. He was scared, scared that this attack
could be the one that the doctor had warned him about. He didn’t want to die