Now You See Me Read Online Free PDF Page B

favourite wedding picture she is alone. She’s standing under a wintry tree looking like a snow queen, very tall and slim in her white dress and white fur cape. Her face is serious, no smile, all the spark is in her eyes and around her the world is a snowstorm of confetti. Or maybe real snow. It was midwinter when they married but Mr Dickens can’t remember if it was actually snowing or not.
    She made silk wigs. Not for money – her father was rolling in that and Mr Dickens says he’s still living off it now – but just for the fun of it. There’s a picture of her in one of the wigs, thick and fringey and so white it makes her skin look black. Like the negative of a photograph. Or maybe some sexy alien. I asked if he still had any of her wigs but he just shrugged, well not shrugged, I don’t think he can shrug with his shoulders all seized up, but put on a shrugging expression.
    He went on and on and I was riveted. The couple of hours he pays me for were up but I didn’t even notice, just sat there listening to him and when he dropped off, I looked at the photos and waited quietly. I love the way he starts and carries on where he’s left off as if nothing’s happened. Sometimes he drools a bit but I pretend not to see. The afternoon rolled cosily by, the dog snoring and farting, the clock ticking, Mr Dickens occasionally filling his pipe and puffing out so much smoke I could hardly see him.
    But then he told me the horrible thing. It was about what happened to Zita in the end. He said that since she’d died he’d hardly been out of the house and that was sixteen years ago. Sixteen years . I said, ‘God. How did she die?’ There was a long silence and I thought he’d dropped off again but then he said, ‘Haven’t talked about it since inquest.’
    â€˜Inquest?’ I said, getting a jittery feeling, like maybe I didn’t want to know any more. I said, ‘It doesn’t matter.’
    But he said, ‘No, no … it’s natural to ask, since I’ve bored you all afternoon. Ought to pay you double-time.’
    â€˜Not bored,’ I said. ‘And anyway all I’ve done is sit here.’
    He watched my lips, like he does, then he laughed and said, ‘You are good,’ which no one’s said to me since I was about ten. He puffed away till he was lost in a cloud of smoke then he said, ‘Look in sideboard, there’s another album.’
    I got it out. It had a black leather cover. I gave it to him and he flipped through till he found the right page and passed it over. It was full of newspaper clippings and photographs. I looked at the page he’d opened it at and just stared at the headline CHARRED REMAINS OFFER NO CLUE stuck next to a. picture taken by forensic scientists.
    In the picture there’s a room: wallpaper; a lamp with a beaded shade; a table and on the table a cup and saucer with half a biscuit balanced on the saucer; a book with a bookmark sticking out all as normal – and then just this black space and on the edge of the black space two legs, not whole legs, just the shins, like two silly fallen skittles.
    â€˜Spontaneous combustion,’ he said.
    I didn’t know what to say. In the end I just said, ‘How awful,’ and put the album down. It felt as if ash was coming off on my hands.
    Doughnut staggered up then and Mr Dickens said he needs to go out so I jumped straight up and said I’d take him. I dragged him off down the road. I was glad to be outside where it was starting to get dark and smelled of wet leaves, fresh and cold. There was no one about, no one I know, anyway. I breathed in that air to try and get rid of the smoky taste in my mouth which is only from Mr Dickens’ pipe but still.
    On the way back through the hall I paused and stared at the plank nailed across the door frame and the perfectly ordinary door behind it. Which I suppose is where it happened.
    When I