The Lollipop Shoes Read Online Free PDF Page A

and ran down the bare white alleyway so that for a moment I was one of them, free as the sky. It’s good to run: you take giant strides; you can be a kite with your arms outstretched; you can taste the wind; you can feel the sun racing ahead; and sometimes you can almost outrun them, the wind and the sun and your shadow at your heels.
    My shadow has a name, you know. His name is Pantoufle. I used to have a rabbit called Pantoufle, so Maman says, although I can’t quite remember now whether he was real or simply a toy. Your imaginary friend , she sometimes calls him, but I’m almost sure he was really there, a soft grey shadow at my heels, or curled up in my bed at night. I like to think of him sometimes still, keeping watch over me as I sleep, or running with me to beat the wind. Sometimes I feel him. Sometimes I see him even now, though Maman says that’s just my imagination, and doesn’t like me talking about it, even as a joke.
    Nowadays Maman hardly ever jokes, or laughs the way she used to do. Perhaps she’s still worried about Rosette. I know she worries about me. I don’t take life seriously enough, she says. I don’t have the right kind of attitude.
    Does Zozie take life seriously? Oh, boy. I’ll bet she doesn’t. No one could wearing those shoes. I’m sure that’s why I liked her at once. Those red shoes, and the way she stopped at the window to look, and the way I was sure she could see Pantoufle – not just a shadow – at my heels.

4

    Wednesday, 31st October
    WELL, I LIKE to think I have a way with children. Parents, too; it’s part of my charm. You can’t be in business without a certain charm, you know, and in my particular line of business, when the prize is something far more personal than mere possessions, it’s essential to touch the life you take.
    Not that I was particularly interested in this woman’s life. Not then, at least – although I will admit I was already intrigued. Not so much by the deceased. Nor even by the shop itself – pretty enough, but far too small, and limiting, to someone of my ambitions. But the woman intrigued me, and the girl—
    Do you believe in love at first sight?
    I thought not. Neither do I. And yet—
    That flare of colours through the half-open door. That tantalizing hint of things half-seen and half-experienced. The sound of the wind-chimes over the threshold. These things had awakened first my curiosity, and second my spirit of acquisition.
    I’m not a thief, you understand. First and foremost I’m a collector . I have been since I was eight years old, collecting charms for my bracelet, but now I collect individuals; their names, their secrets, their stories, their lives. Oh, some of it’s for profit, of course. But most of all I enjoy the chase; the thrill of pursuit; the seduction; the fray. And the moment at which the piñata splits—
    That’s what I love best of all.
    ‘Kids,’ I smiled.
    Yanne sighed. ‘They grow so fast. A blink, and they’re gone.’ Way down the alley, the girl was still running. ‘Don’t go far!’ Yanne called.
    ‘She won’t.’
    Yanne looks like a tamer version of her daughter. Black bobbed hair, brows straight, eyes like bitter chocolate. The same crimson, stubborn, generous mouth, lifting a little at the corners. The same obscurely foreign, exotic look, though beyond that first glimpse of colours through the half-open door, I could see nothing to justify the impression. She has no accent; wears well-worn clothes from La Redoute; plain brown beret at a slight angle, sensible shoes.
    You can tell a lot from a person by looking at their shoes. These were carefully without extravagance: black and round-toed and relentlessly uniform, like the ones her daughter wears for school. The ensemble slightly down-at-heel, a shade too drab; no jewellery but for a plain gold ring; just enough make-up to avoid making a statement.
    The child in her arms may be three at most. The same watchful eyes as her mother, though her hair