‘What is that?’
‘I was a kid once,’ the ex-policeman said.
Walter said nothing.
‘You admit that?’ said William Stainsforth grimly. ‘Well, if you can tell me of one virtue you ever credited me with – just one kind thought – just one redeeming feature –’
‘Yes?’ said Walter, trembling.
‘Well, then I’ll let you off.’
‘And if I can’t?’ whispered Walter.
‘Well, then, that’s just too bad. We’ll have to come to grips and you know what that means. You took off one of my arms but I’ve still got the other. “Stainsforth of the iron arm”, you called me.’
Walter began to pant.
‘I’ll give you two minutes to remember,’ Stainsforth said.
They both looked at the clock. At first the stealthy movement of the hand paralysed Walter’s thought. He stared at William Stainsforth’s face, his cruel, crafty face, which seemed to be always in shadow, as if it was something the light could not touch. Desperately he searched his memory for the one fact that would save him; but his memory, clenched like a fist, would give up nothing. ‘I must invent something,’ he thought, and suddenly his mind relaxed and he saw, printed on it like a photograph, the last page of the book. Then, with the speed and magic of a dream, each page appeared before him in perfect clarity until the first was reached, and he realized with overwhelming force that what he looked for was not there. In all that evil there was not one hint of good. And he felt, compulsively and with a kind of exultation, that unless he testified to this, the cause of goodness everywhere would be betrayed.
‘There’s nothing to be said for you!’ he shouted. ‘Of all your dirty tricks this is the dirtiest! You want me to whitewash you, do you? Why, the very snowflakes on you are turning black! How dare you ask me for a character? I’ve given you one already! God forbid that I should ever say a good word for you! I’d rather die!’
Stainsforth’s one arm shot out. ‘Then die!’ he said.
The police found Walter Streeter slumped across the dining table. His body was still warm, but he was dead. It was easy to tell how he died, for not only had his mauled, limp hand been shaken, but his throat too. He had been strangled. Of his assailant there was no trace. And how he came to have snowflakes on him remained a mystery, for no snow was reported from any district on the day he died.
Harry
by Rosemary Timperley
Such ordinary things make me afraid. Sunshine. Sharp shadows on grass. White roses. Children with red hair. And the name – Harry. Such an ordinary name.
Yet the first time Christine mentioned the name, I felt a premonition of fear.
She was five years old, due to start school in three months’ time. It was a hot, beautiful day and she was playing alone in the garden, as she often did. I saw her lying on her stomach in the grass, picking daisies and making daisy-chains with laborious pleasure. The sun burned on her pale red hair and made her skin look very white. Her big blue eyes were wide with concentration.
Suddenly she looked towards the bush of white roses, which cast its shadow over the grass, and smiled.
‘Yes, I’m Christine,’ she said. She rose and walked slowly towards the bush, her little plump legs defenceless and endearing beneath the too short blue cotton skirt. She was growing fast.
‘With my mummy and daddy,’ she said clearly. Then, after a pause, ‘Oh, but they are my mummy and daddy.’
She was in the shadow of the bush now. It was as if she’d walked out of the world of light into darkness. Uneasy, without quite knowing why, I called her:
‘Chris, what are you doing?’
‘Nothing.’ The voice sounded too far away.
‘Come indoors now. It’s too hot for you out there.’
‘Not too hot.’
‘Come indoors, Chris.’
She said: ‘I must go in now. Goodbye,’ then walked slowly towards the house.
‘Chris, who were you talking to?’