come into the room and was standing right behind her. So close, she could almost feel breathing down her neck.
She shook her head, trembling, and gripped the radiator beneath the sill tightly, so tightly she could feel the ribbing cutting into her hands. She wanted to turn, now, turn and face whoever it was. But she could not.
‘Yes?’ she said, instead.
There was silence.
‘What do you want?’ she articulated clearly, loudly.
Still there was silence.
She spun round, filled for an instant with a mad boldness. But there was nothing. Nothing except her reflection.
She sat down shakily on the white candlewick bedspread and took the page from Friday’s Daily Mail out of her handbag. She looked at the large photograph of the tailplane in the snow, and the smaller inset photograph of a Boeing 727, with the tiny caption underneath: ‘Similar to the one that crashed.’
She turned the page, staring at the photographs of the pilot and co-pilot, one smiling, one stem. Neither the names nor the faces registered anything with her. She looked down the column until she found what she wanted: the emergency phone numbers.
She picked up the telephone and dialled. The number rang for a long time before it was answered.
‘Is that Chartair?’ she said, feeling foolish.
‘Yes it is,’ said a woman’s voice.
‘I wonder if you could give me some information about the . . . crash?’
‘Is it about a relative, madam?’
‘Er – not—’ Sam felt flushed, afraid what the woman might think. That she was a crank with a ghoulish interest. ‘I think perhaps I had a relative on the plane,’ she said, knowing that her lie did not sound convincing.
‘Could you let me have the person’s name?’ said the woman, her voice becoming impatient.
‘I have the seat number. 35A.’
‘35A? Your relative was travelling in 35A?’
Sam wanted to hang up. The tone of the woman’s voice was flattening her. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think so.’
‘Wouldn’t have been on this plane. There were only thirty-two rows.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sam. ‘So sorry – I must have . . .’
‘Do you have a name?’
‘Name?’
‘Of your relative.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Sam said. ‘I’ve made a mistake. I don’t think they . . . he . . . were . . . was on that plane at all.’ She hung up feeling hot, flustered, watching her reflection in the mirror putting the phone back on the bedside table.
35A.
She tossed the numbers around in her head, added them together, subtracted them, said them over to herself, trying to find some clue. She pulled the book she had bought out of her handbag and shook it out of its crumpled paper bag.
What Your Dreams Really Say .
She stared at the eyeball and the fish on the cover, then glanced at the biography of the author inside.‘Dr Colin Hare Ph.D., D.Sc. A Fellow of the British Psychological Society. Winner of the University of London Carpenter Medal for “great innovative work”. Considered Britain’s leading authority on dreams, he lectures extensively throughout the world.’
She flicked through a few pages, then turned to the index. Hood. Hood. ‘ Hood , see Mask.’
‘To dream of yourself or others wearing a hood or a mask can be a warning of deception by someone you trust.
‘It may alternatively indicate an aspect of your personality.’
That was all. She looked up ‘Numbers’ and turned to the page.
‘Three: The male genitals. Father, mother, child. The Trinity.
‘Five: The flesh. The body. Life.
‘Any letters of the alphabet indicate pleasant news on the way.’
‘Mumbo jumbo,’ she muttered. Some people could do The Times crossword in four minutes. Not her; never. Riddles. Puzzles. She’d never been any good at them. Thicko Sam.
She heard the rattle of water inside the radiator, and felt a sharp cold draught down the back of her neck. She was frightened again, felt goosepimples on her shoulders, her arms, on her thighs. The door of the room swung open a fraction
She shook her head, trembling, and gripped the radiator beneath the sill tightly, so tightly she could feel the ribbing cutting into her hands. She wanted to turn, now, turn and face whoever it was. But she could not.
‘Yes?’ she said, instead.
There was silence.
‘What do you want?’ she articulated clearly, loudly.
Still there was silence.
She spun round, filled for an instant with a mad boldness. But there was nothing. Nothing except her reflection.
She sat down shakily on the white candlewick bedspread and took the page from Friday’s Daily Mail out of her handbag. She looked at the large photograph of the tailplane in the snow, and the smaller inset photograph of a Boeing 727, with the tiny caption underneath: ‘Similar to the one that crashed.’
She turned the page, staring at the photographs of the pilot and co-pilot, one smiling, one stem. Neither the names nor the faces registered anything with her. She looked down the column until she found what she wanted: the emergency phone numbers.
She picked up the telephone and dialled. The number rang for a long time before it was answered.
‘Is that Chartair?’ she said, feeling foolish.
‘Yes it is,’ said a woman’s voice.
‘I wonder if you could give me some information about the . . . crash?’
‘Is it about a relative, madam?’
‘Er – not—’ Sam felt flushed, afraid what the woman might think. That she was a crank with a ghoulish interest. ‘I think perhaps I had a relative on the plane,’ she said, knowing that her lie did not sound convincing.
‘Could you let me have the person’s name?’ said the woman, her voice becoming impatient.
‘I have the seat number. 35A.’
‘35A? Your relative was travelling in 35A?’
Sam wanted to hang up. The tone of the woman’s voice was flattening her. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think so.’
‘Wouldn’t have been on this plane. There were only thirty-two rows.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sam. ‘So sorry – I must have . . .’
‘Do you have a name?’
‘Name?’
‘Of your relative.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Sam said. ‘I’ve made a mistake. I don’t think they . . . he . . . were . . . was on that plane at all.’ She hung up feeling hot, flustered, watching her reflection in the mirror putting the phone back on the bedside table.
35A.
She tossed the numbers around in her head, added them together, subtracted them, said them over to herself, trying to find some clue. She pulled the book she had bought out of her handbag and shook it out of its crumpled paper bag.
What Your Dreams Really Say .
She stared at the eyeball and the fish on the cover, then glanced at the biography of the author inside.‘Dr Colin Hare Ph.D., D.Sc. A Fellow of the British Psychological Society. Winner of the University of London Carpenter Medal for “great innovative work”. Considered Britain’s leading authority on dreams, he lectures extensively throughout the world.’
She flicked through a few pages, then turned to the index. Hood. Hood. ‘ Hood , see Mask.’
‘To dream of yourself or others wearing a hood or a mask can be a warning of deception by someone you trust.
‘It may alternatively indicate an aspect of your personality.’
That was all. She looked up ‘Numbers’ and turned to the page.
‘Three: The male genitals. Father, mother, child. The Trinity.
‘Five: The flesh. The body. Life.
‘Any letters of the alphabet indicate pleasant news on the way.’
‘Mumbo jumbo,’ she muttered. Some people could do The Times crossword in four minutes. Not her; never. Riddles. Puzzles. She’d never been any good at them. Thicko Sam.
She heard the rattle of water inside the radiator, and felt a sharp cold draught down the back of her neck. She was frightened again, felt goosepimples on her shoulders, her arms, on her thighs. The door of the room swung open a fraction
Similar Books
