16

  Humphrey watched – from the other side of the road – as Anthea’s customer was propelled through the door with some, considerable, energy.

  It was a good effect and certainly added greatly to her mystique.

  However, the fact was that it was the man’s own desperate momentum that had delivered him back to the safety of the streets.

  Anthea hadn’t had to lay so much as a finger on him.

  Humphrey gulped, nervously.

  People paid good money for thrill rides like the one he was currently contemplating. Even as her ex-husband, the man – ‘Huh! Allegedly’ – who had ruined her life completely, he was very small fry indeed. Her scalps had included several prominent figures; at least one archbishop; four mayors and two former Prime Ministers.

  It didn’t matter who you were, she would chew you up and spit you out just the same.

  You had to admire that about her.

  The titled, the noble or the great unwashed, all were equals in Anthea Lovewell’s eyes.

  They were all scum.

  You had to admire her.

  He needed a game-plan.

  He’d just have a look through the window… and if her expression could be classified as anything less than imminently homicidal he would risk it.

  Maybe.

  After all, she’d already paid a visit to his commercial enterprise, that afternoon. Except that she’d come mob-handed.

  Yes, Sandra.

  He very much wanted to speak to her.

  She was a ‘Barney Adams Appreciator’?

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The idea quite boggled his mind. Perhaps he’d been wrong, earlier, in his analysis of his visitors’ dynamic: perhaps it was Anthea who’d been looking after her sister? Keeping her away from sharp objects and situations of extreme peril, since she – quite obviously – had no common sense of her own to speak of.

  He approached the window, carefully, then peered in.

  There was no sign of anyone.

  That was strange.

  She must’ve been in the back somewhere.

  Nevertheless, it showed a great deal of trust to vanish from the scene and leave the door open and the till unattended like that.

  Except that Anthea didn’t trust anyone.

  It had to be a trap, of some description.

  That settled things then. No-one in his right mind would enter that shop under those circumstances. Anyone who did must – arguably – have even less sense than Sandra.

  Humphrey took a last breath of freedom and went inside.

  The radio played something safe and bland from behind the counter. She always put the radio or the television on in any room in which she found herself alone.

  It was the very first thing she did.

  Always.

  It was almost as though she were perpetually scared to be anywhere by herself.

  With herself, that was probably more like it.

  Strictly speaking, she ought to have had some sort of permit from the local authority to play music in public like that. However, it had been decided within the town hall – at mayoral level – to simply turn a blind eye to her actions. This had largely been motivated by the fact that every emissary that had been dispatched down there to tell her off had returned with much more than just their tails between their legs.

  Still, they were able to claim it all back on expenses.

  And, given a choice between ongoing incarceration with Anthea and a quick, although expensive, route to freedom, there was no amount of Victor Borge records that could ever be classed as ‘too many’.

  Where were all her customers?

  There was a time when punters used to line up halfway down the street for the opportunity to take her on.

  On her day, that shop’s turnover could’ve rivalled some of the smaller multi-nationals.

  Now here it was, apparently deserted.

  Where the hell was Anthea?

  Her place had been deserted, the very first time he’d ever set foot in there, fourteen years ago now.

  Was that right?

  Had he really known her that long?

  Or, to be more specific, had she really spent that long hiding from him?

  She was doing that big style at the moment.

  Tantalising him.

  That’s how she’d snared him, drawn him in to her web. No easy task that, considering the size of him in those days.

  He felt a surge of adrenaline flooding his body, seemingly prioritising bits of him according to some unseen biological check-list. His heart pounded, his breathing shallowed… this was the very epitome of a ‘fight or flight’ experience. Except that neither of those were particularly gallant ways for a gentleman to behave.

  It would, however, add a great deal of authenticity if he were subsequently called upon to pretend to have a heart attack or something. It wouldn’t get him her sympathy in any way but it might buy him some time.

  Where in hell was she?

  She was watching him from somewhere, he knew that much.

  She had to be.

  What was even more exciting than that, was the fact that he had probably committed a hundred different crimes since opening that door… but only Anthea would ever know quite what they were.

  He stood, his hand reassuringly on the door handle.

  And waited.