Wulf the Saxon: A Story of the Norman Conquest by G. A. Henty (top 100 novels of all time .txt) 📕

was dressed entirely in black, from what she could see: fedora, shirt, jacket, trousers, socks, as well as a pair of the most expensive shoes she had ever laid eyes on. In fact, despite his appearance, Janine would say that none of his clothes were cheap. They all appeared to have been cut from the finest cloth. She simply couldn’t understand why anyone chose to make such a fashion statement. But that was actors for you – an eccentric bunch if there was one.

“My order is on the counter,” were his only words.

He continued to glance around the shop as though he was bored, occasionally lifting an item from the shelves, clicking his tongue if it didn’t meet with his approval. He ran his finger along the ledges, rolling his eyes.

The cheeky bastard was checking for dust.

She started to pick at her fingernails, wishing he’d go to hell. Ignoring his glare, she searched underneath the counter for a pair of scissors. It was time she trimmed them. A complete makeover with a wild night out on the town was what she really needed. Having found them, she walked across the shop behind the counter, dragging a bin with her.

She was about to make the first cut when the creep stood stock-still and stared at her. It was perhaps the most disturbing expression she had ever seen. The depth of his eyes was limitless.

Janine suddenly thought of a saying her grandmother often used, about a person having an “evil eye”. She believed such a person could inflict disease or death simply by a glance.

Her fear increased, and her stomach contracted. She suspected it had nothing to do with her period. She’d always known that the man was strange, but he’d never frightened her to that degree. Janine even wondered if the heating in the shop had stopped working, as a chill crept up her spine.

“What on earth are you doing, girl?” He dragged the sentence out as if his life depended on it.

Janine lowered her head, noticed she was at the point of cutting the nail on her forefinger. The scissors were open, at the ready. For a reason she couldn’t explain, she felt ashamed. Perhaps it was the tone in the creep’s voice: the demeaning manner in which he’d addressed her. Another stomach spasm resulted in her mood flipping as quickly as his. “What’s it to you?”

He lifted his head to the point where he must have struggled to peer down his nose, but he persisted. “Young lady, how you pass your time is of no consequence to me, but there is a certain etiquette one should follow.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

And with that, she cut the nail. A quick snip, and it fell into the bin.

“Oh my good God,” he exclaimed, gripping his walking stick a little tighter. “She’s done it,” he said, as if he wasn’t actually talking to her.

Janine snipped another, wondering if they had started a game, clearly delighted at having unsettled him for a change.

“Stop it at once, you stupid girl,” barked the creep. “Don’t you realise what you’re doing?”

“I’m cutting my nails for Christ’s sake–”

“Never on a Friday!”

Janine stopped mid-cut. He had managed it again. His expression and the tone of his voice had made her feel inadequate.

“What are you talking about?” asked Janine, a little more placidly.

“Don’t you know anything about fingernails, young lady?”

“Not as much as you, evidently,” she replied, wishing she hadn’t.

“White specs on the nails of the left hand, signify gifts on the thumb; friends on the first finger; foes on the second; lovers on the third, and a journey to be taken on the fourth.”

He reached out and placed her left hand in his. His touch was so cold, Janine wanted to retract, but didn’t for fear of sending him over the edge.

He stared intently. “Second and fourth, foes and a journey. To have yellow speckles is a great sign of death.” Glancing up, he held her gaze. “You must never cut the nails of a child under a year old. The mother should bite them off, or the child will grow up to be a thief...” He stroked her left hand with his right, his gaze distant as he rambled. Janine felt repulsed by his attention, but had neither the power nor the nerve to withdraw.

“Cut them on Monday, you cut them for health. Cut them on Tuesday, you cut them for wealth. Cut them on Wednesday, you cut them for news; on Thursday, a new pair of shoes. Cut them on a Friday...” – his eyes met hers again, and he lowered his voice yet further, speaking even slower – “...you cut them for sorrow. Cut them on a Saturday, you see your true love tomorrow.”

The creep then whispered, which she found even more disconcerting. “Cut them on a Sunday, the devil will be with you all of the week.”

Janine flinched. The man was seriously fucked in the head. What the hell was he talking about, cutting your nails on different days of the week? She wished the manager, Mr Cuthbertson, were here. But he was even more of a creep. He would revel in what was happening. She tried to think of a way to persuade the eccentric thespian to leave. He had suddenly grown very quiet, but he was still staring at her, still holding her hand, and still stroking it, for God’s sake. She pulled away quickly, the draft whizzing past the list he’d left on the counter, blowing it to the edge.

He continued to stare at Janine for what she thought was a long time. He didn’t appear to be gazing at her, more inside her. She felt her breath quicken. Her heart pounded against the inside of her chest. Her muscles weakened, and she became aware of how full her bladder was.