To Indigo by Tanith Lee (read along books txt) 📕

before the great Library burned in Alexandria in the time of Caesar and Cleopatra.

In my bag I had the MS of Untitled, plus the disc, including the last chapter, XIX – if such it was – work in progress, that was the file and disc for Kill Me Tomorrow. I had Last Orders too, in its paperback form. My favourite. But why shouldn’t I take that to read over on the long train to the north? Quite legitimate. And writers often travel with their work, picking at it in odd moments. I’d be able to use Matt’s computer, wouldn’t I, if I could persuade him away from his twenty-four hour blog, which he’d started to describe Sylvia, if under another name, and all her slut-like wickedness. He’d told me during our short telephone conversation about this blog, and how he was getting hundreds of ‘hits’. Men – and women. An Age of Traitors he called it.

Going back to put the emptied bottle of oil in the kitchen bin, I was careful not to tread in any of it. I’d been especially careful not to splash any on my clothing. I washed my hands at the sink. Like Pilot.

I did glance at him before I left the kitchen, leaving on the light, as I’d left on the light in the lavatory and the study upstairs. (I had got the spare bed out and put it ready too, placing blankets and sheets and a pillow on it, all prepared for Sej’s never-to-be-realised crash).

Sej lay exactly as I’d left him. A little line of blood had run from his nose. I didn’t know what that might mean, but it could hardly auger well.

My bags were already by the front door. Again cautious where I stepped, I let myself out and relocked the door, both locks, then slid the keys back through the letter-box on to the floor, where he might casually have dropped them. Because naturally, if he were minding my house while I was away, he would need them. For what it was worth, I kept the other set, those he had copied from mine. I had deactivated the burglar alarm, too, for the liar’s reason that Sej might have trouble with it.

My previous dialogue with the police, asking for protection, also had an explanation. I’d been afraid of this sudden stalker. Then found out he was the son of a woman I’d known years ago. We’d sorted it all out, and even though he was a little strange, I’d had a fondness for him, because of her, and because I’d last seen him as a child. Obviously this was my gullibility. I’d accepted the yarn he spun me. No doubt the police would eventually point this out. Whatever else, I’d had to go to Cheston to visit Matt. I’d left Sej in the house because he’d told me he was upset, needed a bolt-hole. Some woman he’d got into difficulties over. (If he had told that tale at the hospital, I might have extra back-up).

On the other hand I didn’t really trust any of this to bale me out for long, if the proverbial shit hit the fan. And presumably it would. Matt for one was a doubtful ally.

Old Church Lane seemed in its normal night-time phase. The rain had gone, leaving a cold sparkle on the edges of things. The clock on the church was striking ten-fifteen. All around, the usual flick and flutter of TV and computer screens through glass or drawn blinds and curtains. No lights were visible at all over the road in 73. Perhaps at the back, where the bedroom was. A black or dark blue car had been parked outside No 80. A tall girl and a young man were leaning on the side, embracing, locked in a prolonged kiss. What must that be like? Did I recall? Yes. Oh yes.

I walked across the paving to 72 and rang their bell.

It was late for them, but some lights were still on upstairs and down.

Perhaps they wouldn’t answer, however, already into the bedtime routine, dressing-gowns and cocoa, or whatever they drank last thing. In this day and age even George and Vita probably resorted to a tot of alcohol and a sleeping pill.

Then someone shot the bolts.

George opened the door, virtually as I’d pictured, in a port wine paisley dressing-gown. “Oh – it’s you,” he said.

“Sorry to disturb you.” I was factual and restrained. “I thought I’d better let you know. I’m off again,” (the “again” was deliberate), “that pal of mine up north. I can’t really say no.”

George looked baffled and slightly offended.

“The thing is, in case you hear sounds through the wall, Joseph – is there. He’s staying over for a couple of days. He needs – well, somewhere to get away from it all.”

Something had happened while I said this. I had grasped I didn’t know if George knew Sej by that name, or the other one, Joseph – or by some other name entirely. Had I ever heard him call Sej by a name? Had Sej ever mentioned what George knew him as? I didn’t think so. And certainly George still seemed baffled, and now uneasy. I added, “Joseph. That’s the young man who said he was my son. My friend’s boy.”

“I see.”

“Actually, he’s pretty depressed.” I made myself sound world-weary rather than confiding. “Some trouble with a young woman. I wish it was that easy with my chum Matt, up north. His wife,” I said, “has let him down rather badly.”

A sort of flicker went over George’s face. He seemed caught between a wish to get all the gossip, and a wish to be rid of me.

I granted the second one.

“Anyway. I should be back in four or five days, a week at most. I can’t keep running up there to hold Matt’s hand, can I? Take care. Best to Vita.”

I turned and he cleared his throat.

The outrageousness of his next question, one which I not only had to answer, but