I’ll admit it. I panicked. It had never occurred to me that Winter might have a lady companion, and the thought of having to explain my visit to some woman in a negligee (my mind gave me the image of Mrs. Nutter, in her silk caftan with the psychedelic print) filled me with embarrassment. I sprang away from the door and hid on the far side of the hedge, making sure to close the gate. It was a trick Eric and I had played many times during our boyhood, and I felt myself trying to suppress an inappropriate grin as the door swung open, and a light came on, allowing me a glimpse through the hedge of a small, wiry woman about my own age; dyed black hair; pink housedress; fluffy high-heeled mules; and hands that were gnarled with knuckle-duster rings—

For a moment I wondered if I’d knocked at the door of the wrong house. Then she spoke, quite sharply, and I recognized her voice.

“Who’s there?”

It was Gloria. Even through the hedge I knew—something about the way she stood, staring out into the night with a mixture of doubt and suspicion. I could—I should—have spoken up. But Winter had told me she was dead, yet here she was, not quite unchanged (I told you, Gloria Winter had been quite the pinup, back in the day), but there was no mistaking that voice, and those eyes, that seemed to cut through the darkness—

She lingered a moment longer. Behind the hedge, I did not stir. That’s a novice’s mistake—to lose one’s nerve and break cover—but I am a veteran of the game, and even though my back ached, and my right leg was cramping, I stayed completely immobile in the shadow of the hedge, a privet of generous leafiness, hoping that a car wouldn’t choose that precise moment to drive by and illuminate me from behind . . .

From inside the house I heard Winter’s voice. “Ma? Who is it?”

“Kids,” she said. Her voice is the same as always; slightly husky from smoking. “Gone now—lucky for them.” The threat in those words was palpable. For a moment I was nine again, crouching behind the neighbor’s fence with a pocket full of firecrackers. “Trick-or-treaters,” Gloria said, raising her voice to address the night. “Come round again and I’ll give you a treat. Right up the arse.”

Then she stepped inside again, closing the door. The light went out. And I stayed there, behind the hedge, for another five minutes or so, just to make sure she wasn’t still there, watching from the shadows, behind that row of china dogs that stared relentlessly into the night.

Chapter 3

3

November 3, 2005