Allison. Was that the name Peters had called her?

“He said you’d understand,” she continued. She moved to him, revealing her fatigue-ravaged face, her teary, reddened eyes. “It’s my baby,” she said. “He won’t stop crying. Day and night. I’ve tried everything; singing to him, midnight feedings, taking him for long drives. Nothing works.”

Ivan’s hand autonomously found his mouth and gripped it.

The woman held out a tattered envelope. “It’s all I can afford. I don’t need anything as elaborate as what Mr. Peters ordered. Here, I drew a sketch.”

She unfolded a colourful paper from inside the envelope. It was an ad from a magazine or catalogue. The infant in the photograph had been distorted, its wide and innocent grin gagged by a hectic thumbnail drawing of a chin strap and blinders and a spiked ball-gag forced between the tiny lips.

“I love my son, you understand? I love him. I’m not doing this to punish him. I just need some peace and quiet. I’ll only need this for a while…just a little while…just until he learns.”

Crawlspace Oracle

Crawlspace Oracle

A few moments under the strange red lamps of the restaurant was all that was required to cause Rhiannon to wonder if she was dreaming. The long bus ride through the rainy afternoon certainly hadn’t helped matters, nor did the reason behind her trip: a reunion with a woman she’d considered, at best, an acquaintance in the office where she’d worked before Iain and marriage and the birth of the twins. It had been a long time since she’d ventured out on her own. She now regretted that her first outing was to this anaemic town that was notorious for being a haven for dismal weather and washed up entertainers.

For reasons Rhiannon could never unearth, these entertainers seemed to migrate to this colourless burg to collect their meagre pensions while waiting to die.

Today, Rhiannon had seen plenty of bleak weather, but only one example of the latter feature; when she’d deboarded at the bus depot she’d witnessed a scarecrow-like man on crutches attempting to juggle a trio of shining spheres. He’d watched Rhiannon hopefully as fluid (rain, perspiration, or tears, she could not tell) streamed down his cheeks. He’d made a pitiful sound as she’d walked by, clinging firmly to her purse. His whimper had been like a baleful note blown on an old wooden flute.

Rhiannon had no intention of ever coming to this town, or of seeking out Hyacinth again. The very thought of Hyacinth provided Rhiannon with pangs of guilt, pangs that worsened when her memory trawled up specific details, such as the lavish gift Hyacinth had given her for the baby shower. But seven years had passed since that time and there’d not been so much as a single call or Christmas card between them.