‘For the love of God, Carla!’ Mrs Barrow exclaimed.

I marched back up to the front door, placed the envelope against its wood, positioned the nail in one corner, drew back the hammer and the head flew off. Mrs Barrow (standing – somewhat ill-advisedly – at my shoulder) quickly ducked and only narrowly avoided being hit by it.

‘Okay. Fine. Perhaps you should call in Mr Norwood,’ I compromised. ‘Explain to him about the doors. And the screwdriver. Get him to pop over as soon as he possibly can.’

(Mr Norwood was our local odd-jobs man.)

I placed both handles on to the doormat, side by side.

‘And what about your envelope?’

‘Uh … Oh.’ I turned. ‘Well I thought you might possibly consider …?’

Mrs Barrow leapt back (by approximately a foot) as I casually proffered it to her. Nope. This plainly wasn’t to be an option.

‘Right.’

I tore the envelope open, withdrew the cash, then knelt down on the front step and proceeded to feed the money, painstakingly, individual note by individual note, through the minute gap under the bottom of the door, culminating, finally, with the envelope itself.

Mrs Barrow watched me (from a safe distance), wincing theatrically, as if waiting for some dramatic consequence. But there wasn’t one (no unexplained gust of wind forcing it back out again, no flickering flame, no sudden flood). The money was delivered. It was done.

‘Goodbye, Mr Huff,’ I murmured softly, thoroughly satisfied – even a little smug (a tiny, impertinent fist, tightly clenched, shaking, defiantly, against the gods).

Goodbye, Mr Huff.

Yes. Yes. Yes. And a very good riddance to you, too! I thought.

19

Mr Franklin D. Huff

I swear I had no idea that it was actually a sauna. Absolutely none. It was an honest mistake. I thought it was just a shed – that our dear Miss Hahn was simply rootling around inside a shed (something that I don’t doubt she is often – very often – wont to be found doing). In fact there were other sheds in the vicinity. Several of them. In various stages of collapse. One of which appeared to be hanging off a small precipice.

Although what kind of an idiot – an idiot – would you have to be to persist in inhabiting a place that is so patently unsafe? Not out of dire need. Or poverty. Or mental illness (at least not so far as I am aware). But to actively pursue it – to … to celebrate it, almost like it’s some kind of wild and crazy lifestyle choice! A place where the ground might slip right out from under you at any given moment?

What kind of a stupid, arrogant, bumptious, over-confident fool would you have to be to actively pursue a life on the edge of an unstable cliff? Not even on the edge – beyond the edge (a significant section of Miss Hahn’s ‘garden’ was in ‘tiers’, below the drop!).

No. It simply made no sense to me. None at all. It just seemed so … so unbelievably … complacent. Yes. That’s it. Such … such complacency. To be so … so cocky, so complacent. Even uttering the word. Even uttering the word – ‘complacent’ – made my hackles start to rise. Even so much as … as uttering the word. Even engaging with the concept. To be so complacent. To be so … so complacent.