Sorry, there's no cover image for this yet either.
This page is for the immediate sequel to Portrait Of a Girl.
Written, edited, and ready for release March 2016
If you want to hold your breath waiting: neither I, nor the publisher, nor anyone remotely connected with us, even down to the man who ran over my big toe with his bicycle, will have any responsibility for the damage.
The same goes when you eventually read it, by the way.
But here is a taster:
A moment later there was another solid knock on my door.
“Don’t answer that!” said Sheila, holding me more tightly still.
“But?” I started to ask.
“If you value your life, do NOT open that door!” Sheila said.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“It is my cleaner, Maria.”
“Well, why shouldn’t I answer it then?”
“Because she is dead,” replied Sheila dramatically.
I stepped backwards, away from the door as the heavy knock came again. Since she was holding me so tightly, Sheila naturally followed and then wanted to keep going. Slowly I walked backwards into the living room, her head pressed against my chest and her arms tight around me.
“Dead?” I asked slowly. “How do you know?”
“I put her body in my cellar,” replied Sheila, somewhat hysterically.
I tried to pull away a little at that remark, but Sheila kept her grip on me.
“Now I’m trying to get away, and they are coming for me!” she said, somewhat hysterically.
The word ‘they’ I found a little disturbing. The sound of knocking at the front door stopped, and Sheila relaxed a little. I became considerably more tense as I could see the cleaner clearly through the front window, staring at us as we stood beside the fireplace. I tried to prise Sheila’s hands from my back, but failed. I stared at the cleaner, who looked impassively at us through the window.
“Are all your doors locked?” asked Sheila.
“Not the back door, no. But this is my home, Sheila.”
“So?” she asked.
“So nothing can come in here without my express invitation.”
Now Sheila let go of me, and straightened up. “How can you be sure?”
I took her hands. “Trust me on this. It might surprise you, but I have a little experience and knowledge here.”
Sheila dropped my left hand, her right hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes opened wide in horror. “You are not involved with - them - with him - are you?”
“No. Whoever you are talking about, I can assure you that I am not.”
“Mister Jones, we are still in danger then. You see…” her voice trailed away.
“What? I asked urgently.
“The bedroom I used here, with the hole in the wall…”
“What?”
“I invited - him - through into that room.” Her head turned to look at the ceiling.
“That’s of no consequence,” I told her. “I’ve stopped up that hole. I haven’t repaired it properly, but I have blocked it.”
There was a knock on the front door again. Moments later there came another knock on the back door, and Sheila started shaking again.
“Have you got any windows open?” she asked.
I shook my head reassuringly. “The evening air was getting a chill, so I closed them before the news came on the TV.”
Sheila relaxed again.
“Who is at the back door?” I asked her.
“Probably a policewoman,” she replied.
I was startled. “Surely I should answer that then?”
“Not unless you want to kill us both,” she told me.
This page is for the immediate sequel to Portrait Of a Girl.
Written, edited, and ready for release March 2016
If you want to hold your breath waiting: neither I, nor the publisher, nor anyone remotely connected with us, even down to the man who ran over my big toe with his bicycle, will have any responsibility for the damage.
The same goes when you eventually read it, by the way.
But here is a taster:
A moment later there was another solid knock on my door.
“Don’t answer that!” said Sheila, holding me more tightly still.
“But?” I started to ask.
“If you value your life, do NOT open that door!” Sheila said.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“It is my cleaner, Maria.”
“Well, why shouldn’t I answer it then?”
“Because she is dead,” replied Sheila dramatically.
I stepped backwards, away from the door as the heavy knock came again. Since she was holding me so tightly, Sheila naturally followed and then wanted to keep going. Slowly I walked backwards into the living room, her head pressed against my chest and her arms tight around me.
“Dead?” I asked slowly. “How do you know?”
“I put her body in my cellar,” replied Sheila, somewhat hysterically.
I tried to pull away a little at that remark, but Sheila kept her grip on me.
“Now I’m trying to get away, and they are coming for me!” she said, somewhat hysterically.
The word ‘they’ I found a little disturbing. The sound of knocking at the front door stopped, and Sheila relaxed a little. I became considerably more tense as I could see the cleaner clearly through the front window, staring at us as we stood beside the fireplace. I tried to prise Sheila’s hands from my back, but failed. I stared at the cleaner, who looked impassively at us through the window.
“Are all your doors locked?” asked Sheila.
“Not the back door, no. But this is my home, Sheila.”
“So?” she asked.
“So nothing can come in here without my express invitation.”
Now Sheila let go of me, and straightened up. “How can you be sure?”
I took her hands. “Trust me on this. It might surprise you, but I have a little experience and knowledge here.”
Sheila dropped my left hand, her right hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes opened wide in horror. “You are not involved with - them - with him - are you?”
“No. Whoever you are talking about, I can assure you that I am not.”
“Mister Jones, we are still in danger then. You see…” her voice trailed away.
“What? I asked urgently.
“The bedroom I used here, with the hole in the wall…”
“What?”
“I invited - him - through into that room.” Her head turned to look at the ceiling.
“That’s of no consequence,” I told her. “I’ve stopped up that hole. I haven’t repaired it properly, but I have blocked it.”
There was a knock on the front door again. Moments later there came another knock on the back door, and Sheila started shaking again.
“Have you got any windows open?” she asked.
I shook my head reassuringly. “The evening air was getting a chill, so I closed them before the news came on the TV.”
Sheila relaxed again.
“Who is at the back door?” I asked her.
“Probably a policewoman,” she replied.
I was startled. “Surely I should answer that then?”
“Not unless you want to kill us both,” she told me.
