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By Helen O'Shea "When we first met," he began, "I thought you sang like a sheep with constipation." Between coughs - she had just taken a sip of her wine - she managed to ask, "Is that something you learned in your farm labouring days? How constipated sheep sing?" Actually &" he hesitated. "No, I've already revealed one secret. It's now time to hear one of yours." They had tossed a dice to decide who took first turn in the game. He had thrown a six against her meagre two. Her calm eyes rested on his face. "I can catch up later. Tell me what you were going to say. What's your next secret?" "I don't have a cousin in Pembrokeshire, and I've never helped on a farm in my life. I made up that story. "She waited for him to say more. "I was in prison," he admitted. "What did you do?" When he again hesitated, she said, "I know, it's my turn. But I need to know whether you're dangerous!" "All right," he said. "But when I've finished, it really is your turn!" He considered her." "Do you have three secrets?" The game had been his idea. As to all his games, she had agreed with alacrity. She smiled. "I'll try to find three. What did you go to prison for?" He settled himself more comfortably on the floor, his back resting against the sofa, and started talking. "Well," he said when he finished, "you're still here. You haven't run away screaming." He la opening the bottle expertly and pouring the wine. "My first secret," she began. "She stopped, and watched him raise his glass to his lips. "Promise you won't laugh?" "Promise." He took a sip. I hate it when people criticise my singing." "Darling." He made his face contrite. "What can I say? We did agree, didn't we, on the rules of the game? To tell the truth, the whole truth & all that?" "Yes, absolutely. I'm playing by the rules, by telling you." "True." The second bottle of wine seemed stronger than the first. He peered at the bottle on the oak table; it was the same, his favourite claret. " I'd just like to know that your singing has improved immensely in the time we've been together." She smiled. "Thank you." "I can't believe - I - the thing &" he stopped. He was rambling but could not get in control. "God, I feel so relaxed so - so relaxed since I told you about my past." He wanted to move onto the sofa but it was too much effort. The half full wine glass tipped dangerously sideways on his chest and he gripped it with slender, manicured fingers, fearful for his pale beige carpet of the threatened onslaught by the rich red liquid. She watched him. "My second secret, " she said, "is that it isn't your confession that's making you look so relaxed. Enjoy it while it lasts." He stared into then cool green gaze, trying to understand. "As for my third secret," she continued. "I hope it isn't breaking the rules to reveal several secrets as one." She listed the names of eight people, some of which he recognised vaguely. He tried to speak but his face felt stiff. He was still looking at her; he had no choice, because when he tried to turn his head, nothing happened. "You may remember some of the names from then national new," she said conversationally. "Some of the bodies have never been found." And then in a different tone, almost a hiss, she added, "They all criticised my singing." From the corner of one transfixed eye, he saw his wine glass, still half full, topple from his fingers as all the muscles of his body locked in a spasm. Helplessly he watched as his pale beige carpet surrendered, without protesting, to its slow but inevitable, seduction by his favourite claret. The End |
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The Blooding of Amelia-Rose is a romance thriller. When Amelia-Rose finds herself without a husband, she retreats to an idyllic country cottage where she discovers strange country customs, dangers but also romance lurking in the valleys and moorlands of Exmoor... Romances, thrill and mysteries ... |