“I went a year or so ago for some jabs, holiday vaccinations. But now that I think about it, some locum saw me. I can’t think when I last saw Doctor Woodcourt... maybe two years ago, when I was going on the pill.”
“Two years is a long time. I don’t think she’d recognize you, do you?”
“Probably not. I don’t see what —”
“On Monday morning, I’m going to call in sick to your office on your behalf. You’re allowed several sick days before you need notification from your doctor.”
“A sick line, yes.” And then Christine Jones saw. “You’d pretend to be me? Just to get a sick line?”
“It shouldn’t come to that. Three days should suffice. What about your housemates?”
“What about them?”
“They’ll be worried if you suddenly disappear.”
“Not them. I don’t think they’d bother. I go away with my boyfriend all the time without saying anything.”
“But you’ve split up with your boyfriend.”
“How do you know that?”
Witch smiled. “And you’re lying about your housemates. They’ll be worried if they don’t hear from you.” She reached into her bag and produced a card of some kind. Christine saw it was a postcard. There were four separate views on the front and some writing: “Greetings from Auchterarder.” Witch untied Christine’s right hand. “I want you to send them a postcard.” The card, which had been sitting on the bed, slipped off onto the floor. Before she realized the enormity of her mistake, Witch had leaned halfway towards the floor to retrieve it.
Christine’s free hand shot to the bedside cabinet and snatched at the iron, stabbing at Witch with it. But Witch was too quick. She leapt from the bed and stood at a safe distance.
“Get out!” screamed Christine. “Go on, get out of here!” Then she started to yell at the top of her voice. “Help! Someone, please! Help!”
There was no time for indecision. Witch turned and left the room, closing the door after her. Christine might stop yelling for a moment to listen for sounds of her leaving. At the bottom of the stairs, Witch walked along the hall, opened the front door, checked that no one was in the street, then slammed it shut. On tiptoe, she walked back along the hall to the cupboard beside the living-room door, the cupboard under the stairs. Christine would have put the iron down so that, with her one free hand, she could untie her other bonds. They were difficult knots. It would take her some seconds.
The switch on the fuse box went from on to off. The lights went off. The noisy fridge clunked to a halt. The display on the bedside clock went blank. Christine realized what was happening and started yelling again. Witch was climbing the stairs, her eyes cold and hard. She opened the door to Christine’s room. The evening was still light, even though Witch had closed the curtains. There was the beginning of an orange glow from the street lighting. They stared at one another, Witch utterly silent, Christine almost hoarse from shouting, and crying, too. Of course, Christine knew that the iron she was again holding, the only thing that held Witch at bay, was cooling and would not get hot again. If she put it down, she could untie the knots, but if she put it down...
She did what Witch had hoped she would. She grew frustrated. And she tried to throw the iron not at Witch — Christine was cleverer than that — but at the window. But the plug held in the socket and the iron fell to the floor with a dull thud. It took two seconds for Witch to reach the bed, raise a fist, and strike Christine Jones back into unconsciousness.
Stillness. Peace. She peered out through the curtains. Someone in the house across the street was staring from their window. Someone else joined them, then they gave up and turned away. She had to act fast now. Things were becoming dangerous. She went to the fuse box and turned it back on. Then, in the living room, she made a telephone call.
“It’s me,” she said into the receiver.
“I was wondering when you’d call.” He pronounced the final word as “gall.”
“I need a package picked up,” Witch said. “A large package. I’ll give you the address. The package needs to be stored for a few days. Can you do that?”
“It’s in one piece, is it? Damaged goods might be a problem.”
“It’s in one piece.”
“All right, give me the address.”
She did so.
“We need to meet,” said the voice, a European voice, Dutch perhaps.
“Monday,” she said. “I’ll call you. The package needs to be picked up within the hour, sooner if possible.”
“To Stoke Newington? Twenty minutes.”
“Good.” She put down the telephone. She returned to Christine’s room and opened the wardrobe. On top was a small suitcase, which she lifted down. She began to pack clothes, enough for a few days’ travel. Good clothes, too, including the smartest-looking dress. She also packed makeup, and a few toiletries from the bathroom. Christine seemed to keep her things in a toiletry bag. The toiletry bag and its contents went into the case. Shoes, too. And one of the fat new library books.
She took her own carrier bag downstairs and placed it next to the front door. Beside it she left Christine’s attaché case and satchel, having first checked that her security pass was in the satchel, along with other documentation allowing access to canteens, clubs, sports facilities. She stared for a moment at the photograph on the security pass. The photo showed head and shoulders only, as these things always did. Another lapse: anyone with similar facial features could use another person’s card, even if, like Witch and Christine, one of them was a good four inches taller than the other.
With makeup and a little hairdressing, she could pass for Christine Jones. She felt sure of it. She looked again out into the street. No signs of police or even curious neighbors. If anyone had heard the cries, they were ignoring them. Witch lifted the postcard from beside Christine’s bed, took up a pen, and printed the message: HARD WORK BUT FUN. SEE YOU SOON. C. She then also printed the address of the house, leaving the space for names blank. An envelope on Christine’s study-desk gave her the correct postcode. She reread the card. It was by no means perfect, but it would have to suffice... under the circumstances. The card had already been stamped with a Scottish-issue stamp, the lion rampant in one corner. She’d been so careful in Auchterarder. So careful. The card was delicious. Elder and company wouldn’t see it till afterwards, till long after she’d gone.
The case was all packed. Time to tidy up. She put the iron back where she’d found it, and plugged the lamp back in. She reset the time on the clock-alarm, and went through to the other bedrooms to do the same. There was a humming from one bedroom. It was a computer, its screen white and blank and flickering, sitting on a large table. It had been left on. She ejected the disk, found the start-up disk, and rebooted the system. Then she put the original disk back in. Had it been set at the menu screen? That would make sense, nobody would leave it halfway through a file when they were going off for the weekend: Unless... She looked down the file names on the menu. One caught her eye: CHRIS. BYE. She opened the file. It was a message, short and to the point:
WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE? DON’T YOU DARE READ MY LETTERS!!
Witch smiled. It was a message left for Christine. She began typing, her fingers efficient.
WOULDN’T DREAM OF IT! ANYWAY, GOT A CALL THIS EVENING. SOMEONE’S DROPPED OUT OF A CONFERENCE AT GLENEAGLES, AND DTI WANT ME TO GO!
She pondered the exclamation marks: were they Christine’s style? Yes, probably. A woman on the way up in the civil service, and now a chance to shine at an important conference... yes, they were excusable. Witch typed on.
OFF TOMORROW MORNING, BACK LATER IN THE WEEK, CHRIS.