Free Upright Piano Player by David Abbott Page B

a reversing garbage truck, the squeak of next-door’s gate. After an hour, he went downstairs and retrieved his radio, finally falling asleep to the estuary tones of a phone-in.
    That afternoon he walked to the Conran Shop to buy a torch. He had once sat next to a woman at the Royal Opera House who had the score of
Tosca
opened on her lap. Before the performance began she had turned to him. “I have this torch that doesn’t spill light. I don’t think it will bother you.” She had been right, and now he thought such a torch would be useful; he could read or write without revealing his presencein the window. Better still, there would be no need to turn on his radio.
    He took up his position in the window shortly after midnight. He had watched television most of the evening in his study at the back of the house. He had received one phone call. Detective Sergeant Cummings rang to see if there had been any developments.
    “No, everything’s been pretty quiet.”
    “No more letters?”
    “Not from him.”
    “Oh, so you think it’s a man, do you? Any reason for that?”
    Henry had recovered, not well, but quickly.
    “Sorry, I’m of that generation that automatically thinks all doctors, judges, and taxi drivers are male. Criminals, too.”
    The detective had paused before replying.
    “All right, Mr. Cage, let me know if anything happens.”

    If anything had happened that night Henry would not have been awake to see it. He had drifted off shortly before 1:00. Waking at 7:00 he had gone outside to check the front of the house. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed. Inside, he inspected every room, opening wardrobes and cupboards, needing to know that he was safe. It reminded him of a ritual that had marked him out at boarding school. A homesick eight-year-old, he would not get into bed without patting the bedspread first to make sure that no upturned dagger awaited him. In the ruthless community of the dormitory he had been subjected to nightly ridicule, each boy elaboratelypatting beds, curtains, floorboards, and chairs in search of hidden danger. The ragging had gone on for weeks, until one night, exhausted by a cross-country run, Henry had fallen straight into bed, too tired to be timid. He had never patted the bed again and yet even in adulthood some residual anxiety remained. Nessa had teased him about keeping a baseball bat in the bedroom and here he was fearfully opening cupboards in a locked and alarmed house.
    The following day had been like a day of jet lag. In the morning, he had mooned about the house, watchful and weary. He needed regular hours. He wanted to sleep in the dark and wake with the light. He decided to sit up for just one more night. By the afternoon, fatigue had blunted his instincts and he allowed himself to believe his troubles were over, that he had been mistaken, that the malice had been haphazard and would pass on. Sitting in the window that night he became almost lighthearted with relief. Listening to the radio, he dispensed with the earpieces and curled up in the chair, his head cushioned on the soft and ample arm. It was a position, he knew, likely to send him to sleep, but so what?

    He awoke to the sound of the newspapers being delivered. But was it not too early? There was something wrong. His watch had twisted around on his wrist and he was confused and looked for it in the folds of the chair. It was barely light outside and someone was knocking on the window. Henry could see white knuckles rapping on the glass and the cuff of a black leather coat. When he stood up his knee locked andby the time he got to the window he saw only the gate swinging back into place. He sat back on the chair and took a sip of coffee straight from the flask, scalding the roof of his mouth. Why had he come—what had he done? The click of the letter box replayed in Henry’s ear. The bastard had put something through the door.
    In the hall he expected to see more dog shit, a firework, or worse, but on the