Free Past Praying For by Aline Templeton

slid out of bed with infinite caution, then out of her bedroom and down the stairs. About her, the house was hushed, but in her fancy the silence was strained and unnatural, as if a scream were being choked back because of a steely hand about the throat.
    Perhaps if she kept moving...She went into the kitchen, busied herself with the kettle, a mug, a teabag, the teapot. But it needed more and more desperate concentration; her movements were getting slower, slower...
    Suddenly, as if a switch had been thrown, she perked up. Her eyes were bright now, her shoulders straighter, her movements quick and decisive.
    Her lips curved, and she began to giggle.
    ‘ Clever old Missy!’ she said softly. ‘Clever old Missy!’
    She looked at the mug, and the teapot warming in front of her, and pulled a naughty face.
    ‘ Tea!’ she said disdainfully. ‘How crummy, how entirely crummy!’
    She liked the sound of that, and declaimed it once or twice, as she opened a kitchen cupboard to take out a bottle of cooking brandy and slosh a large measure into a drinking glass. She sipped at it, smacking her lips and apparently oblivious to the rawness of the spirit.
    ‘ That’s better. And now –!’
    She went through to the hall, moving cautiously and murmuring ‘Sssh!’ to herself under her breath. There was a long, deep cupboard which ran below the stairs and she bent low to step into it, then crawled her way purposefully to the deepest, furthest corner. Under a pile of dust sheets there was a black plastic bag which she pulled towards her. It was quite heavy, and an awkward shape in such a confined space; she was strong, very strong, but she struggled a little to get it out. She banged it against the door and swore out loud, then froze, listening. But there was no responsive sound; the spell of silence still lay over the place, and she carried her booty into the kitchen.
    Before she opened it, she went to the sink where a pair of rubber gloves were draped to dry, and put them on. She admired her funny pink hands, wiggled the fingers a little bit. Then she went to the table and sat down for a moment to think.
    She had planned to write another letter tonight – another little part of her grand design – but now there was something else that was bothering her.
    She didn’t recall the past very clearly. Memories and times were blurry, somehow, but she remembered feelings. She remembered fear and shame and a plump body and gold glasses that glinted, and someone who seemed somehow to know what you had done in secret. It was confused in her mind, but she was clear about one thing; she must make her keep her distance, scare her off, or disaster for Missy would follow as it had before.
    The typewriter she took from the bag was a battered black Imperial, almost a museum piece. She set it up on the kitchen table, then made another trip to the sitting room to fetch notepaper, envelopes and stamps. Smiling in appreciation of her own cunning, she pulled the sheet from the centre of the pad, chose envelopes from the heart of the packet.
    She tapped with silent concentration, giggling occasionally her soft, high-pitched giggle, then stood up. She was still in her nightgown, with her funny pink hands and bare feet; from the pegs at the back door she took a hooded raincoat, and slipped her feet into a pair of gumboots.
    She took the letters and opened the back door stealthily, just enough to let herself out, then closed it quickly to shut off the light from inside. She stood in the shadows, listening and looking down the deserted street. She had one or two things to do tonight and she slid into the blackness like a fish released into its natural element, darting and flickering in and out of the shadows, herself a deeper darkness made visible, had there been eyes to see.
    But beyond, the calm domestic night-world with its streetlamps and pavements and parked cars was empty, its houses blank in their own innocent darkness, except where a window sparkled