Free Touched by Angels by Alan Watts

hand suddenly shot out and grabbed her ankle. She yelped and stumbled, falling into an awkward sitting position, with her dress in a ruck around her.
    Still holding her ankle, his face turned up towards hers, a picture of agony. He tried to speak, but a long wheeze and a frothy sound came out instead, followed by a trickle of blood. His head dropped to the floor with a hollow bang, though his eyes remained open.
    The grip relaxed on her ankle and she shuffled quickly backwards until she met the door. She looked across the room, over the second dead body to adorn the floor in less than a fortnight, to see her son transfixed by shock, eyes as wide as saucers, mouth gaping open.
    She struggled up slowly, her mind racing, as she pushed her hair out of her eyes, knowing there would be no winkling out of it this time, even though what had happened was a genuine accident.
    She knew that sending Robert off to find Sharp was a waste of time, because even as dense as he was, he wouldn’t believe a second alibi. Sheer despair engulfed her. She would certainly go to prison and might even hang, while Robert would be taken away to God knows where.
    He was blubbing by now, as he asked, “What… what are we going to do?”
    “ Do?” She was almost angry. “They’ll think we murdered him.” She sat at the table, her legs weak.
    Robert’s voice had no strength in it. “But… we… we didn’t. He fell against… He was pushin’ you about… and then…”
    Numb, she wished she could stop trembling, as she tried to think what to do.
    Then t here was a rap on the door. She jumped as though an electric current had passed through her.
    Robert bolted upstairs.
    She knew that whoever stood beyond would see the body if she opened it more than a crack. Fighting panic, she dragged it under the windowsill, thankfully on the opposite side to which the door opened, as another, louder rap came. She opened it about two inches, knowing if a constable stood there, the game would be up.
    Instead, there was a squat, middle-aged woman, wearing a choker that gleamed with a Star of David. Her grey hair was piled up in a bun, with brass pins running through to secure it. Mrs Cohen from Carnaby Lane was another of her regulars.
    Apart from the fact that she, too, thought Lil was blessed with her ‘gift’, her agile mind would wonder how, with her husband gone, worthless as he had been, she could afford to turn business away. So, against all her instincts, Lil stepped outside, hoping to God Robert wouldn’t have a breakdown in the next ten minutes.
    As she started going through her pitch trying to stop herself from stuttering and being sick, her mind was still churning over the few dubious options open to her.
    As Mrs Cohen finally wandered off, happy with what Lil had told her, that her own idle husband would soon be up off his backside, doing some work, something else occurred to her too. Something of perhaps vital importance.
    She was twitching as she went indoors to find out.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

Sixteen
     
    It stood on the table, beckoning. The Gladstone bag.
    She was glad it was getting dark, so she could legitimately pull the curtains and light the oil lamps. Then, after a nervous glance at the door, she pulled the bag towards her, and clicked it open.
    As Robert watched, she pulled the two halves apart, and their eyes started from their heads, as she reached inside and pulled out a wad of pound notes.
    She whispered “My God!” as she studied it, before laying it on the table.
    Then, feverishly, she pulled out another, and another, and another. They were wrapped in bands of royal blue, freshly printed, with the intoxicating scent of the Mint. There were so many, she had to stack them, and when she had finished, they stared at the foot high fortune for a very long time.
    Certain she was trapped in a dream, she flicked through one of them, to find there were a hundred notes and a hundred wads, making ten thousand