Free Nemesis - John Kane's revenge by Bill Carson Page A

eyes met with a plump woman, arms casually folded under her ample bosom, with a curious look across her face. She was standing by the front gate in her bedroom slippers. He played it cool, and quickly slipped into character and turned on the charm.
     
    “Ah, good evening madam, my name is Harold Harper and I am from the council. I was just looking the property over, it’s all part of a new survey, you see,” he said, as he approached her.
     
    “I haven’t heard of any new survey, and it’s a funny sort of time for this type of work, isn’t it?” she said, as she eyed him curiously.
     
    “They keep me out to all hours nowadays I’m afraid, my dear. No rest for the wicked you know,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.
     
    “I’m Mrs Macintyre and I live next door. There’s no one there and hasn’t been for some time, they all moved out ages ago. Mind you, I couldn’t blame them, not after what had happened. Who would want to live there?”
     
    “Oh, I see, you say something happened?” he asked, as he moved a little closer.
     
    “Oh I could tell you a thing or two about that place, but not out here and you look as if you could do with a nice hot cuppa. Come in and I’ll put the kettle on,” she said.
     
    “That would be most welcome, how kind,” Harold said, as he slid the small jemmy back into the inside pocket of his raincoat, and he followed the kindly old lady into the warm, dimly lit hallway.
     
    Harold had stepped into one of the most beautifully decorated and stylishly furnished rooms he’d ever seen, and was totally taken aback by the unexpected salubrious surroundings. Mrs Macintyre bustled around in the kitchen where she kept the one-way conversation going, while he slowly and silently drew the heavy red velvet curtains and then studied the gallery of old photos that were perched on a bookshelf.
     
    Some of them were housed in large ornate brass frames, and one in particular had caught his eye; it was a black and white photo of a young boy of no more than four or five years of age sitting alone in the middle of a garden lawn with bright sunlight on his blond, curly locks. The boy was looking forlornly out of the picture and right at Harold, who was intrigued by the melancholic expression of his eyes that seemed to be boring into him. He then studied the rest of the photos, which were mainly of seaside snaps and weddings from long ago. He was fascinated by the people in them and to him the photos were like windows into another world, a different world, a much better world.
     
    “Old days, old times, old ways,” he said quietly, as he ran his gloved index finger over the smiling faces of the young people who were now all, without a doubt, long dead.
     
    “Did you say something, Harold?” Mrs Macintyre inquired, from her newly fitted kitchen.
     
    “No, Mrs Macintyre, just talking to myself while looking at your lovely old photos.”
     
    “First sign of madness that is, talking to yourself, you know. That big one is my son Simon, he lives out in Australia, they’re coming over soon for my birthday,” she said proudly, and smiled as she pointed to it.
     
    “All civil servants are a bit mad, Mrs Macintyre, it’s a prerequisite in this job.”
     
    “Do you know, Harold, I’ve lived here alone for the past twenty years now since my Albert passed away, and that was just after Simon went off to find his fortune. He’s a very rich man now you know, and he never forgets his old mum. Look at all the furniture he’s bought me and every week something new is always turning up. He’s asked me to move out there with him loads of times but I‘m set in my ways now, and I’ll tell you this, no one really wants to know you when you’re old, Harold, and that’s a fact. One day you’ll be saying the same thing, you mark my words,” she said, as she poured the tea into a fine bone china tea cup, from a brown and cream old fashioned ceramic teapot.
     
    “Yes, quite. Can I ask, how