Free Consequences by R. C. Bridgestock Page B

turns up?’ Larry’s text read. ‘Oh, God she hadn’t thought of that.’ Do you want me to stay over? I could photograph and mark the money at the same time, which will prove it’s yours.’
    Liz hesitated. Did she really want Larry staying? She’d arranged for Gemma to be collected from school by her gran and gramps and have a sleepover, so at least she knew she’d be okay. What had she got to lose; there was nothing stopping the blackmailer turning up at the house like Larry said, and if he did she would at least have some support at hand.
    ‘Okay, whatever you think best. I’ll leave a key in the gas meter cupboard, on the wall out the front. Let yourself in when I’ve left for the bank’. She was secretly pleased she wasn’t going to be on her own.
     
    Her trembling fingers fumbled with the big yellow plastic key, as she crouched on her haunches to see the keyhole of the gas cupboard.
    ‘Argh.’ Liz moaned as pain seared through her finger. She cursed under her breath as, in the shingle at her feet, she saw a perfectly painted acrylic nail that had pinged off. She picked it up and held it in her pained hand. Tears sprung in her eyes. She went down on her knees as she heard a crunch behind her on the gravel. Not daring to turn, she felt the hairs rise on the back of the neck. She listened. The key fell to the floor as the cupboard door silently flew back.
    ‘You okay Mrs Reynolds?’ said the postman, who towered over her as he held out a pile of junk mail. ‘I thought I heard you shout.’
    Liz swallowed hard as she closed her eyes tight. A wave of nausea and a hot flush ran through her body. ‘I’m fine, just fine,’ said Liz, her heart in her mouth. ‘I’ve just broken a nail,’ she said, as she stood up and offered the postman her hand, which displayed her own nail, which was lifted slightly and bleeding under the nail bed. He took it in his.
    ‘It’s not going blue, I’m sure you’ll live,’ he said, kindly.
    ‘But, you’re as white as a ghost and shaking like a leaf. You sure you’re okay? Can I get you a drink of water?’ he said, holding her by the elbow and guiding her to the bench beside the front door.
    ‘No I’m fine, honestly.’ She smiled, reassuringly taking her mail from him.
    ‘Well, if you’re certain,’ he said as he retreated down the driveway backwards, unconvinced by her reply.
     
    Twenty minutes later, nail stuck back on, door key in the cupboard and case on the doorstep, she locked the front door. Liz couldn’t count how many times she’d struggled with the very same case, bulging with clothes, when she was going on holiday, as she threw it, empty, into the boot of the car. But this was no holiday. She checked in her bag for her passport and ID for the bank, as she paused at her open car door. The blackmailer thought how very lovely she looked in her designer, beige, two-piece suit. She locked the doors immediately, although she was sure no one was watching her, and with butterflies in her stomach, she set off.
     
    A warm blast of air emerged from the bank as she walked through the doors but as she strolled through the foyer, a welcome rush of air conditioning blew in her face, sweeping her hair up from her sweating neck. She headed for the sign saying customer services that hung above a desk, pulling the suitcase behind her. Liz was sure people could hear the blood pumping through her veins. She could feel it gushing through her heart and hammering in her chest. The noises in the bank echoed as if the room was a hollow capsule and although her trolley glided silently across the floor, the heels of her shoes clicked on the marble. She licked her perfectly pouted lips and brushed away the sweat beads that she could feel appearing on her eyebrows; glad for her Estee Lauder Double Wear stay-in-place make-up. Moments later she was in the manager’s office. It was a great relief when she was told that Mr Beckwith was away for the day on a course, but had left