Free Departures by Jennifer Cornell Page A

was doing anything about it.”
    The boy looked puzzled. “What, like ring the peelers?”
    â€œWell, no, not exactly. I don’t really know what one ought to do under the circumstances. Frankly I was thinking of going in through the back way and leaving it at that.” She grinned sheepishly, hoping he’d sympathise with that approach. “Perhaps the police are the best bet, though. I really don’t know.”
    Her indecision had not impressed him. She could sense his interest in her story flagging and the return of his desire for whatever awaited him in his own flat upstairs. “It’s alright,” she said, suddenly weary, “it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
    Again the boy nodded, his eyes scanning her face and figure as if he were only just then taking them in. “Alright then?” he asked dismissively, resuming his climb.
    â€œYes, thanks,” Eileen answered, though she knew he wasn’t listening. “I’ll just get in through the back.”
    â€œThere’s a phone out the front,” the boy said aggressively on the first floor landing, “but it only takes five p’s.”
    â€œThank you,” Eileen said again. The boy went inside and the door swung shut behind him. Eileen leaned heavily against the banister and dug her keys out again, then went down the darkened corridor, lit only by the luminous glow of the exit sign and the coloured lights of the electricity panel beside the lift, till she reached her own flat.
    Once inside, she pulled all the curtains and double-locked the inside door. When the place was secure shestood for a moment in the dark, listening. Then, moving swiftly, she switched on the lights, the radio, and the TV, and both electric fires. Then she showered, changed, and filled the kettle. It was only then that she allowed herself to think about the man.
    She couldn’t just leave him there, she saw that now. Still, it would be foolish to bring him into the flat, however harmless he might have seemed. It didn’t seem fair to ring the police; they weren’t likely to treat him gently, and after all he hadn’t really done anything to warrant a complaint. She stood up with a sudden clarity of vision and found the cardboard box with everything she’d salvaged from her parents’ house before the place was sold. There at the bottom were the old blankets and pillows they had used on camping trips when she was a child. She brought the items into the kitchen and made two mugs of strong, milky tea, extra sweet, covering his with a saucer to keep it warm. She’d place the cup beside his head, she decided, where the scent and the steam would be sure to wake him, and she’d put the blankets over him and leave a pillow by his arm rather than disturb him while he slept. Perhaps she could even sleep in the sitting room, on the settee, to be nearer to him in case he needed anything in the night.
    The front door was heavy and swung inwards; she’d need both hands to get it open. Leaving the light in the entry off so as not to disturb him, she set the cup, the pillow, and the blankets on the shelf above the mains and slowly, very carefully, eased the door open so he wouldn’t tumble in. It took her more than a minute to open the door that way; by then he was gone. The garden was empty, the step was bare, and though she scanned the car park and called out for him repeatedly, he was nowhere to be seen.

Touched
    This is William Emmons ringing, he said. He thought the animal might be dangerous and could my father come right away. It was late so I’d answered, recording the details in the notebook we’d bought in Belfast the day before. You see? my father said when I woke him. I told you it was worth holding on to that phone. It wasn’t until we were halfway there that he remembered, and then he nearly stopped the car and turned around. But we have no rabies here, he