Free Inbetween Days by Vikki Wakefield Page B

happening again?’
    He was interested now. His legs started jiggling and his eyes darted around the room. I held a glass of cordial to his lips. Mr Broadbent’s arm shot up and knocked it away. I yelped. Orange cordial pooled in my lap and soaked through my jeans. I squeezed my legs together and waddled into the kitchenette.
    ‘What did you do that for?’ I dabbed at the stickiness with a tea towel. My back was turned and I could only sense his movement, but it must have been quick. When I spun around he was standing at the window, parting the blinds, scratching at the glass with his fingernails.
    Oh, God. Four-thirty. I peeked through the battered blinds. The sun had nearly disappeared behind Mount Moon. The sky was a bedazzled pink, the last rays as white-bright as a star. Already, Main Street was empty: no cars or people.
    Mr Broadbent launched into a series of waist-high movements so intricate they seemed automated. His knotty fingers plucked and folded, twisted and pressed, wound and shuffled things I couldn’t see, with tiny, precise movements like a watchmaker’s, all with absolute concentration.
    I sidled away with my back to the wall.
    As far as I could tell, his pupils were focused on the emptiness directly in front him. How could a void be something a person could see? The hairs on my neck and my arms stood up. I kept still. Could I hear noise, deep in his throat, like humming? His usually creased face was curiously serene. Whatever he was doing in his mind, it was joyful. I’d seen it before, but for me—inside that stark, sad room—it was always terrifying.
    I unlocked the door and squeezed through the gap, easing it shut behind me. A few minutes later, I heard his slippers scuffing on the carpet, moving towards the door. I sat on the stoop outside and held the handle.
    Inside, Mr Broadbent raged, all the more unsettling because he didn’t utter a word.
    At quarter past five, Alby returned. It was nearly dark. My hand was cramped onto the doorhandle and it had been quiet inside the flat for about ten minutes.
    ‘Do you think he’s dead?’ I said.
    ‘God, I’m sorry, Jack. I got held up.’ Alby peeled my numb fingers away. ‘It’s okay. He’ll be asleep now. He would never want to hurt you, you know. He can’t help it. He’s just lost somewhere, in here.’ He tapped his skull. ‘I won’t let it happen again. I forget—you’re young. Maybe Astrid could help out more often.’
    ‘I’m fine,’ I reassured him. Give Alby a reason to keep her on? Not likely. ‘He likes me better.’
    ‘That he does.’ Alby smiled. ‘Business had better pick up soon. I’ve decided to close the laundromat. You know where the keys are if anyone asks but it’s a waste of time opening.’ He rubbed his red eyes. ‘It’s amazing what you find in the dryers.’ He turned out his pockets and offered me a single pearl earring, a metal cigarette case and a cheap plastic watch.
    I shook my head.
    ‘Oh, here,’ Alby said, reaching into his back pocket. He handed me several folded fifty-dollar notes. ‘Tell me if it’s still short. Take some more stock, whatever you need.’
    I stuffed the money in my pocket. ‘Thanks. We don’t need anything.’
    ‘Marie Gates said Trudy said you saw a car go up.’
    My heart skittered. ‘I did.’
    ‘Anything we should worry about?’
    I pictured the locals, streaming up the mountainside with their torches and pitchforks. I wasn’t sure it was the kind of saving this guy, Pope, needed. To someone who didn’t know better, their fear might look like anger.
    ‘I don’t think so.’
    ‘It’s black tonight. You okay to get home?’
    I started down the steps. ‘I’ll be fine. You know I do it all the time. I’ll see you Monday?’
    ‘Monday,’ Alby said. ‘Monday’s a new day, right?’
    And Sunday comes first , I thought.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Trudy got home late from her Saturday night shift at the pub. I was already in bed, pretending to be asleep. Not that she