Blooming Women

2. Arabian Nights

The shivers broke through. It must have been shivers because Amber was trying not to admit the existence of fear. 'You held a m-m-m-man? For two nnnights?'

'Baz the man. Yes. He told me his name and all about his family; Wife-Mary would be glad to see the back of him, he said, so I know she wasn't sad at all. She was glad: so glad, she brings me flowers every month; I expect your friends will bring lots of flowers to say thank you when you die, so don't be frightened, it won't hurt – at the end.'

It had a pregnant quality which left the expectant Cloud as merely somebody having a baby.

Baz? Baz? Something clicked.

'Barry Bright? His wife's name is Mary?'

Amber had stood next to Cloud at the till at the garden centre, breakfast-ready tummy rumbling, while an assistant Samantha would have described as ample gossiped at them, smiling roundly.

'... now, you live on the Underbury road don't you, love? Wonderful views from up there, but you should be careful – that bend at the bottom of the hill? Lethal. And the council don't do anything to help. Mary Bright – works in here in the week – her Barry died down there, what, six months back? And he wasn't even driving; had a heart attack, they say, and died of exposure. They didn't find the body for three days – she's never been the same. I call it Blackspot Bend, just to remind me to go careful. And it's worse in winter. The number of accidents down there, it's kept the undertaker – Calaway's, in town, that is – in new top hats the last three, four years.'

Barry Bright had died of exposure. What was the betting he'd had marks around his wrists? Although if animals had found the body...

'I'm not frightened! I'm angry. And BLOODY Cold!'

That was mostly true: Amber was definitely angry and definitely cold. It was a clear, still January night – early morning, really – and frost had set in before midnight; Amber had been too busy dancing and flirting to notice the weather until she'd left the remnants of the party, happily warm as she'd crossed the compacted gravel of the driveway, but, had she not have left her car in a sheltered spot, her jaunty 'just going straight to work now' exit would have been ruined by an unglamourous two minutes with an ice scraper.

If you could modulate your anger to assist in keeping you warm and yet retain clarity of thought, Dear...?

'Oh for... I'm too cold to think straight any more Sam!'

I can tell. You know I prefer not to be referred to in that manner. I have consented to Samantha, although my pupils were required to refer to me as Miss Gurnard.

'Are you winding me up deliberately?'

It had occurred to me that might be a tactic to hold in reserve, Dear.

'What. EVER. Can't you think of anything?'

Perhaps we should talk to it? It has said it is lonely; the gambit is the essence of One Thousand And One Nights: if you are entertaining, perhaps the creature will keep you alive?

'Is that your best...? No. Thank you – that's. Something. Arabian Nights it is then. Know any stories? I can only think of the one about the genie and the tiny piano—'

I meant you were to engage the creature in whatever manner you discover is most suitable.

'Yeah... Whatever.'

The shape holding her by the wrist broke into their internal dialogue.

'Can I ask something?'

'Well I can't stop you, can I?'

'Doesn't it hurt, being so nearly dead?'

'Freezing hurts a helluva lot more! I'm not dying, I'm not even planning on it! God, I'd go out with Georgie Porgy at the garden centre cafe Before dying like this, and that's saying something!'

'Really? Who's that?'

'He's a. Hospital patient. Now I think about it.'

The thought warmed her a little. It was all in her mind, but it brought a little light into a very dark piece of woodland.

'Hospital...?'

Tell the story, Dear. Arabian Nights!