missing her, not with any regrets that she no longer worked at the spa now that she had beautiful efficient Julia, but entirely from the point of mischief-making.
The idea had never crossed her mind that Mix Cellini might have made away with Danila. Why should he? As far as Shoshana knew, the two had been acquainted for perhaps two or three weeks and might never have gone out together. But a deep resentment of Mix was curdling and fermenting and bubbling inside her. The contract he had signed meant nothing to him; once Danila had disappeared he never came near the place. As for repairing equipment, he had told her he'd ordered those parts for the bicycles but she'd be a fool to believe him. He was putting her through the time-consuming process of finding new engineers, as if she hadn't had enough difficulties getting a replacement for Danila.
Until that morning, she had believed that her hope of retaliation lay in the number she had noted down when he called her and she found he wasn't on his mobile. She more than suspected that he worked for a company that had a rule forbidding operatives to engage in outside work. A call to a chief executive, or managing director, whatever you liked to call it, might welll ose him his job. This was the revenge she was saving up unless his behavior changed radically. But might not a fitter retribution be to tell the police he was Danila's elusive boyfriend?
She didn't want them coming to the spa. There were things she would prefer them not to see-that security arrangements were far from adequate, that there was no fire escape from anyof the upper floors, and no safety measures were in place. But she could go to them. Perhaps there was no great hurry. Do nothing on impulse, was another of her rules. Think it through. She began taking the pieces of quartz and lapis and jade fromtheir velvet bag and examining the cards to make sure they were suitably arranged.
The client, a new one, very young and obviously overawed by the room, its ambience, and by Madam Shoshana herself, tapped on the dor and came in rather fearfully. She crept to the chair that was waiting for her and lifted her eyes to thesoothsayer's half-veiled face.
'Place your hands on the mandala within the stones, breathedeeply and I will begin,' said Shoshana in the mystical and occult voice she kept for forecasting the future.
Half a liter of milk, 200 grams of butter, cheese, sliced bread, alamb chop and a chicken breast, frozen peas, a carton of soup,and a great deal more. Mix put it away in the now wholesome and inviting fridge. He had done old Chawcer's shopping mechanically, buying what was on the list but still hardly noticingwhat he bought, losing the supermarket receipt so he had noidea what accounts to render to Ma Fordyce. A couple of gins in KPH had given him courage and a photograph in
Ma Fordyce wouldn't come back that afternoon and MaWinthrop wasn't due till some time tomorrow. It was half-pasttwo. He mustn't wait till tomorrow, he must get started now. He forced himself to go upstairs, glad of the bright sunlight penetrating the Isabella window. Because a little breeze wasblowing, the colors danced like strobe lights. Nothing there.Everything quiet andstill-and unoccupied. He sighed and let himself in. Mix had no shoes suitable for heavy digging but he put on his thick-soled trainers and a pair of old jeans. A faint smell still hung about his flat and it was stronger in the roomwhere she had been under the floorboards. That would fade in time. He bolted the front door top and bottom just in case Ma Winthrop decided to look in, and went outside into the garden.
The weather was still what people called glorious. He wouldrather it had been cold and gray, for this warmth and sunshine brought the neighbors out into their gardens. The people who kept theirs perfect were having a drink at a white metal tableunder a striped umbrella. Some of them could easily see whathe was doing from where they sat. He took the spade and fork from the shed and found a place where the soil showing between the sturdy weeds looked softer than the rock-hard clayey areas. Digging was unskilled labor, so anyone could do it, he'd probably find it a breeze. But at first the spade simply refused to go in. By making an extreme effort he could just penetratet he top layer of earth down to about two inches. After thatit might as well be rock he was encountering, it was so hard and apparently impenetrable. The pick might be the answer, though he was as wary of using it as he would be of plying a scythe. He fetched it from the shed, noticing with more misgivings that it was corroded, eaten into with rust. A patch of rot showed on its handle.
He tried to swing the pick the way he had seen laborers in the road do it but after three failed attempts was afraid of doing himself an injury. It came as a surprise to him that you had tobe fitter than he was to use an instrument like this. Maybe he had been wrong about the quality of the soil here. He moved farther away from the wall and nearer to the house, taking thepick and fork with him, his shoulders already stiffening. From here he could see over the end wall into the garden beyond where, instead of the guinea fowl, two large Canada geese strutted among the weeds. In deckchairs, a man in a turban and a woman in a sari sat reading, he the evening paper, she a magazine. Though he could see them he couldn't tell if they could see him. Perhaps it wouldn't matter. The deckchairs were the first he had seen since the one his grandma had sat in when he was a small boy. But instead of her and her peculiarities, theybrought to mind Reggie who had furnished his kitchen with such makeshift chairs after selling his furniture.
Once more he began to dig, but this time using the fork. That was better. Its prongs were sharp enough to push through the top layer and gradually he developed a technique of digging the fork in perpendicularly instead of at an angle and this was more effective. He even learned how to thrust his tool in lower down and attack the harder level of ground. He had to.Though despairing of digging down six feet, which he'd heard was the depth a grave should be, he knew he'd have to manage at least four.
After about an hour he rested. The front of his T-shirt was wet with sweat. A drink of something was what he needed,even tea, but he was afraid that if he went indoors he might not bring himself to come out again. A rather optimistic idea that perseverance might get his muscles used to the work so that they would stop hurting hadn't been justified. When he straightened up a burning pain ran down his back and his right thigh. His shoulders wanted to tense and bunch themselves around his neck. As he tried circling them in a clockwise and then a counterclockwise direction, turning his head from left to right and left again, he saw Otto watching him from his customary seat on the opposite wall. The cat was as still as a carving in a museum, its round green eyes fixed on him, its face composed into its usual expression of malevolent scorn. The Asian couple had gone indoors, leaving their deckchairs behind.
Mix began digging deeper with the fork but he had startedto understand he would have to use the spade, however difficultthis might be. He went back to where he had left itand, picking it up, saw something he hadn't noticed before, aheap of gray and black speckled feathers. No doubt it was hisimagination that made him see smug satisfaction in the cat'sface when he glanced at him again. Still, look what happenedbefore when he called something his imagination.
Using the spade was heavy work. Each spadeful he dislodged brought sharp needles digging into the small of his back. You've got to, you've got to, you've no choice, he muttered to himself as he kept on. He saw that blisters were coming up on the palms of his hands. Still, he must do at least half an hour more.
The sun still blazed down, though it was nearly six. A sharpcackle which sounded as if uttered in his ear made him jump. He looked up, afraid it was human, and saw the man in the turban throwing handfuls of corn down for the geese. They jostleda nd shoved each other, making their harsh cries. To his surprise, the Asian man waved cheerfully at him, so he had to wave back. He dug for another ten minutes and knew he'd have to give up for the day. Back again in the morning. Notbad, anyway. He must have dug down a foot.
The tools put away, he returned by way of the washhouse where he checked on the copper and its contents. He dragged himself up the stairs, clinging to the banisters, pausing often.Again, he reminded himself, he'd forgotten to feed the cat. Still, it looked as if it ate well enough when left to its own devices.How had Reggie, years older than he was, managed to dig those graves in his garden? From the pictures he'd seen, it looked as neglected and overgrown as this one, the soil as unyielding. Of course, he'd claimed to have a bad back, the reason he'd given at the trial of Timothy Evans for being incapable of moving Beryl Evans's body. Perhaps his gravedigging had done him a permanent injury.
Mix hardly knew how he'd managed to get up the tiledflight. Pain dispelled all thoughts of the ghost. He staggered into his flat, poured himself a stiff gin and tonic and fell down on the sofa. Half an hour later he picked up the remote and put the television on, closing his eyes and falling immediately asleep in spite of the rock music pounding out of the set.
A louder noise woke him. The front doorbell was ringing, and someone was clattering the letterbox and
