A perverse fascination with Miranda’s sleeping arrangements had rooted in Razor’s brain, and there seemed no way of grubbing it out. Perhaps she’d had the cellar converted into a comfortable basement apartment? Perhaps her warning to keep out had only been to protect her privacy? If he opened the door and peeped inside, he could satisfy his curiosity and what harm would there be? He returned to the kitchen.
The cellar door, contorted with age, gave a hideous creak as it opened to a hefty shove. A musty, dusty odour rolled out. There was no lighting and nothing suggested it was anything more than an old-fashioned, neglected cellar. Those few wooden steps lit by the kitchen lights looked solid enough, but further down where it became as dark as a mine, there was no way of knowing. He needed the torch from his backpack—except he didn’t have his pack and had not come across it during his exploration. Maybe this was for the best since he had no intention of blundering around in the darkness, which was an excellent excuse for ignoring the urge to explore. The cellar would just have to remain a mystery. He might as well give up and go to his bedroom—but he’d noticed a candle and matches up there.
He fetched them down, lit the candle in the cellar doorway and peeped through.
The flickering flame made the shadows shift, giving an impression of movement, but revealed little more than previously. The coward in him suggested it would be a good time to call it quits and sleep, but something inside rebelled—he’d just been spooked by light and shadow, and it was vital he re-asserted his heroic status. Darkness should hold no fear for a man of courage.
Stiffening his upper lip in the approved manner of Victorian adventurers, he stepped into the cellar. The old stairs seemed robust enough, despite the occasional creak, but still he took care, descending one tentative foot at a time. Some steps flexed under his weight, but held up. Miranda, he concluded, was being excessively careful with her guest.
Though further down than he’d expected, he reached the bottom without mishap and stepped onto the hard brick floor, a shock to his bare feet. The echoes of his footsteps suggested a chamber of some size. He raised the candle higher, his breath smoking. The cellar, brick-lined and vaulted, appeared larger in area than the house, but other than spiders’ webs, shadows and the dank reek of history, it looked empty. A little less nervous, he approached the far end. What he’d assumed were deeper shadows turned out to be large wooden boxes resting on trestles. His timorous mind returned and suggested coffins and that he was intruding. It took all of his resolve not to rush back to the kitchen.
The candle flickered even more with the trembling of his hand though he tried to persuade himself that he wasn’t scared—it was just the cold air down there. Conspicuously courageous, he approached the nearest box and nudged its lid. It stayed put. He might have walked away, but curiosity intervened. After setting the candle on the ground, he had another go, shoving with both hands and grunting until the lid slid free and dropped with a heart-stopping clatter. Dust swirled, raising the stink of damp and mildew, and the light went out. Razor turned away, covering his face, coughing and gagging. Although primeval instincts prompted blind panic and flight, he’d lost his bearings. Only a thread of sense held him back—in such a blackout he would almost certainly run straight into a wall. He forced himself into a phony calmness and looked around, hoping for a glimmer of light from the kitchen. There was only blackness—and a faint rustling sound. If he had a buyer, he’d have sold his soul for a good torch. Instead, impressing himself with his own fortitude and quickness of mind, he remembered the matches in his pocket. Despite breaking the first three in his urgency, the fourth flared and allowed him to find and relight the candle.
Inexplicably afraid, he looked into the box… and laughed.
It contained a mess of faded, mildewed cloth and a number of rotting wooden poles—some sort of large tent he assumed. The rustling came from a family of mice distressed by the disturbance of their little world. Razor exhaled, took a moment to regain composure and replaced the heavy lid—no easy feat. Peace and quiet returned.
He opened the second box.
More mice scurried for cover and distracted him for a moment. They were nesting in an old-fashioned lounge suit, faded, blotched and mouldy. It was still being worn by the skeleton of a man who must have been quite short in life, and who, to judge by his tie, had attended Eton College. Razor gulped. His head spun like a frisbee, his muscles might have been disconnected from his bones and he swayed, close to collapse. All he could see, all he could sense, was death, just like it had been at the ICU of Glevchester Hospital with Flit unrecognisable beneath bandages, tubes and wires as she passed away. He’d felt then, as he did now… numb, confused, lost. Was Miranda a murderer? Why else would she conceal a body down there? What did she have in store for him?
Time stopped. Part of his shocked brain registered the candle burning low and sputtering out.
A woman’s voice called to him through the blackness. He might have been standing there for minutes, hours, or eons.
‘Mr Razor?’
For a millisecond he thought he might be waking from a nightmare and hoped the voice was Flit’s, but as his senses returned and he became aware of his frozen feet, he knew he wasn’t in their nice clean bedroom at Riverside Cottage—he was in a dark place of horror, with the odour of damp and decay in his nostrils.
‘Where are you?’ It was Miranda.
Embarrassed at being discovered where he shouldn’t have been, and filled with dread, he pulled himself together and struck a match. Sheltering the flame with one hand, he used its scant light to reach the steps. The match burnt out as he started upwards and something cracked. There was no step where there should have been one. His left leg dropped into the void, and momentum carried his upper body forward. Most of his bodyweight fell onto his arms and left hip, but there was enough left for his head to deliver a fierce butt to the edge of a step. Dazed, he was still able to fully appreciate his collection of pains. Where hurt most was the question that consumed him. He groaned.
The cellar door opened.
‘Mr Razor? What are you doing down there?’ Miranda sounded worried.
‘I… got lost. A step broke.’
‘Which was why I asked you not to come down here. Are you alright? You’re bleeding.’
‘I’m not sure… ’ A trickle of blood ran down his face.
Miranda shouted over her shoulder. ‘Our guest has had an accident!’
Razor grimaced as a new twinge in his shin drew attention to itself.
‘Can you get up?’ she asked.
‘I think so.’ He pulled up his dangling leg and crawled towards the light, battered in mind and body.
‘What bloody man is this?’ asked Kev, sauntering into the kitchen as Miranda helped Razor to a chair.
Razor’s mouth opened and shut and opened again. Only a weird, confused whine emerged.
‘Brain damage?’ asked Miranda, frowning.
‘Probably not. He’s always just as articulate.’
Razor shook his head.
‘My mistake,’ said Kev with a grin. ‘He’s not always so articulate. He is, however, a prize chump.’
Miranda smiled at Razor. ‘We’d better patch you up.’
‘Are you going to murder me?’
‘Why would you even think such a thing?’ asked Kev, screwing up his face.
‘Because of what I saw.’
‘What exactly did you see?’ asked Miranda, taking a first aid kit from a drawer.
‘A body,’ said Razor, trying to look brave, but not feeling it. He wanted to be killed in action, not to be murdered by a pretty woman, even if the result was the same.
‘What body?’ asked Miranda.
‘The one in the box.’
‘Oh, you mean the skeleton.’ She laughed.
She looked amazing when she laughed. Razor forced his mind back on track. ‘Of course!’
‘Skeleton?’ said Kev.
‘Uncle Bob’s,’ said Miranda.
‘I wondered what had become of that,’ said Kev.
‘Your uncle’s skeleton?’ said Razor, shocked. ‘Isn’t that illegal?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Miranda.
For Razor it was as if a ton of flummox had been heaped onto a pile of confusion. A thought popped up. He seized it. ‘Are you saying Bob’s your uncle?’
‘He was,’ said Miranda.
‘But Bob’s his uncle too,’ said Razor, pointing at Kev, who was grinning and chuckling like a maniac.
‘Many people have an Uncle Bob,’ said Miranda. ‘It’s quite a common name.’
‘I suppose… but it’s still a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’
Kev chuckled. ‘Cousins have some relatives in common.’
‘What have cousins got to do with it?’ asked Razor, his brain floundering and clutching at straws. ‘You mean you two?’
Miranda nodded and opened the first aid kit.
‘In that case, it’s amazing I’ve met both of you. What are the chances?’
‘Not as unlikely as you might think,’ said Kev, watching Miranda sit down and pour a smelly yellow liquid onto a wad of cotton wool.
‘What do you mean?’ Razor asked and flinched as she dabbed his forehead.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘This might sting a little.’
As far as Razor was concerned, it stung more than a little, but he wasn’t going to let on, not to her. ‘Are you two really cousins?’ He tried not to yelp as she dabbed again.
They nodded.
Miranda leaned towards him and examined the graze. Her closeness, her fragrance and the touch of her fingertips as she probed his injuries sent primeval, almost-forgotten signals around Razor’s body. He stayed as still as possible, willing her to continue, but too soon she nodded and slapped a big plaster onto his head.
With some reluctance, Razor turned to Kev while she returned the first aid kit. ‘Why aren’t the odds of meeting both of you as high as I might think? There must be a million people in the Cotswolds—how come I just happened to get rescued by your cousin?’
‘Because we talked and decided to look out for you,’ said Kev. ‘We believed you were showing a reckless disregard for your well-being.’
‘Thank you for your concern,’ said Razor, ‘but you should let me go about my life as I want to. I didn’t ask to be rescued.’
‘But you have been,’ said Miranda, ‘and, by the way, you’re welcome.’
‘Sorry,’ said Razor. ‘I am grateful… but Kev, and I apologise if this sounds sexist, but why would you let her look after me? You’re just putting her in the way of danger.’
Kev shrugged. ‘Though she be but little, she is fierce.’
‘Yeah right.’ Razor shook his head.
‘I can take care of myself,’ said Miranda. ‘Sometimes I have to, and it’s no problem looking after you as well.’
‘Yeah, maybe you can look after yourself, but you shouldn’t be putting yourself in harm’s way—especially on my account.’
‘She’s stronger than she looks,’ said Kev.
Miranda sat down next to Razor and smiled. She looked so vulnerable.
‘What if some guy hit you?’ Razor demanded. ‘I’ve been bashed and it hurts—and don’t think a thug would let you off because you’re a girl. There’s precious little chivalry these days.’
‘That has always been the case in my experience,’ said Miranda. ‘However, I wouldn’t let it happen.’
Razor scoffed.
‘Are your arms alright?’ asked Kev.
‘Yeah,’ said Razor, puzzled by the question. ‘The left one’s bruised, but the right one’s fine. Why?’
‘I wondered if you might care to arm wrestle her.’
Miranda shook her head. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’s had a bad time already.’
‘Good point,’ said Kev.
‘I wouldn’t want to hurt her,’ said Razor, torn between manly pride and reluctance to humiliate her. ‘I’m fitter and stronger than I look, and she’s got no more muscle than a kitten. Sorry.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to respond?’ asked Kev.
Miranda shrugged. ‘Okay. I’ll go easy.’
‘You don’t have to do this,’ said Razor, as she positioned her chair and placed her right elbow on the table.
‘It might be best if I do,’ she said.
‘If you must. Just be gentle with me.’ Razor chuckled.
‘I will be.’
‘Are you both ready?’ asked Kev.
‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ said Razor, casual in his confidence.
Miranda nodded.
‘Good. Lean in, square off and take a grip,’ said Kev. ‘The bout begins on the count of three.’
Razor’s fist engulfed Miranda’s cool little hand. The touch took his breath away.
‘One… two…’
Razor tensed his muscles.
‘… three!’
Although he was expecting a swift and overwhelming victory, Razor’s hand stayed put. He upped the effort but nothing happened except that his male ego stirred. Miranda smiled and showed no signs of effort. Desperate, he applied full power, straining and sweating, only to see his hand being forced back and down, slowly and gently. There was nothing he could do about it, and though his muscles burned, she looked as if she’d done no more than turn the page of a book.
‘How did you do that?’ he asked, crestfallen and humiliated, hoping it had been some sort of trick.
‘Incredibly easily by the looks of it,’ Kev answered for her. ‘Would you like her to pick you up and spin you around? She could you know.’
‘That’s enough,’ said Miranda.
Confused and belittled, Razor wanted answers, but so many questions kept whirling around in his head that he was incapable of asking any. At last one emerged. ‘What are you going to do with me now I know about your uncle’s skeleton?’
‘Nothing. Why?’ said Miranda.
‘But how do you know I won’t go to the police if you let me go?’
‘Let you go?’ Kev laughed. ‘What do you mean, let you go? You can leave whenever you want, mate.’
‘But you’ve got my clothes.’
‘You can have them now,’ said Miranda. ‘They’re dry.’
‘Why are you hiding them?’
‘We’re not hiding them.’
‘But I searched everywhere! Where are they?’
Miranda pointed. ‘Over there—Kev took them to the all-night launderette. They’re in that hemp sack.’
‘All clean and dry,’ said Kev, ‘though not pressed yet.’
‘Thank you.’ Razor lowered his eyes and hoped he wasn’t blushing. ‘And my backpack?’
Miranda shook her head. ‘I know nothing of that.’ She looked at Kev.
‘He did have one.’ Kev nodded.
‘I know I did,’ said Razor. ‘All my money was in it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Miranda, ‘but you weren’t wearing it when I pulled you out.’
Her blue eyes looked innocent, and Razor wanted to trust her, but…
‘It must have come off in the water,’ said Kev.
Razor was devastated, but, though suspicious, he was inclined to believe Kev, for he had only the woolliest of memories from going into the cold, dark canal to surfacing again in the bath. It wasn’t the loss of the money that bothered him as such, but the fact that it had been his only means of living beneath the radar until he’d found someone to kill him. Now, despite owning a nice house in a sought after village and having oodles of cash in the bank, he’d have to live like a penniless tramp.
He yawned, tried to apologise and yawned again.
‘You look tired, mate,’ said Kev.
Razor nodded. ‘All of a sudden I am. I need sleep.’
‘Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care,’ said Kev.
‘You don’t half say the weirdest things,’ said Razor.
‘Get up those stairs and into bed,’ Miranda commanded, like the strict mother of a naughty toddler.
Razor was in no mood to argue.
‘Do you want a drink or anything?’ she asked as he stood up.
‘Yes, please.’
‘I’ll bring you a chamomile tea in a minute. Now, move!’
He was happy to oblige. As soon as he reached his bedroom, his head fuzzy with sleep, he put on the large-waisted, short-legged, stripy flannelette pyjamas left for him and crawled into bed. It was comfortable and cosy, and despite lingering worries about Miranda and Kev and a host of questions that kept surfacing, he felt safe.
Miranda brought him his drink and set it down on the bedside table. ‘Drink it while it’s warm,’ she said.
Razor nodded as well as he could with his head resting on a soft pillow. She smiled and turned away. As soon as she’d closed the door behind her, he plunged headlong into a dark pool of sleep. At some point, he finished his drink. It was cold.
Then he dozed off again.