Popov.

Chapter 2 Death's messenger

Amy clung by her finger tips and toes to the underside of the rock face. Below her was half a mile of air. She reached forward and felt for her next hand hold. Testing the rock to make sure it was solid before she allowed her toes to relinquish their purchase. A cold wind swept around the overhang. Her feet swung free below her as she gripped the small crevasse. Amy smiled to herself with satisfaction.

The younger climbers all teased her that that she was too old at forty nine to be adventure climbing like this. This ascent was one that she had attempted several times before, but the weather or illness or something had prevented her. Now her goal was almost in sight as she drew closer to the top. She was near the rim of the last outcrop. She’d show those mocking inexperienced youths. Amy assessed the surface overhead for another hand hold.

‘Telegram.’

‘What?’ Amy turned her head. She stared.

‘Telegram.’

Bobbing up and down in mid air beside her was a short, lighly tanned man, dressed in an old fashioned telegram boy’s outfit. Amy looked below him in amazement. Nothing supported him. He was just floating, or rather bobbing in a lazy manner, like a small boat on a mild swell at sea.

‘What?’ she repeated.

‘Look I haven’t got all day. Telegram you know. Want it or not?’

Amy reached for the small envelope the man waved at her. Then she realised that the stone her one hand supported her by was crumbling. The man let go of the envelope. It spiralled away downward.

‘Oops, silly me,’ he giggled.

Amy looked down in despair and dropped after it. The man giggled again and vanished. The wind growled past the empty overhang.

‘Extra, extra, read all about it. Amy Dunstan dead, climbing tragedy, read all about it!’ Crowds bustled past the newsstand. Sara was among them. She didn’t have time to read a newspaper. She had to get home.

The girls would be back from school and want feeding. John had asked for steak and kidney pie for tea that evening. She hadn’t had time to make the pastry before leaving for work. The afternoon meeting had gone on longer than she had hoped. She was late. She’d missed lunch to save time, just having coffee, as usual.

Sara clutched the briefcase full of documents. She had to write a report that night. She had to present it to the board in the morning. Sara pushed her way down into the tube station. She elbowed her way onto the escalators. The familiar acrid smell from the tracks came upward. The overcrowded escalator grumbled and bumped its way downward. Sara still had an hour journey ahead of her.

Steak and kidney pie, clean and iron clothes, the girls’ sports gear to get ready, write the report. Sara ran through the things she had to do. The adverts slid up away behind her as the escalator bore her down.

Knowing she could not afford the delay of missing the next tube Sara forced her way to the front of the platform, a little over the white line. She must not miss the train.

‘Telegram for Mrs Sara Collins!’ The shout reached her above the other voices and noise.

‘What?’ she turned to look.

‘Telegram.’ A small envelope was waved in her face.

‘How on earth did you find me among all these people?’

‘Look you want this or not? I haven’t got all day you know. Telegram.’

Sara reached out for it. A rush of air along the track from out of the tunnel told that the train was coming. She couldn’t miss that. Telegrams meant bad news though, Steak and kidney pie, sports gear, the report, bad news.