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“Your shower.”
Ah. So it was something men and women both did. He was pleased he’d got that sorted out.
“But you’ll have to make it quick,” she said.
“Why? Have we got to get out of here in the next ten minutes before the building explodes?”
“Oh no. We’ve got a couple of hours. It’s just that I’ve used up most of the hot water. You’ve got a lot of plaster in your hair.”
The storm blew a dying gust around Jasmine Cottage, and holding the damp pink towel, no longer fluffy, in front of him, strategically, Newt edged off to take a cold shower.
IN SHADWELL’S DREAM, he is floating high above a village green. In the center of the green is a huge pile of kindling wood and dry branches. In the center of the pile is a wooden stake. Men and women and children stand around on the grass, eyes bright, cheeks pink, expectant, excited.
A sudden commotion: ten men walk across the green, leading a handsome, middle-aged woman; she must have been quite striking in her youth, and the word “vivacious” creeps into Shadwell’s dreaming mind. In front of her walks Witchfinder Private Newton Pulsifer. No, it isn’t Newt. The man is older, and dressed in black leather. Shadwell recognizes approvingly the ancient uniform of a Witchfinder Major.
The woman climbs onto the pyre, thrusts her hands behind her, and is tied to the stake. The pyre is lit. She speaks to the crowd, says something, but Shadwell is too high to hear what it is. The crowd gathers around her.
A witch, thinks Shadwell. They’re burning a witch. It gives him a warm feeling. That was the right and proper way of things. That’s how things were meant to be.
Only …
She looks directly up at him now, and says “That goes for yowe as welle, yowe daft old foole.”
Only she is going to die. She is going to burn to death. And, Shadwell realizes in his dream, it is a horrible way to die.
The flames lick higher.
And the woman looks up. She is staring straight at him, invisible though he is. And she is smiling.
And then it all goes boom.
A crash of thunder.
That was thunder, thought Shadwell, as he woke up, with the unshakable feeling that someone was still staring at him.
He opened his eyes, and thirteen glass eyes watched from the various shelves of Madame Tracy’s boudoir, staring out from a variety of fuzzy faces.
He looked away, and into the eyes of someone staring intently at him. It was him.
Och, he thought in terror, I’m havin’ one o’ them out-o’-yer-body experiences, I can see mah ane self, I’m a goner this time right enough …
He made frantic swimming motions in an effort to reach his own body and then, as these things do, the perspectives clicked into place.
Shadwell relaxed, and wondered why anyone would want to put a mirror on his bedroom ceiling. He shook his head, baffled.
He climbed out of the bed, pulled on his boots, and stood up, warily. Something was missing. A cigarette. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets, pulled out a tin, and began to roll a cigarette.
He’d been dreaming, he knew. Shadwell didn’t remember the dream, but it made him feel uncomfortable, whatever it was.
He lit the cigarette. And he saw his right hand: the ultimate weapon. The doomsday device. He pointed one finger at the one-eyed teddy bear on the mantelpiece.
“Bang,” he said, and chuckled, dustily. He wasn’t used to chuckling, and he began to cough, which meant he was back on familiar territory. He wanted something to drink. A sweet can of condensed milk.
Madame Tracy would have some.
He stomped out of her boudoir, heading toward the kitchen.
Outside the little kitchen he paused. She was talking to someone. A man.
