C. Williams - Flowers for the Dead

I remember her voice. Her inquisitive voice, not making demands, just asking questions. But never looking at me when we talked about it. Not once.

I remember, very suddenly, that I liked her.

‘The chimes,’ I tell her. ‘Somebody’s come back with my chimes.’

Sexual violence? No. No, no, no. And if we did, believe me I’d make sure to get the bastard myself. We haven’t had anything like it in … nineteen years?

And even back then, it was an anomaly. I still think it was someone from outside, you know? Outside the community. No one would have done a thing like that, no one who lived here. Everybody knows each other, you know? You wouldn’t have got away with it.

No, whoever did that to poor Little Linny, he must have got in and out within the same night. I mean, the motorway is only twenty minutes away. What would stop you from coming here, finding that abandoned road, that lass alone in her house …? And then taking off again? Two hours, and you could be in Manchester; hell, you could be in Turkey in four if you made straight for the airport.

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