Anne Billson - Stiff Lips

For a pulse-quickening moment, I thought it said Cycles .

Silly me, it was Cyclops .

I was surprised by the depth of my disappointment; I hadn't realized just how much I'd been counting on finding Polly Wilson. I dithered by the door. Just a coincidence, surely; there was not a bicycle to be seen. But supposing I'd heard it wrong, supposing Curlytop had said Cyclops , and not Cycles . Or supposing he'd heard it wrong in the first place?

I pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

And stepped into another dimension, made of dark wood and suspended dust. It smelt like the drawer where my grandmother kept her serviettes.

I hovered near the door, trying to get my bearings as my eyes adjusted to the gloom. The near wall was covered with creepy-looking masks, their surfaces coated with flaking enamel in the colours of putrefaction, or scatterings of silver glitter which glinted like slime in the half-light. Some of the faces were made even creepier by grotesque attachments: outbreaks of fungi or baby goat-horns or broad flesh-wounds oozing with deep red lacquer. The expressions were greedy, suspicious or desperate, but there were beady little spaces where the eyes should have been.

I'd seen faces like these before — on the demons in Sophie's summer garden.

For a crazy couple of seconds, I toyed with the idea of buying a mask for Carolyn — it was a foolproof way of making everyone sit up and take notice — but common sense got the better of me. I wanted everyone to think I was interesting and unusual; I didn't want them thinking I was sick.

I turned my back on the sharp noses and foxy chins and, weaving my way through the rows of rickety wood and glass instruments, suddenly spotted a dim figure gliding towards me through the sea of junk. I'd already opened my mouth to say something when I realized I was about to address my own image reflected in a mirror on the other side of the shop. For a while there, I hadn't recognized myself at all. I waved, to make sure ii really was me. The reflection waved back. I lowered my arm.

And the reflection carried on waving.

I looked round, but of course there was no one else there. There never was anyone there. I snorted out loud at my stupidity, but only ended up feeling even more stupid when someone asked, 'Can I help you?'

So there had been someone there after all.

'Just looking,' I said, turning towards the voice's owner as she emerged from behind a rack of antique surgical instruments. At first sight, I might have mistaken her for Sophie, except that her hair was a darker shade of blonde and she was wearing a shade of candy-pink lipstick that would have been a touch too bright for Sophie's taste. In the old days, that is, before she'd abandoned her all-beige ethos.

But these details were peripheral, because what struck me immediately was that, like Walter Cheeseman, she wore sunglasses, even though the shop was dark. Ray-Bans, I noted.

'Polly?' I asked.

Even though I couldn't see her eyes, I knew she was sizing me up, and it seemed like an age before she replied.

'Actually it's Lucinda.'

'You don't know a Polly Wilson, do you?'

There was no reply. I waited for what seemed like another age before saying, 'Well, sorry to bother you,' and turning to leave.

'Wait,' she said.

I waited.

'I was lying,' she said. 'I am Polly Wilson.'

I carried on waiting.

'What do you want?' she asked.

It spilled out of me in a rush. 'IwonderiflcouldtalktoyouaboutRobertJamieson.'

Her pink lips pursed in surprise. 'How did you find me?'

'The letter.'

'What letter?'

'Addressed to Robert. I opened it by mistake.'

'To Robert?' There was another long silence.

'Hello?' I asked at last.

'I haven't written to Robert Jamieson for, oh, twelve, thirteen years. Why would I write to him? He's dead.'

'I was wondering if you'd heard about that.'

'Oh, I heard all about it.' There was a sharp edge to her voice. 'The police went into detail.'

'I'm sorry,' I said.

'What did you want to know?'

'Anything,' I said, feeling unprepared. What did I want to know? 'I'd like to know what kind of person he was. I'm living in his flat, you see.'

Polly Wilson was outwardly calm, but I could hear her breathing hard. 'Let me see,' she said. 'Let me see what I can tell you about Robert.'

'If it's too painful…' I began, though frankly I didn't care whether it was painful or not.

'No, no,' she said. 'It's just that I wouldn't want you getting the… wrong impression.'

Thanks to Marsha's reticence, I hadn't been getting any impression at all, but I didn't say that. I said, 'Yes, I'd appreciate it if you could set the record straight.'

Polly Wilson moved towards the front door. I thought for a second she'd changed her mind and was showing me out, but instead she reversed the sign so it would read CLOSED to passers-by.

'You might as well come through,' she said, and led me through the shop to a doorway hung with a heavy brocade curtain. As she held it up and I ducked beneath it I felt as though I were visiting a gypsy fortune-teller; I almost expected to see a crystal ball, but the room beyond the curtain was a shabby parlour with no distinguishing features other than a window which opened on to a backyard the size of a postage stamp.

It was almost as dark in here as it had been in the shop. 'Let us cast a little light on this situation,' said Polly, turning on the bare light bulb that dangled from the middle of the ceiling. The room brightened a little, but not by much. I shivered, feeling vulnerable and far from home. My hostess turned her sunglasses on me. 'Did you bring it with you? The letter?'

I shook my head. 'This visit wasn't planned. I found you by accident.'

'I doubt that anything to do with Robert is an accident,' said Polly Wilson. 'What did it say, this letter of mine?'

I told her what I could remember, which, because I'd read it so often, was nearly all of it. She chewed her lip, and some of the pink lipstick came off on her teeth. 'I remember writing something like that, years ago.'

'How come it only just arrived?'

'Don't ask me,' she said. 'Anything's possible where that mad-bastard-son-of-a-bitch is concerned.'

To hear Robert described in those terms gave me an odd little flutter of excitement. 'You think he was mad?'

'I know he was mad, but that was no excuse; I also think he knew exactly what he was doing. Let me show you.'

Polly Wilson tipped her head back until I could see a bare light bulb reflected in each of the Ray-Ban lenses. Then, with the well-rehearsed flourish of a professional stripper — or perhaps a magician — she whipped the sunglasses off.

'This,' she said.

I stared at her stupidly. Only one of Polly Wilson's eyes looked back at me, but the other wasn't closed, not exactly. The lid had a lazy, almost concave appearance, as though the nerves had collapsed in on themselves. At first, I thought she must have had a stroke. I fumbled for words. How sorry I was, how difficult it must be, how brave she must have been.

'Let us not be coy,' said Polly. 'I might as well give you the full works.'

The eyelid had no will of its own, and she had to force it up with her forefinger. Once the lid was propped open, it became apparent there was no eye behind it. In its place was a strange new orifice — moist, pink, and cushiony, like a sphincter waiting to be probed. I was overcome by shock and embarrassment, as though I'd just watched Polly Wilson drop her knickers and open her legs.

All of a sudden I didn't feel up to standing. By the time I'd flopped into the nearest armchair and steeled myself for another look, Polly Wilson had let the eyelid sag back into its natural lazy droop.