Blood Storm

41

Inside the closet at Coral's flat Paula was feeling the strain of her vigil. Coral's visitor had still not made an appearance. Paula had remained standing up and still for ages.

She dared not check her watch in case any movement caught one of the coats and dragged it along the rail. She dared not sit down for the same reason, so she remained standing like a statue. Her legs were aching from staying in the same position for so long. At least she wore sensible shoes with rubber soles, so occasionally and with great care she eased her feet inside them.

In the bedroom Coral had not helped when she had put on a CD of Louis Armstrong's 'What A Wonderful World' on repeat. By now Paula was sick of the melody, sick of Louis Armstrong, whom at one time she had liked. There was the occasional clink of a glass and Paula assumed Coral was drinking more of her champagne. The sound made Paula feel thirstier and thirstier. It was getting intolerably warm inside the closet.

The one plus for Paula was she able to sip water from the bottle she had brought with her. By choosing the times when the CD was playing she hadn't the worry that her swallowing the water would be heard.

Another problem was she felt it vital to hold the butt of her Browning in her right hand. Her hand kept getting clammy and this problem had to be dealt with. Trying to aim and fire a handgun with a slippery palm was not a good idea. So, at increasing intervals, she tucked the gun inside her windcheater pocket and with her left hand used a handkerchief to dry the palm. Every time she took this essential precaution she was worried the automatic would slip out of the pocket and crash on the wooden floor.

The endless waiting was pure hell. Paula wished she had thought to balance her aching back against the rear wall. She dared not move now. Those bloody coats. Knowing the time would have helped psychologically, knowing how long she had been inside her self-imposed cell. She had lost all track of time. She could have been in the closet for two hours, an hour, even for only half an hour. She just had no idea.

To counter the heat, to keep her mind alert, she dug her nails into the palm of her left hand. She was beginning to hate the lights which had come on, stayed on, when she had first entered the closet. Would it have been more comfortable to stand in the dark? She couldn't make up her mind. She knew now how punishing it must be in prison when inmates were thrown into solitary with lights on to keep them awake.

She had just once more wiped the palm of her right hand dry, then carefully grasped the Browning, when she heard a muffled voice in the hall.

She couldn't hear what it said, whether it was a man's or a woman's. But she heard clearly Coral's response when she stopped the