Emily couldn’t remember the number but knew the door was painted red. The only trouble was, there were at least 5 doors painted red in the street now. What kind of curtains did he have, she asked herself? Her memory failed her, and she really didn’t fancy knocking on all the doors, enquiring if Mr Abbotts lived there. It was hard enough as it was.
Emily wandered up and down, hoping something would jump out that was familiar. She managed to rule out two of the doors, as they were the wrong kind of red, but that left three more. And for all she knew, the doors could have all been repainted in the meantime.
Did he have blinds, Emily wondered? No 134 had wooden slated blinds. Was he on the left- or right-hand side of the street? She couldn’t even recall that.
She’d not seen him for ten years, so he might have moved or be dead for all she knew. She’d travelled a fair distance, so didn’t want to go home no further forward in tracking him down.
There was a pub on the corner, so she plucked up her courage to venture in. It was early in the day for drinkers, but it sold coffee, so she bought a coffee and stayed sitting up at the bar. The bartender guessed she wanted to chat and, as she was a stranger, and as it wasn’t busy yet, obliged. After some small talk, nice day, warmer weather, etc, she asked, do you know Mr Abbotts by any chance, long-lost relative and all that?
A shadow crossed the bartender’s face. ‘Really, he said.’ He went down 5 years ago, got 15 years for child abuse.’ Emily relaxed. Job done. She wouldn’t be needing the knife after all.
Babs Kirby 