Waiting For Michael. Kathy Sr. Sampson

it had gone!

      I'm sure it was there the other day, she thought, I know it was because it fell over against my leg while I was trying to get my dress disentangled from the hanger. When was that exactly - last week before Michael left? No, Estelle, she warned and the spectre was suddenly a very real threat once more. It was YESTERDAY. It fell on you yesterday, AFTER Michael had gone. His spare, plastic, K-Mart case which he DIDN'T TAKE WITH HIM when he left for Bangkok was here this morning, but now it's GONE!

      There was something else. Pushing it upright, it had felt heavy as if full of clothes. At the time, the discovery hadn't been regarded as significant and she'd been in too much of a rush to worry about it, but now it all seemed to tie in with Michael's plan to become George Truscott and effect a moonlight flit. George wouldn't want to draw attention to himself, certainly not carrying expensive leather luggage bearing the initials E.M.V. He'd use a cheap plastic case, just like the one that was no longer in the back of Estelle's robe!

      She stumbled out, pulling her empty case with her. It was looking more and more like Jason was right - staying in the house alone wasn’t a good idea. But there was little choice. She had to turn a blind eye to whatever was going on, the way she had always conveniently passed off all of Michael's strange goings-on. She couldn't afford to concern herself with any of this. It was his game. She was just a pawn and, with this in mind, resolved to stay very quiet, particularly docile, doing everything expected of her and nothing more for the next two days.

      Except for packing. That she would do, if for no other reason than to please Jason. About to put the suitcase on the bed, the spectre reared its invisible head again. The bed cover had been disturbed! There were wrinkles around a slight depression where someone might have sat, or maybe placed a heavy object - like a cheap plastic, K-Mart suitcase!

      She shivered and turned slowly, inspecting the order of things in the room, trying to ascertain whether anything else had been moved or displaced. A triangle of white linen hanging from a closed drawer caught her eye. The drawer was the bottom one of the small chest on Michael's side of the bed. Stepping up to it, she knelt and pulled out the drawer.

      The material was the corner of a handkerchief. That same morning it had been laid neatly on top of the other items - she'd made sure of it herself because she didn't want Michael to know she had been nosing around in his belongings. Because under the neatly-folded handkerchiefs and vests, right in the bottom beneath the paper liner was the passport in the name of George William Truscott.

      Holding up the pile of material with one hand, she slid the other down the inside of the drawer, hooked up the paper with her nails, and felt beneath. Despite knowing what to expect, she still caught her breath. The passport was no longer there!

      Estelle sank back on her heels. Her heart was pounding once more and beads of moisture were forming on her brow. Her glazed stare saw nothing material, just the spectre growing clearer, taking on the shape of a man she knew only too well. It had to be Michael! It simply had to be. Who else would have come for George Truscott's suitcase and passport? Apart from Estelle, Jason and the department of immigration, Michael was the only one likely to know such a person even existed!

      The packing didn’t take long. It was certainly not attended to with her usual care, but then, she was hardly herself at the time. She was a stubborn, independent woman who should have listened to the only man she loved, and ought to be, at that very moment, sitting in his lounge on the sofa with his Sister, talking about the forthcoming trip. Well, that was a stupid mistake which was being rectified. Then, she would be leaving!

      Once out of the bedroom and lugging her suitcase, Estelle was into damage control. Lights were left burning, doors ajar. There was no last-minute check of personal appearance. Not intending to be seen, not wishing to be, it was irrelevant. Even the precautionary hair guarding the side exit to the garage was ignored when the door was unlocked. Haste was everything. Oversights could be rued later.

      The light was still on in the garage, probably from when she came home. A bit extra on Michael’s power bill – good! By the time she had unlocked the boot, tossed in the case and closed it again, she was breathless and her head was swimming. Now she paused for a quick re-think. Was there something that had been missed? Did it matter if there was? She decided not and was heading for the driver's door when the overhead light died. The garage should have been in darkness, but it wasn’t. There was still a glow coming from the street-lamps. Ergo, the roller-door was open.

      Goose bumps erupted. She spun, stared at the partially-open door, pulse quickening. This time it couldn’t be her fault. An automatic device activated the motor somehow – another example of Michael’s foibles. So, the door had shut itself, after she’d parked the car. Since then, someone must have opened the door manually, just enough for a person on foot to enter... or leave! A man carrying a cheap plastic suitcase and a passport!

      That seemed to confirm it - Michael had definitely been and gone. He had returned secretively when he knew Estelle would be attending her night class. He had let himself in, taken the suitcase and the passport and ducked out through the garage... Why would he bother to do that? Why not just leave the same way he’d entered – through the front door? Maybe that had been his original intention, which was why he’d left it unlocked.

      But - a shiver ran down her spine - what if he was running late and she’d arrived home while he was still in the house? In order to remain unseen, he’d have to wait his chance to sneak out through the garage. Logic was a wonderful thing, except when the conclusions reached made one sick to the stomach.

      All the time she was performing her paranoid-spy routine, Michael must have been there, inside, watching, waiting, desperate to keep his early return to the country a secret. One he might even have been prepared to kill to protect!

      The mere thought caused her to feel weak in the knees and she had to lean against the car to prevent herself from falling. She sagged there for a few seconds, bringing her breathing under control. A sharp object was pressing into the palm of her hand – the car keys – a reminder of her intended dash for freedom. Until then it was the only sensible option. Now this – the open roller-door. The spectre had left the building. All evidence pointed to it. There was no longer a need for rush and panic. Was there?

      Plagued by indecision, she hammered a fist on a thigh hard enough to cause pain. That was reality, a physical assault on the senses. This… this other airy-fairy clap-trap was all in her head, the product of pure assumption. What were the facts, just those pertinent to the current situation? There was an unlocked door, rain on the carpet. The case and passport were missing. Most importantly, the garage door had been left open. Someone other than her had been there, but now they’d gone, which was all that mattered.

      The plan, paranoid or not, was still on. Whether the mystery visitor was Michael was irrelevant. Indeed, had it been him, it was even more essential that she play the innocent so that he didn’t know she suspected. Estelle must keep her nerve and continue to go through the motions as if nothing more than a few strange, yet inconsequential things had happened.

      It was decided, then. A deep breath was almost convincing until it was exhaled with a shudder. Moving to the wall beside the car, her fingers pushed a button. A motor started up. The roller door closed. There was a moment of panic as she found herself in darkness.

      Less than a minute later, Estelle was back inside, trembling somewhat as she locked the side door and replaced the hair on the frame with a fresh one. Finally, after switching out the lights, she went to bed.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Estelle slept soundly that night, less surprising than might have been expected because, when the body and mind are subjected to excessive trauma and excitement, internal chemistry has a way of producing its own sedative. Unfortunately, although the new day awoke bearing promise, within minutes a former paranoia was also stirring from slumber to corrupt optimism with its own unnerving agenda.

      Rooms were entered warily. The smallest of sounds made her jump. Each time they were in view, exit doors were regarded with suspicion and although she tried to kid herself that the preoccupation was a hang-over from last evening and unlikely to bear fruit, sweet or otherwise,