Blood RED. Paul Kane

let her bosses know she’d arrived, punching them again when she left so that she could earn her pittance.

      “Hello, hello, sweetheart,” said Tilly when she opened the door of her bottom floor flat. Still ineligible for sheltered accommodation, she was forced to live alongside families with screaming babies and music blaring from the flats above her. But Tilly had at least been given an apartment that she didn’t have to climb stairs to reach (the graffiti-riddled lifts around here were more for show than any practical purpose).

      For someone pushing eighty, Tilly looked remarkably spry. Her permanently coiffured hair had a bluish hue, thanks in no small part to the hairdresser who called every Wednesday afternoon and told Tilly what a perfect colour the rinse was for her. She kept this in place using the gallons of hairspray on her bedroom dresser. Her face, though wrinkled, was full of character instead of saggy, and her kind green eyes reflected the lifetime of experience she’d amassed. Tilly wore the most hideous patterned dresses, however, which looked like a throwback to the sixties and seventies. Rachael had offered once to shop for more ‘fashionable’ attire, and the woman’s answer to that was: “I’ve never taken much notice of trends, love. These suit me just fine.”

      Rachael busied herself making Tilly her Weetabix, letting the milk soak in and churning it into a sort of cold porridge. “When you get to my age,” she’d said to Rachael one time, “toast for breakfast is completely out. The closer to liquid it is, the better.” Then she poured two cups of tea from the teapot.

      “Sorry it’s taken so long,” said Rachael. “I had to wait for the kettle to boil again. Plugged it in but forgot to switch it on.”

      “You’re just like me,” said Tilly, smiling. “I forgot to put the water in one time, almost blew up the kitchen. Right pair of scatterbrains, aren’t we?”

      Tilly settled into the chair at the kitchen table as Rachael placed the bowl and cup beside her. She couldn’t help noticing the older woman wince as she tried to get into a more comfortable position.

      “Are you okay?” she asked her.

      The woman nodded, but it was abundantly clear she wasn’t. “Things are catching up with me, dear. Time, for one thing. Ah, you know you’re like family to me, young Rachael. Always worrying, always there when I need you.”

      The carer felt her cheeks flushing. This was her job, but in a funny sort of way she felt the same. Maybe it was because her gran and granddad on her mother’s side had died when she was a little kid (to track down the others would require delving into her father’s background, and Rachael wasn’t about to stir up that hornet’s nest again). In the space of a year since she’d been doing this round, Rachael had come to think of Tilly as family, she supposed.

      “But that’s not all that’s bothering you this morning, is it?” said Tilly, spooning up some of the Weetabix. “Something’s on your mind. It has been for a while.”

      “Is it that obvious?”

      Tilly laughed lightly. “Well, for one thing, you’ve been stirring that tea for the past five minutes. You’ll be down to the tablecloth in a minute, love.”

      Rachael stopped immediately, but within seconds she was playing with her blonde ponytail instead.

      “When you don’t see many people in a day, you tend to notice the subtle signs,” Tilly offered. “You haven’t been yourself all week. What is it, not your place again? Don’t tell me the landlord still hasn’t fixed your sink.”

      “No ... I mean, yes he has—finally. It’s not that.” Rachael gazed into the tea.

      “Ah, I see ... boyfriend trouble, eh?”

      Rachael looked her in the eyes. “You could say that ... if I still had a boyfriend.”

      Tilly reached over and took her hand. “Oh no. Do you want to chat about it?”

      “Nothing really to say; it’s no big deal,” she lied. “Mike and I haven’t been together that long, anyway. It’s not as if we’re childhood sweethearts or anything.”

      “Now that doesn’t matter, if you liked him.”

      Rachael sighed. “I thought I did ... I thought I could trust him.”

      “If there’s one thing I’ve learnt about men in my time, it’s that the trustworthy ones are few and far between.”

      “Is that why—” Rachael stopped herself, realising she’d said too much.

      “Why I’m still alone? It’s all right, dear, you can say it. No ... the reason I’m still alone is ... Well, I lost the love of my life a long time ago, before either of us was ready.” There were the beginnings of tears in her eyes as she said this. “No one really matched up to my Leonard.”

      This was the first time she’d ever mentioned a significant other, and Rachael was going to ask about him, but decided against it. She didn’t know who was the better off, Mrs Abrahams who now had the burden of watching her husband deteriorate in front of her eyes, or Tilly—who had lost her one true love somehow, and obviously still had that perfect mental picture in her head.

      Tilly pulled her hand away and dabbed at her eye with a handkerchief. “Look at me,” she said, laughing. “Silly old fool ... we were talking about your problems. What are you planning to do now, then?”

      Rachael shrugged.

      “It could be worse, you know,” Tilly told her. When Rachael looked blank, she handed her the paper. “Page seven, there’s a piece about a woman who was killed by her husband. Murdered her in a restaurant toilet, of all places—I ask you!” The old woman tutted. “The police caught up with him at home, and he even had the gall to deny it. Said he’d been driving all night and didn’t know a thing about it, even though there was an eyewitness. What’s the world coming to? Mind you, there was a time of day that would have made page one. Two at least ...”

      Rachael read the sketchy report, putting it down before she’d finished it. “Guess you never really know anyone,” she said, attempting to say something profound and failing miserably.

      “Some ...” said Tilly, starting in on her porridge again. “Some you do, young Rachael. You just have to choose carefully. You’ll find your Leonard one day, I promise.” And she said that like it was the best compliment in the whole world; which in her mind, thought Rachael, it probably was.

      * * *

      As she left Tilly’s flat, reminding her again that it was the weekend tomorrow so she wouldn’t be round, Rachael brought up her mental ‘to do’ list for today. It was a ritual she’d gotten into when growing up, her memory for doing things so bad that she needed to write down a list in her head, just to remind herself. She would have written this down on a piece of paper, but Rachael knew she’d only forget where she’d put it.

      She was so busy thinking about the imaginary list, she didn’t notice the two youths who had gathered just opposite the main entrance to the flats. It was only when she came to open the door, and caught them looking across at her, that she froze. It was just for a moment, but the sight of those figures—one of them wearing a hooded tracksuit top, one a cap—threw her slightly. Shouldn’t have done that, she thought to herself, shouldn’t have shown any kind of apprehension.

      True, the lads looked harmless enough; only a couple of years younger than her, they were simply hanging around on some steps and laughing, smoking stubby cigarettes. But now that they sensed she was alarmed, they got up. Rachael closed the door and walked as boldly as she could across the plaza.

      “Hey there, gorgeous!” the one wearing a cap shouted. She speeded up her gait a bit. “Hey, what’s your rush? Come on over and say hello.”

      Rachael kept up her pace, skirting around them and thinking about the list, picturing it in front of her. She heard them laughing behind. Don’t look, she told herself, almost willing them to vanish. If you don’t look, they can’t exist.

      But