Miss Columbine and Harley Quinn

by Hilton, Margery

  God! What a little pig I am, Shelley thought, looking slightly ashamed at the trend of her thoughts. She was taking it out on a stranger, getting her own back obliquely for Samma's sins. But Myra Delane had been a haughty piece; she'd asked for it, Shelley decided. In the meantime ... A smile of satisfaction gradually blossomed as Shelley turned her attention to a much more important matter. Miss Delane didn't know it, but she'd settled one certain issue, along with the other fates who seemed determined to beat Sheller a path to number eight Silverlane Mansions. Why flout the fates? she asked herself. Why not be practical and seize this opportunity of superb accommodation at a price within her budget —and no strings attached? H.Q. was straight, and he was—oh, he was ... Shelley tossed her key into the air, caught it neatly and dotted a light kiss on its tip and pranced gaily up the stairs to her new bedsitter!

  The smile still lingered happily round her mouth when she returned later that evening after a trip across town to the delicatessen where she had shopped in the past for Samma and Coralie. She dumped the carrier bag of food on her bed and sat down to attend to the next important item on her agenda. Carefully she put a folded five-pound note in an envelope, along with a short note in her best handwriting to the effect that this was her rent and she was his sincerely, then she returned downstairs and placed the sealed envelope beside Miss Myra Delane's. After a moment of hesitation she moved her own envelope in front of the other one, nodded to herself through the hall mirror and looked to see if there was any trace of a light under the study door. But there wasn't. The only sounds in the house were those she made herself, and with the fleeting thought that she'd probably see him tomorrow some time, she gave herself over to the more mundane task of making supper in her new abode.

  She awakened on the Sunday morning with a contented feeling of luxury. A whole day of blissful freedom and only herself to please. The sun was shining, the park looked cool and green and life waited to be lived. Shelley experimented with a new hairstyle, put on the crisp tangerine shirtwaister she'd fallen for last week, added a generous application of zingy gold-toned lip-colour and danced downstairs with a pleasant feeling of expectancy.

  As she neared the foot of the stairs her steps slowed a little, then quickened again towards the telephone niche. The envelope was still there. Surely Quinn hadn't ... But it was addressed to her, in firm handwriting that showed the strong strokes of a proper pen ... Hastily she tore open the envelope and drew out a sheet of paper and a one-pound note. The sheet of paper said: 'Thank you—your change. Yours sincerely, Quinn.'

  Shelley discovered that after all the long day of freedom wasn't quite so perfect as she'd imagined. It was surprising how many times it was necessary to return to number eight during the course of the day. To lunch out seemed an unnecessary extravagance. The idea of spending the afternoon at the Zoo didn't seem as attractive as when she'd impulsively thought of it—it looked as though it might rain so perhaps it would be better to take a book in the park. After tea she suddenly realised that she was lost off, as Aunt Lou would say, and that London could be an extremely lonely place to be alone in. And it seemed she was now the only occupier of number eight ... Sadly she washed her hair, took a leisurely bath, set out everything she would need ready for the mad dash of beastly Monday morning and penned another polite little note which stated she was keeping to the original figure that had been agreed on for rent. She tiptoed downstairs, left the pound note and the little letter beside the telephone and settled down to her third night in solitary independence.

  Monday seemed as long as a week—a bad week. Shelley began in the morning by mislaying the Cloverleaf file, committed the heinous crime of keeping Mr Halford waiting while she hunted for a pencil without a broken point, and was ten minutes late back from lunch. In the afternoon she upset a whole new box of paper clips, and ended by being accused of day-dreaming when the typing pool supervisor had to buzz her three times before the summons finally penetrated. At five o'clock it was pouring, and Shelley being Shelley had forgotten her only raincoat was still at the cleaners, the supermarket had a long queue at the only checkout till that was manned and her carrier bag split as she ran for the Fernbridge bus ... Not an auspicious start to the week, Shelley decided when, her hair clinging in moist, untidy wisps round her shoulders, the split carrier bag clutched to her chest, she let herself thankfully into number eight.

  About to bolt for the stairs before anyone saw her in her ghastly bedraggled state, she saw the envelope propped against the telephone, grabbed it and experienced a moment of uplift that was sadly curtailed when the carrier bag finally decided its duty was completed. An assortment of tins and packets bounced over the carpet and a carton of milk joyfully spread its contents over an inadequately wrapped quarter of cooked meat and trickled a long white rivulet along the deep

  blue pile.

  Shelley let out a squeal of dismay, dropped to her knees and tried to scoop the entire spill back into the soggy carrier, then realising the futility of it gave vent to a word that Aunt Lou would never have dreamed had a place in her niece's vocabulary.

  `Now then, miss!' said a rich fruity Cockney voice in deeply shocked tones, 'there's no call for that sort of language in this house!'

  `Oh!' Shelley started, then collapsed back weakly on her heels and stared up at what promised to be the proverbial last straw in a ghastly day. Except that 'straw' was the last word to describe the apparition confronting her.

  He wasn't very tall, but he made up for this lack widthways. His head was quite bald and seemed to grow straight out of the vast bulk of his shoulders. A mouth any inquisitioner would have considered an asset was pursed grimly over a two-tier jowl, a scar furrow puckered the sandpaper skin above one sparse eyebrow, the nose appeared to have been pushed sideways at some unfortunate moment in the past, and the whole added up to a face of such pugnacious villainy that Shelley's heart quailed. Should she make a bolt for safety—or scream?

  `Now you've bin and done it, haven't you?' A hand like a great hairy ham reached for a duster flapping out of the pocket of the grey twill dustcoat as the picture of ferociousness squatted down and mopped at the spreading pool of milk.

  Slightly reassured by this homely gesture, Shelley shifted her provisions to one side and mumbled: 'I'm terribly sorry —the bag burst—it got wet in the rain and—'

  `All over the bleedin' carpet. Women!'

  Oh dear! Shelley scrambled to her feet. 'I'll bring a cloth from the kitchen.'

  `You keep out of my kitchen, my girl.'

  But—but I've been in your kitchen—I know where everything is.'

  `Cleanin' things live in the utility room.' He overtook her, moving with deceptive speed and agility for such a bulky

  personage. 'just you take your stuff out of the way, miss—you've done enough damage.' He barred her way, the scar waggled ominously at her and the chin sank into its lower tier.

  `Er ... well ...' Shelley took an uncertain step back, almost but not quite sure that the bite was slightly less ominous than the bark and decided this wasn't the right moment for finding out. She ventured a tiny smile, then grabbed as much of her shopping as she could carry and beat a hasty trek up the stairs.

  That must be Bruno! The ex-wrestling champ of whom Quinn had spoken, who was now the factotum at number eight. Shelley gave a sigh of relief; it explained Bruno's somewhat unlovable exterior. Maybe he would be quite human when she got to know him, even though it was obvious that he was the redoubtable power behind the domestic throne. She grinned to herself and sat down on her bed to open her milk-spattered letter.

  Out fell two pound notes, and other missive in the firm writing that was now instantly familiar. Exasperation gave way to merriment as she began to read.

  Dear Miss Columbine. On the contrary—the original agreement appertaining to monetary terms was never arranged between us regarding your tenancy. If, however, you wish to formalise an agreement I shall be happy to instruct my solicitors to draw up the aforesaid agreement at terms
to be mutually decided between both parties. On the other hand, should you prefer a simpler arrangement, you could of course leave three pounds under the teapot each Friday morning. Yours sincerely. Harley Quinn.

  Now it was reduced by another pound! Oh, he was hopeless! She couldn't win. Somehow she would have to have a businesslike discussion with him—without the aid of any old legal bigwigs. But when? She hadn't even seen him for nearly three—

  Shelley sprang up and reached the door as the stentorian bellow rang up the stairwell again. She leaned over the banister, and from below Bruno yelled : 'Blower for you.'

  Oh—the telephone! Shelley tore down, wondering who could be ringing her. Who knew she was here? But she had forgotten Samma.

  `Well,' said Shelley coldly, 'you didn't ring up to ask after my health, did you?'

  `So you are still there!' exclaimed her cousin. 'Why didn't you let us know? We've been wondering ...'

  `I bet you have!'

  `Are you all right?'

  `Of course I'm all right—no thanks to you and dear Tim, though.'

  `Yes .' the familiar husky tones sounded slightly ashamed, 'I've been thinking ... I suppose it was a bit mean of us. Listen, Shelley, I think you'd better come over tomorrow night and we'll have a talk. I mean, you can't stay there with a strange man.'

  `But I am staying here.' Shelley's young shoulders stiffened and her chin took on its determined tilt. 'That's what you intended me to do, isn't it? Well, you can tell Tim that I'm quite satisfied with the arrangement he took so much trouble to make, and the strange man is a very super stranger—a dish. He makes your precious Tim and Daniel look like a couple of half-baked left-overs, and

  `Shelley!' Samma almost screamed. 'There's no need to be infantile. Now listen, quite apart from all that, something else has cropped up. You'll have to come back because

  `But I've no intention of coming back,' said Shelley firmly, beginning to enjoy herself at the discomfiture that was becoming patent at the other end of the line, 'and whatever it is has nothing to do with me now. You were the one that fixed all this, and I'm jolly glad now that you did. If you think I'm going to leave this super place, just to please you, you've another think coming. I wouldn't have missed it for worlds. For once, the joke's on you, Samma, I hope you're enjoying it!' Shelley plonked the receiver back on its rest and said to it : 'I am!'

  But was she?

  By the end of that first week Shelley was becoming aware of a certain flatness, of some vaguely undefined promise that

  had not come about. It was very pleasant not having to dance attendance on Samma and Coralie when they commanded, and not to be teased unmercifully by their respective swains every time she made a casual observation, and the joy of having her own place to come home to was unalloyed, with no one to nag or bother her ... But wasn't that just the point she'd missed? Nobody bothered her. Bruno had remained disapprovingly aloof each time she'd seen him passing, greeting her rather like Pooh-Bah, with a 'How d'you do, little girl,' hovering behind his gruff, 'Evenin', miss,' when she came home at night. And she'd seen Quinn exactly once during the entire week.

  To underline this new loneliness her only close friend, another youhg member of the typing pool which Shelley graced, had met someone special. Linda was in love again. Not that Shelley objected in the least to Linda's sojourn in this blissful state, but she could not help feeling a bit hurt when Linda first cried off the regular Tuesday visit to the cinema, and then asked Shelley to change their Thursday night arrangement—also of long standing—to Friday this week because the new swoon was taking her to a party.

  'It went on till nearly four o'clock this morning,' said Linda when they left the coffee bar on the Friday evening.

  'I gather that by the dines you've yawned tonight,' said Shelley, 'still, it sounds as though it was a super do.'

  'It was,' sighed Linda. She was silent a moment, pausing to glance at a window display of exotic eastern print dresses. 'I like that orange and green one. Listen, I've been thinking ... shall I ask Rick to bring somebody along for you? For a foursome one night next week. Then if you liked him we could split up after that?'

  'No, thanks,' said Shelley, turning away from the brightly-lit window, 'I don't like blind dates. I haven't forgotten the last one.'

  Linda giggled. 'Wasn't he deadly? All that blah about racing and football. Deadly! I mean—I like a boy who's an outdoor type, but there's limits. Rick's a super dancer, I could dance all night with him.' She sighed, and smiled blissfully at nothing in particular.

  Shelley looked at the bemused glow on her friend's face and stayed silent. Somehow she had a suspicion that she wasn't going to see much of Linda for a while—until this latest affair collapsed. Not, of course, that she wished it would—she didn't want Linda to be hurt—but she couldn't help experiencing a small sense of loss, as though she were on the fringe of something she was unable to share. She said slowly : 'Are you really in love with him?'

  `Am I?' Linda turned starlit eyes up to the glow of the neons. 'I just dissolve when he looks at me. Don't you know?' she asked pityingly.

  `No, I don't,' said Shelley uncertainly. `I—I wish I did.'

  `You will one day,' Linda told her with an irritating air of omniscience. 'It'll just happen. A boy will look at you and you'll just—'

  `Dissolve,' said Shelley flatly. 'Oh, bother! That's my bus.' She propped herself against the side of the shelter and glumly watched the tail lights fading into the distance. `Twenty flipping minutes to wait.'

  `Can't you take one of the Perivale ones?' said Linda, about to depart tubewards. 'I've an aunt that lives on the other side of Fernbridge—it can't be that far from Silverlane.'

  `It's miles away,' Shelley grumbled, `well, at least half a mile.'

  `Here's one coming—go on, lazy—you might as well be walking at the other end as standing here. Go on—see you at elevenses in the morning.'

  `I suppose I might as well—Goodnight, Linda!' With a wave, she swung herself aboard, reflecting that there was some sense in Linda's suggestion. It was a fine night and it had been hot and smoky and noisy in the coffee bar. She settled down and gave herself up to thoughts of Linda—and love. Her friend had had at least five affairs in the three months she and Shelley had been friends. There'd been that dark boy from the accounts department, and the one she'd met at the leisure centre—Aunt Lou would have called it `picking up', but everybody seemed to do it and think nothing of it. You just went with your friends to a coffee bar and

  got talking to a group of boys and that was that. What harm was there in it? You didn't have to make dates if you didn't like the boy, and if you waited for proper introductions like Aunt Lou said you might never meet anybody special. It was different here; nobody stood on ceremony and waited to be discovered, you went out and looked for life and fun, if you didn't you'd soon be alone in the loneliest place of all; a big city where life raced by so fast you had to run to catch up with it.

  Shelley came to with a start of dismay. On the unfamiliar route she had almost missed her stop. With the conductor's terse comments ringing in her ears, she scrambled off and swung briskly into the long walk that would take her round the outskirts of the park and to home.

  She'd been walking for almost ten minutes when she noticed the footsteps behind.

  The long avenues near this end of the park were all tall houses, quiet, dark, tree-lined and with long shadowy gardens stretching away behind the walls. Of traffic there was little, and of pedestrians even less. The park stretched away in a formless green-black gloom on one side, and in a sudden lull of complete lonely silence the second set of footsteps echoing her own were disturbing and eerie.

  Shelley took a tighter grip on her bag and quickened her steps slightly; if she could get to the end of this avenue she would be within sight of the top end of Silverlane Mansions. Her ears straining and her heart beginning to beat quicker, she listened for those sounds. Were they quickening? She wanted to desperately to look round. The steps were hea
vy. A man's. Oh, God, they were coming quicker. Gaining on her. And there wasn't a soul in sight. There was only herself, and these great darkened houses, and lowering trees and the footsteps of the unknown ...

  Shelley was running now. And the steps were running. She was sobbing under her breath, could almost feel the man's hand grabbing out at her. She rounded the corner, her bag flying and grazing along the iron railings of the park, the worn, old-fashioned flagstones uneven and bruising through the thin pounding soles of her shoes. Then the voice

  whispered. Oh, horror! It was saying: 'What's the hurry, miss?' and it had an evil undertone of mocking laughter. Oh, if only someone would come! There was a car . . . but it was travelling quite fast, she could hear it. If she stopped to shout the driver mightn't hear . . . and she couldn't stop .. . if she stopped .. .

  Headlights swept into the darkness. They outlined a dancing, grotesque shadow, her own, and a second one! Gasping as though her heart would burst, Shelley tried desperately to break free from the clutch on her shoulder. A loathsome breath was near her and she had a confused glimpse of a dark outline, a pulled-down hat and a glint of eyes. Then there was a. screech of car brakes and the vivid red glow of brake lights on the road. She felt she was screaming as though in a nightmare but no sound was coming from her parched throat. Then there was a scuffling movement, blurred in the dark, and running feet. And more running feet, and she was free.

  Crying, gasping with fear and shock, she stumbled blindly towards the figure running from the direction of the car. 'He was following me!' she sobbed. 'He was following me, and—and—'

  `Are you all right? Good God! It's Shelley!'