THE SIXTH GUEST: Chapter Seven - Part Seven

Both of Henry’s hands were shaking when he got back down the ladder-stair and shut himself in his room.

All that time with Rosalie he had just been reacting; drifting forwards, nudged by what was happening. Now he was alone the impact of it was mind blowing.

He didn’t even think about the stranger who he had found waiting the in the lounge. He went quickly to his computer and fired up the base unit, sitting in front of the screen.

It was a terrifically old model and its boot sequence crept on almost unbelievably slowly as he tapped his fingers on the arm of the padded chair that looked really comfortable but in fact wasn’t.

His mind drifted a little to the encounter with the odd man: to his dredging voice; his unblinking stare. Henry had been talking; asking who the man was; then he remembered little. Flashes. His body convulsing; hands spasming. The actual content of their dialogue was a mystery.

Or was it? It seemed almost there in his memory, just out of reach, as if he could grasp it if he tried hard enough.

But his desktop appeared and any consideration of that vanished. He grabbed the mouse roughly and guided it to the Internet Explore icon; waited again interminably for it to flash open; then his fingers moved rapidly, typing that same search criteria into Google Images then bashing the Return key.

The selection of images appeared and he scrolled quickly to the bottom, slicking on to the next page, and the next, and the next.

“There!”

Henry clicked urgently on the picture of the little girl with the balloon and the larger preview image grew to fill most of the screen. His mouth fell into the same sagging O as it had when he set eyes on Rosalie.

It was her. He was sure of it. The picture on the internet of the little girl with the balloon that he had used to tug the juice from his slug worm was of Rosalie; lying in bed just above his head.

Breathlessly, he clicked the View Page button and waited until a blog popped up with the picture embedded half way down. It was one of any number of inconsequential internet diaries, but there was her picture and underneath it was the caption “Rosalie’s Birthday.”

Henry rocked back in his seat.

What were the chances of that happening? Of the very girl he’d been looking would come here to his very house!

It could only be a sign. But of what he had no clue.

He was literally stunned. He couldn’t work out what it meant.

But then he heard something; in his room; and his hand shot to the off switch on his monitor in well-rehearsed panic. He looked to his right, looking for a sign of an intruder, but no one was there. The room was empty.

But still... He was sure he’d heard something. A scratch or a knock. Not a footstep; not that, but... something.

He hadn’t bothered with the light and with the computer monitor off it was very dark. The blackout blinds in the bay window did a good job. The main light switch was at the other side of the room by the door, but something stopped him from getting up and walking across.

His eyes were becoming adjusted to the dark. He could make out most of the general detail of bed, chair, drawers, wardrobe. There was definitely no one in there with him, spying on his darker fantasies. Maybe it was a mouse. Or a rat.

His hand went to the monitor button, hesitated, then switched it back on.

After a moment the image of Rosalie and her balloon came back into view. Henry stared at it, wanting to slip his hand again into the top flap of his trousers, but afraid to now.

Because it wasn’t just a secret fantasy anymore. This wasn’t just a picture. It was a picture of a real little girl who was now inexplicably part of his life, even if only for a short time.

He pulled open the top of his trousers and started to sink his hand inside then he heard another noise and stopped.

That time he was sure it was inside the room with him, over by the chair. He went again to turn off the computer, at the base unit this time. Then suddenly he caught something; a scent; and the movement ended, forgotten, so profound was the memory that scent brought up.

It was a pretty floral perfume smell, strong enough to fill his nostrils for a moment, and it was one he knew intimately. Of course he did.

It was the perfume his wife Lillian had worn every day of their marriage.