I ached to share all this with Mrs Eames.
But I’d offended her, and she was
keeping her distance. I couldn’t bear to
think I had a stalker. I would need to
report this incident to the police. I turned
over the facts in my head. Could I be one
hundred percent certain the creepy
overcoated man was Uncle Timothy? I
spoke to William. But he was blasé. Sis,
Uncle is far away. It was just some local
perv. Don’t fret yourself, he said
carelessly, continuing with his computer
game. I boiled the kettle and made some
breakfast. I suppressed an irrational urge
to run into the street, and bawl. Instead I
peeped through the net curtains. The
morning was still swathed in mist. There
wasn’t a soul about.


Author: Robert James Berry

Poet & Novelist

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