dripping onto the clean tiled floor. She wiped it off her chin with the back of her hand and pulled out the twelve-ounce fillet she’d bought the previous day. There had been no time to eat before heading to the gallery. The cellophane sliced cleanly under her fingernail and she pulled the meat out with her fingers, sniffed it and deemed it fresh enough.
She tore bites out of the steak, pressing the chunks against the roof of her mouth with her tongue to squeeze thin rivulets of blood down her throat. It was gone in moments, leaving her fingers stained red. She licked them, savoring the salt.
Felicia stopped as a wave of nausea pulsed through her. Her stomach convulsed and she bent double as the rapidly consumed meat came up again, splashing in garish crimson against the white stoneware tiles. Lumps of half-chewed meat showed pink against the red, and she staggered to the sink to get a drink of water.
She downed the whole glass, her attention focused on the calendar pinned to the wall then looked back at the kitchen floor. Her pool of vomit looked like a piece of post-modern expressionism and she wondered if she should document it as fine art. If she pretended it was from a hitherto unknown artist Joseph Klein would probably lap it up. She shuddered. Perhaps that was the wrong turn of phrase.
Instead, she cleaned up the mess with kitchen towels and a spray gun of cleaning fluid, sealed the whole bundle of blood and towels in a plastic bag and dropped it in the bin. She checked herself in the hall mirror. Despite her morning troubles, she’d managed to avoid splashing her suit.
She tidied her hair, tucked a stray strand back into her French plait and went to work.
The journey was interesting. Felicia’s altered sight made her less safe than usual, especially as she found herself continually distracted. Every pedestrian crossing and traffic light gave her something unexpected upon which to focus her attention.
At one point her mouth flooded with saliva and she caught a line of spittle on the back of her hand before realizing she had just passed a small piece of common land where goats grazed. Puzzled, she shook her head, and drove on.
Her nostrils flared when she stopped at the roundabout at the bottom of the high street. Here was fresh blood, an intoxicating scent she was certain everyone could smell. She looked up and down the street, but no one else seemed to be taking any notice. Unless she was wearing a very clever mask, the woman from whom the scent came didn’t seem to be in any distress and Felicia realized she was experiencing menstruation.
Felicia closed her eyes while the traffic was stationary. What was happening to her? Not that she was complaining. Her eyesight had improved and her sense of smell had heightened. The only drawback she had found so far seemed to be her desire for red meat and the change of color in her eyes.
She pulled down the sun visor and checked her face. Her eyes were still the same hazy blue they had been this morning. When she looked again, the menstruating woman stared at her with a half-smile. If nothing else, her obvious attention had made the woman’s day. She grinned back and waved, driving on when the roundabout cleared.
She stopped again at the pedestrian crossing to allow an old lady passage. The woman was oblivious to Felicia and would probably have crossed heedless of the traffic, inviting seriously injury. The woman’s slow gait didn’t annoy Felicia at all, so good was her mood, but she frowned at the blare of horns behind her, her gaze flicking to the rearview mirror to see the man behind shaking his fist. She looked forward again. The woman was nowhere in sight.
Felicia frowned. There was no chance she’d walked away that fast. She’d have to have sprinted five hundred yards to be out of sight and her tortoise shuffle denied such a turn of speed. She shook her head at the puzzle and drove on.
At the back of the gallery, Felicia parked her Audi next to Harold’s racing green minivan. She unlocked the back door of the gallery, slightly envious of the modern technology that guarded Alexandrian Books: a digital key pad and glowing alarm system, the latter currently inactive since he was already inside.
She checked her watch to ensure she had the time to spare and knocked on the connecting door. She tried the handle and the door opened. The bookshop was deserted, but she could hear voices in the kitchen.
Chapter 6
Felicia could see the back of Harold’s head as she closed the connecting door and headed toward the kitchen. The building had been a private house before the town center had swallowed and surrounded it with offices and estate agents, leaving the building abandoned for years before Harold had obtained the lease. Now the large Victorian kitchen at the back of the shop was the hub of the building and the room where Harold could generally be found. Felicia rapped on the door frame. “Harold?”
He scraped the chair away from the table and turned. “Felicia! Good morning. Would you like a coffee?”
Felicia smiled and headed toward him. “That would be lovely, thanks. I open in fifteen minutes, though.”
“That’s all right. There’s one already made.” He stood to pull out a chair for her at the big pine table. Harold spent so much time and did so much business in the kitchen that it was furnished better than Felicia’s flat. Every appliance imaginable nestled among the cupboards and shelves, and a huge window overlooked the back of the estate agent’s next door. He’d planted a window box just outside it, filled with herbs.
“Thanks.” Felicia sat before she realized a coffee was already there. “Is this someone’s seat?”
“No, that’s for you.” Harold grinned. “I saw you arrive on the CCTV.”
“I heard voices, though. Is Mr. Jasfoup here?”
“Jasfoup? No. It’s a bit early for him. I expect you heard the radio.”
Felicia didn’t mention there wasn’t a radio.
“Try your coffee.” Harold poured himself a cup of tea from the pot on the table. “It’s a new blend Jasfoup picked up in Arabia.” He indicated a carton on the counter.
“Really?” Felicia took a sip. “It’s good. He’s been to Arabia, has he? Is that his homeland?”
“I don’t think so.” Harold added sugar to his tea. “Jasfoup travels a lot finding us rare books.”
“I didn’t realize your business was so profitable. I would never have expected books to generate the sort of income that could keep a man traveling the world.”
“Well.” Harold coughed. “They are rare and antique books.”
“Still...” Felicia put her cup down and crossed her legs. “It’s profitable.”
“I am a man of mysterious means. What can I do for you, anyway?”
“I wondered if you and Mr. Jasfoup would take a sculpture back to my flat for me in your van. It’s a job for the boys, really, as it’s too big for my car.”
“Happy to help.” Harold smiled. “Shall we say five o’clock?”
“That would be...” Felicia stared at the box next to the sink. She could hear a skittering, as of sharp nails against the cardboard. “Shh.” A spiky, pointed head appeared at the side. “Harold! There’s a bloody rat in your kitchen.”
“A rat?” Harold looked around. “I very much doubt it.”
“Damn. You startled it.” Felicia craned her neck. “It was in the cardboard box. It was a huge one with a long tail and everything.”
“You must have been mistaken.” Harold opened the box and tilted it. “There’s nothing in here at all.”
“Isn’t there?” Felicia frowned. “I’m sure I saw one. It had a big snout and everything.”
“Nope.” Harold smiled and sat again. “You should take more water with it.”
“I don’t have a hangover, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“Sorry.”