The rain let up. I hurried across the footbridge over the Cam. The water below me was black and choppy. It left me thinking of alligators snapping. So I looked up ahead to Midsummer Common on the other side. In the darkness, with nothing but a few lampposts to mark the way through the fog, the place seemed ominous. But I headed toward it anyway.

I was late and I didn't like that. But it wasn't something I could help. My daughter, Francie had seen to that. She'd gotten into one of her moods and set off an eruption that I just couldn't walk out on. Lately we seemed to feed off each other's anger. Maybe that's because there was so much of it around, festering under a tranquil surface.

The bottom line was that the kid was sore at me for living on my own terms and dragging her around to take the consequences. And she had a point. After all, it was easy enough for me, with my American foundation grant to live here and study English child care methods. I could work when and how I pleased, so long as I got results. While Francie had to face them at school and explain my eccentric, foreign ways. So she tried to reform me. And when that failed, she rumbled like any good earthquake when the two land plates were pulled in opposite directions.

Suddenly I was startled back to reality by a noise that sounded like laughter. I looked around, remembering I was vulnerable on the common at night. But the open green seemed deserted. I turned to the river. There I spotted them. A flock of ducks taking the mickey. I sighed away jitters and hurried on.

I never liked being late. But this time was worse because I didn't even know the woman I was going to meet. Our get-together grew out of a letter I'd gotten from a friend back home in San Francisco. She'd passed on the name of a contact in Cambridge and I'd called the woman up. To my surprise, this unknown person had actually made a date for me to have a drink at her place. Such open informality was practically unheard of in these parts. Unless, of course, she was also lonesome.

Crossing the grassy field, a gust of wind hit me. The chill slid up my sleeves, as I buffeted myself against the sudden rush. When it subsided, I was left with a longing for Oliver's warm body next to mine. His soft tongue licking my...

I shook myself. A lot of good this'll do me now. Last night Oliver had packed up his things and moved back to his place after a giant argument. It was the kind that shattered the illusion of calm between us. But maybe that was just as well. For even with the pain of our break-up lingering in my chest, I was glad he was gone.

How had Oliver managed to move in with me, anyway? Slowly shifting from being my weekend lover. How had I let it happen? It had seemed so smooth and natural, like the way I'd just started shoving his dirty clothes into the washer with Francie's and mine.

I moved along the path under some trees. A hail of droplets splattered me. I pictured Oliver, lean and fit with his short brown hair drenched with rain, standing by the fire saying, "Never mind. Next month will be better." The guy was a real unlikely, unsung British hero. Maybe that's how he'd gotten round me.

I reached Parsonage Street, on the other side of the common, and stopped under a street light to check my watch. It was already 8:15. I hurried on as the cold nipped away at my feet.

Crossing New Market Road, I skirted around Grafton Centre and started quickly along East Road toward the grassy fields of Parkers Piece. At the roundabout I headed down Mill Road, passing my favorite health food shop and the delicatessen that sold bagels. Then I swung a left onto Perowne Street.

Checking the house numbers, I began making my way down the darkened lane. The old houses were all attached like a long two- story brick wall. Number 32 was at the end. The street stopped there with a brick fence that seemed to be the boundary of a park.

Tracy had said that she lived in the back cottage. The only way to get there was through an arched passageway between the last two houses. But I wasn't wild about going down that dark tunnel alone at night. So I stuck my head in and shouted, "Boo!" The sound echoed back at me. The passage seemed empty. I started slowly down it. Half way through, the smell of piss went up my nose. It was too late to turn back. I forced myself to grope along to the other side.

Coming out into the small back yard, I saw a cottage. That had to be the place. I hoped Tracy wouldn't be too uptight about my being late. I looked down at my watch. But I couldn't see the time. That's when I realized there was no brightness shining through the front windows.

I went to the door of the cottage and rang the bell. Then I waited for the sound of footsteps and the flash of the front light. Nothing happened. I tried again. Where was she? Had she given up on me and gone out? Darn, I sure needed someone to talk to. And when I called her last week, Tracy sounded like she was in the same boat.

Maybe the bell was broken. I gave the door a good hard knock. It swung open. I stuck my head around the door and yelled, "Yoohoo!"

Nothing echoed back at me. Nothing but stillness. It made me prickly.

I pushed the door open a little more and gave the room the once-over. A couch, a TV, and an open kitchen deep in the left- hand corner. But no Tracy. At the far right side of the room a light shone through a crack under a door. She must be in there. "Tracy?" I called from my perch.

No answer. Had she fallen asleep in the bedroom? Or was she wearing stereo earphones?

I stepped into the living room. The wooden floor creaked under my feet, like the sound of childhood fears. I wanted to get the heck out of there. But I shook myself, instead. What was I conjuring up? Maybe Francie was right when she said that I was too dramatic.

I started across the room. If I wanted Tracy's friendship, it was certainly worth going that far. So I followed the beam of light until it shone on my wet boots.

Once at the door, I gave the thing a knock. Nothing came of it. I turned the handle and pushed the door. It squeaked open.

The room was empty. I sighed with relief, like maybe I'd been expecting worse.

Standing in the doorway, I looked the place over. Tracy wasn't much of a housekeeper, that's for sure. The bedroom was even messier than mine. Was she just a slob? Or had she been looking for something?

The bed was in the corner of the room. The head of it was against one wall and the side of the bed was a few feet away from the other wall, leaving just enough room for a night table. The bed was unmade with the covers pulled away from the far side.

There at the edge of the clean, white sheet, I suddenly noticed four fingers sticking up from the side of the bed. I could hardly believe it.

I ran over. Tracy was on the floor, lying in the space between the bed and the wall. She looked so frightened, flat on her back staring up at the ceiling.

There wasn't enough room for me to come around next to her on the floor. So I climbed onto the bed and leaned down. "Tracy. Are you OK? Can you get up?"

She just stared silently into space. I bent further over and put my hands on either side of her head to lift her up. Just as I started to pull, a long, thin drop of blood oozed out of her mouth, rolling toward my hand.

I let her down. The blood touched my flesh. I jerked my hand away, brushing up against her cheek, and wiping the blood back into her mouth. Then I stared down at the red stain on my hand. I thought I'd scream. But I didn't. Instead, I took a deep swallow and remembered my Red Cross training.

I looked down at her chest. But I couldn't see it moving up and down with breath. So I got hold of her arm which was wedged between the night table and the side of the bed. "Keep calm," I told myself. "Keep calm."

Wrapping my hand around her wrist, I let my ears slip down to my fingertips. Then I listened for the heartbeat. Listening. I kept listening for that beat, moving my fingers this way and that, working for that pulse. Nothing. I tried and tried. Then suddenly I jumped away.

She was dead!

Fear grabbed hold and set me shaking, shivering from the cold breeze. I turned. The wind was blowing open the window curtains in the adjoining bathroom. It was dark in there. But I could still see the white curtains whipping around, as if they were doing a death dance. Was the window open when I first came in?

Strange noises started coming out of my mouth, short frightened cries like a baby separated from it's mother. It was too much. I ran.

Out, out of the bedroom, away from fright's grip. Onward, my feet propelled me, back through the looming shadows of the living room. Out the front door.

I rushed across the open yard. But I stopped short at the dark tunnel, reeking with urine. I just couldn't face it. I turned, heading for the low, brick wall of the park.

Reaching it, I gripped the rough brick. Then I heaved my body up and around. I jumped, landing in the soft grass on the other side.

Yes, even at night the park seemed like safe ground. Sure, it was life and children's laughter. Green and sun. Where I took Francie on weekends. I stumbled to my feet. It was OK now. I was out of danger.

I took a couple of steps. Then I tripped on something. Peering down, I saw it. A cement slab sticking up at me.

Suddenly I looked around. They were all over, some with crosses, others slightly tilted. Death soldiers stationed every few feet. Panic poured from my veins. I flashed on Tracy's body, lying in the corner and on her face that look of terror.

---

Winter Chills

by Joy Magezis

ISBN: 1-900355-15-9 PB

Order online through www.blackapollo.com

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