Thursday morning, twenty to four….
Solitude breeds in Alba a kind of quiet agitation in the half dark shadows, and just as the mind’s eye obliterates uncomfortable or unwanted visions, Alba’s consciousness has broken with the distant sounds of life outside her bedroom. Her eyes leap from one point to another. From the letter to a distant lover she is in the act of writing, to the blue end of the Bic biro, the instrument through which her images, ideas, visions, inspirations, appear to have been transmitted from mind to paper. From this pen her eyes pan over to the islands of temporary light and some reflections created by the small angle-poise desk lamp, a light just there that reveals, yet seems poised to punish whatever it might illuminate, held in the claw of a gunmetal grey scorpion hovering over her pad of light blue, lined writing paper.
Peter, Bug Eyed Peter, his eyes leap from one point to another too. He can picture the islands of light, Alba’s face reflected in the glass of the sash-cord window in front of which she sits, the letter she is in the act of composing, illuminated before her, at a slight angle to the edge of the white Formica top table, as makes writing comfortable for the right handed. He can picture, to her left, a little nearer the window, five or six paperback novels stacked one atop the other, a little stairway with grey authors’ photographs and back-jacket book reviews. These are the real story and “....it’s sharp, short, cold, exact and exiting. Every word counts in this macabre, strongly imagined little intrigue.”
Peter hears the sounds of birds that will soon be singing outside Alba's dusty, rain splattered Victorian era sash-cord window.
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