"The gazelle freezes and pricks her ears up. She can sense the danger, but she can't see it. Her brain is no match for the lion's, whom evolution has honed into an almost perfect predator. He waits patiently. Soon enough, the gazelle relaxes and resumes her meal. This is the moment for the lion to pounce! He tears straight into her thighs, her most vulnerable spot, ensuring that she has no hope of escape. Now the lion can take his time over his meal. Doomed, the gazelle struggles for a few minutes, but eventually she becomes almost co-operative, compliant in her own demise, maybe sensing for one sacred moment her place in the vast circle of ..."
CRASH!!!!
I am stirred from the evening's televised entertainment. What in Hell's name was that? I rise from my armchair and walk into the dining room. There is virtually a gale blowing in through the window; the curtains are flapping like the robes of an angered priest. And on the floor: glass! Pieces of coloured glass, everywhere! Not cheap modern glass, forged on a bed of molten metal. No, hand-made glass. Seventeenth-century glass.
Irreplaceable glass.
I roar my anger and storm to my front door, opening it almost before I reach it. Children everywhere, with their parents, all looking in my direction. What do they want with me? Some older ones, running away fast, looking behind them. Looking at me. Laughing at my misfortune. Begone with you all!
Then I see her. Standing in the eye of the tornado, eyes wide with fear ... there she stands.
This sainted night used to be for the children alone, but now those of age also participate. The children wear gaudy costumes - witches, vampires, zombies - with no idea what they represent in reality. This one ... should have known better.
I scan her image, bottom to top, in the blink of her eye. She wears black shoes, pointed and buckled, with two-inch heels. From those emerge a pair of knee-length stockings, made from a black cotton that has been woven into a spiderweb pattern. Above that, her smooth white thighs are on display, dotted with goosebumps. There is no hint of cellulite; her thighs do not even meet in the middle before leading up into the skirt of an indecently short black cocktail dress. It has a strap over one shoulder and comes down at an angle, disappearing beneath her arm on the other side. Black ribbons spiral like snakes up her pale sleek limbs, accented by a black velvet choker around her neck, and on her face she wears deep red lipstick against a ghostly white foundation, with dark eye makeup and scarlet earrings.
"What have you done?" I demand.
She looks at me in horror.
"I'm sorry!" she cries. "I didn't mean to break it!"
She is genuinely terrified. Good. I walk up to her and gently take her chin between my finger and thumb. I tilt her head up and smile down kindly at her.
"Did your friends put you up to this?" I ask her sweetly.
She nods meekly. A single tear rolls down her cheek. I wipe it off with my finger, and taste it. Very interesting. She is no child, but this is a child's tear.
"Why don't you tell me what happened?" I say.
She looks up at me and sniffs.
"I ..." she begins, but I halt her with my hand.
"Let us go inside, where it is warmer," I propose.
She looks at me, then she looks up at my house, with renewed fear. It is an ancient and imposing building. The children have some stories about it, I'm sure.
"I ... I don't know," she says, shivering.
"But look at you! You must be freezing cold in that outfit. At least allow me to prepare you a hot drink before you go on your way. Then, in return, you can tell me which of your friends is truly to blame for the destruction of a very expensive antique window of mine. Because I can see from your face that you are completely ... innocent."
She looks up at me uncertainly. I see the beginning of a smile.
"Do you have any hot chocolate?" she says quietly.
I scan my surroundings again. Nobody is looking in our direction any more. People's attention spans are so short in these times, although the mist that has suddenly risen must also be obscuring their view somewhat. Certainly, nobody seems interested in her any more. She has no companion waiting for her out here. She is ... unguarded.
I guide her towards my front door with a gentle hand on her back.
"I have the best hot chocolate in the world. You will never taste such luxury elsewhere."
"Why do you talk so funny?" she asks. She is becoming bolder.
"It is because I am very old," I tell her.
She turns and looks up into my face.
"You don't look that old," she says.
I smile at her naivety.
The front door is still ajar when we reach it.
"Please, enter of your own free will," I say.
"Pardon?"
"You agree that I am not coercing you to come inside?"
"What? Well ... no, of course not. I'm coming in for hot chocolate and ... I guess, a little telling off. Which I deserve," she says sadly.
"Good," I say, and I watch eagerly as she voluntarily steps over the threshold, out of the public world and into my domain.
I glance behind me. The mist has risen quickly tonight; it is barely possible even to see the street-lighting across the way now. Satisfied, I follow her into my house, and the door shuts silently behind me.
"Wow!" she says, looking around her in amazement. "You must really love antiques!"
"Not really," I say.
"But you have so many ..."
"These are just my possessions, collected over the course of my life. I do not think of them as expensive antiques ... until I have to replace them, of course."
She looks at the ground.
"I'm really sorry about your window," she says.
"Come, let us retire to the drawing room, there you can tell me all about it."
I follow her into the room, observing the way her dress clings to her body. Her buttocks are firm as she walks, a sign of good parental heritage.
"Oh, thank God!" she says with obvious relief. I ignore the blasphemy.
"What is it?"
"I was worried your sofa might be an antique too!"
Then she sits, without waiting to be invited.
"Not everything I own is so ancient," I say, smiling down at her. "I find modern sofas to be vastly more comfortable than their eighteenth-century equivalent. Nobody desires a cast-iron spring poking them in the backside."
She laughs. It is a soft sound that thrills me.
"You're funny. I don't know why everyone is so scared of you."
"That is something I try to cultivate."
"You want people to be scared of you?"
"I prefer to be left alone. Most people succeed in that. Did you not see the notice on my door?"
"No trick or treaters? Yes, I did see it," she says, looking down again.
"But you and your friends chose not to respect my wishes in that regard."
"They thought it would be fun."
"And is it fun?"
Unexpectedly, she smiles at me, relaxing back on the sofa with her hands in her lap.
"It might make for an interesting evening," she says quickly, and I see a glimpse of something in her eyes that I have not seen for a very long time.
"I see. Shall I prepare the hot chocolate now?" I say.
"Oh, yes please! Can I have extra sugar in mine?"
I stand up. "Of course. You will be pleased to know I also have a modern kettle, so this should not take too long. Please wait here until I return."
I prepare the hot chocolate in the basement kitchen. As is often the case, I cannot help but marvel at the convenience the modern world has to offer. The water boils during one minute, and the drink is prepared from a selection of powders in the next. I add plenty of cow's milk, then I pour a somewhat less childish drink for myself.
When I ascend the staircase again, she is at the front door. She turns to look at me, her face full of shame.
"I ... just wanted to see how your front door works."
"You have an interest in locks? It is a tricky one, this. Very secure. Nobody can enter this house without my permission."
"Heh, or leave, by the looks of it," she says. Her face is nervous.
"It has a method to it. Did you wish to leave already? I prepared hot chocolate for you. And, I must insist that we discuss my broken window before your return home."
She looks down. "Yes, of course, I'm sorry. I guess I just got a bit scared, that's all."
"What is there to be scared about?" I say gently.
"Er ... nothing ... I guess," she says. "I mean I can handle myself. Don't think I can't. I have a green belt in karate, you know!"
I cannot help but smile at her spirit.
"I am sure you will not be needing to recall such skills while you are here," I say.
She smiles at me. She seems somewhat reassured.
