Page 39 of Kept 2

To laminate pastry: Put buttered flour slab onto bench and place dough inside, fold into thirds and roll. Roll again and fold into thirds once more. Place into refrigerator to rest for 15 minutes.

Note: This is reverse lamination. You can put the butter inside the dough and fold the opposite way, but always keep the opening of the fold on your right to ensure you laminate consistently. Slice the sides of the pastry with a knife to ensure the butter remains stable.

Repeat process five times before rolling and using in recipes.

Note: Laminate three times the first day, cling wrap and refrigerate so the pastry doesn’t dry. Do the last two folds the following day for best results. Put a thumbprint in the pastry each time you laminate, so you know how many times it has been done.

12

I blow the candles out for the final time, tuck my cloth into my apron pocket, and wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. I will miss this tiny taverna, I’ll miss the chef, and I’ll miss this island.

Sicily was the last place on earth I ever would have thought to run to, but it had turned out to be the best thing for me physically and emotionally.

Turning, I bid goodbye to the chef on duty and head home. Ricardo will be waiting for me, I know, with a bottle of red and some cheese and olives, and Lucy will be there too, ready to help me with my bags and spirit me away to God only knows where.

I’d already said my goodbyes to everyone, including Ricardo, but it would be nice to have one last drink in his wonderful kitchen and toast to the future, no matter how uncertain it may be for me.

Untying my apron as I walk, I fold it subconsciously, as I carefully make my way along the poorly-lit cobbled streets of this small, seaside town.

I pause a few times to give one last stroke to the many cats that sleep under chairs, on chairs, on walls, on cars and everywhere else the sun has touched and warmed, although many of my favourites have left their spots now to do what cats do at night; prowl and prey on small things.

At the thought of this, I speed up my steps. Now that I’ve made the decision to leave here, I have a sense of urgency, like Ineedto leave as fast as possible.

The rational part of my mind tells me this is because all the talk of vampires is freaking me out, but still, the irrational part of my brain is starting to go into overdrive as fear and adrenalin take hold.

Approaching the house, I see the lights on in the kitchen upstairs, as I expected, guiding me the last few hundred metres and welcoming me with their soft glow.

“I’m home,” I shout up the stairs as I walk through to the laundry and drop my apron into the wash basket. It will be cleaned by the local washerwoman and used by some other waitress next week. I take my shoes off and carry them in-hand as I make my slow ascent up the stairs in my socks.

My feet are killing me. Standing all day is still something they refuse to accept, and although the socks stop pressure blisters, they do make my feet sweat. My legs and feet cramp and ache most nights. Whenever I’m sitting, I try to put them up, but still, my ankles are very swollen tonight.

I decide, almost at the top now, that I will take the time to have a quick shower before we leave and rub some peppermint oil into my heals and toes – it seems to alleviate the ache. Lucy will just have to deal with the delay – I can’t possibly travel smelling like garlic and sweat. And I can’t run if my feet are driving me insane with pain.

Finally reaching the small landing at the top of the stairs, I drop my shoes near the doorway and pop my head in to let Ricardo and Lucy know I’m back and planning to shower before joining them.

But when I stick my head in the door, I am momentarily flummoxed.

“Ricardo?”

I say his name at the same time my brain registers that the spillage on the long, timber table is not wine. Too thick for wine, far too thick.

Eyes wide, I step into the room and look down, over the table, onto the floor, at Ricardo’s body. His mouth is open wide, like he had no idea what was happening as his throat was ripped out. One of his arms is bent behind and underneath him in a way that would otherwise be physically impossible. His shirt has been ripped to shreds. It comes to me that his expression is very much like the face on the pigs hanging in his cool-room – shock, pain, surprise, despair - and I don’t think I will ever eat pork again.

But, all this flashes through my mind instantaneously. I hear a low keening sound as I back towards the door, and realise it is me. I am making that sound.

As I back out, I hear a noise to my right, near the open window, and see the curtains fluttering in the evening breeze. Lucy’s head is on the windowsill. At first glance it looks as though she is a pot-plant, placed like so many blood-red geraniums featured on every windowsill in the village. Only the red is not a flower; it is the space where her face has been ripped partially off, hanging like a bloody mask.

I start screaming; a high-pitched semi-silent scream. It’s nothing like the great loud, village-wakening screams you hear in horror movies, more like the strangled scream you make in your sleep during a nightmare. Still screaming, I continue backing out of the room and reach the landing. But as I spin to leave, I trip over one of the shoes I had left outside the door, and my slippery socks send me falling backwards, into space.

Windmilling my arms in terror, I reach for the timber balustrade and miss, tumbling backwards head over heels down the stairs at the same time as I see Nicholas striding down the hallway towards me, his face terrible.

The stairs seem to go on forever, and I am unable to break my fall. I scramble for purchase against the wall and balustrade, as I tumble over and over, bumping my head, my arse, my back, each sharp timber tread feeling like a hammer blow as I fall, straight down.

I hit the floor with a dull thud, my shoulder connecting first, my head second, pain shooting up my spine to my brain. As the world swims momentarily before my eyes, becoming a swirl of black punctured with shooting stars, I close my eyes tightly, mentally preparing myself to attempt to rise, and run. But my legs won’t seem to work for some reason, and I feel the black closing in, despite my mind screaming at me to get up, to flee, to save my life.

Moaning, I feel myself lifted from the concrete by a pair of strong arms. Opening my eyes once more, trying hard to focus, I find myself centimetres away from his concerned gaze.

“Do not fear, Josephine,” he murmurs, his blue eyes looking deep into mine, “you are safe now. I plan to keep you.”

I feel the bile rise in the back of my throat, as a shriek bursts from my mouth.

Nothing he said could have terrified me more.