Where The Shadow Falls

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His head lolled to the side again and he raised it upright, aware for the first time of its enormous weight. Am I still fully compos mentis, of sound mind or whatever, James Freeman mused, before concluding that he was, probably, no longer capable of such a judgement. Pouring himself more whisky from the decanter, the old man drank it neat, in a single gulp, determined to dull his brain further, banish all remaining senses. Anything, he thought, rather than stay in this limbo, with emotions heightened and nerves jangling. He had imagined a peaceful journey, a seamless transition from tranquil sensibility to blessed oblivion, with his love by his side. Never mind. Before long this cup too would be taken from him, and impatience at such a time, and with so little left, might lead to damnation. Hellfire no longer seemed preposterous, better play safe than risk that.

The ringing of the doorbell startled him, causing him to drop his tumbler onto the rug and utter a loud curse. Then realisation dawned, and his spirits soared. Now he would not be alone, despite all his well-intentioned efforts. Neither of them had proved strong enough to remain apart and he, at least, did not regret it. Rising immediately from his favourite chair, he was surprised to find how unsteady on his feet he was, swaying dizzily, the room spinning around him. With a supreme effort of will he straightened up and began to cross the carpet, heading towards the landing. His own momentum helped him down the stairs and he steadied himself on the banister end, resting for a few seconds before preparing to traverse the vast expanse of the hall. A straight crossing was all but achieved. ‘Fwiend or Foe,’ he whispered theatrically, before opening the door to greet his caller.

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