Power on Her Own by Judith Cutler

might just be working.
    â€˜What’s the rest of the place like?’ Paul’s question made her jump.
    â€˜Be my guest. Have a look round. But be careful – there are floor-boards up.’
    She followed him up the stairs. ‘The bathroom’s nearly ready – but it’s very small. I can’t give you a conducted tour.’
    He shrugged and went in. ‘Hey, no door.’
    â€˜Didn’t you notice – no doors anywhere! I’m having them dipped to get rid of the old paint. Then I shall wax them.’ Her first positive statement. She must be sobering up.
    â€˜Lovely tiles. Oh, Kate,’ Paul emerged. ‘If the rest of the house ends up looking as good as this, you can be really proud of yourself. Which is your bedroom?’
    â€˜The big front one’s nice. But with the school opposite it could be noisy. And Aunt Cassie’s bedroom suite fits the middle bedroom so nicely – that’s it, that pile of wood there. They had to take it apart to get it out so they could plaster. I suppose that was how they got it in in the first place, in pieces.’
    Paul squeezed into the front room. ‘It’s nice in here,’ he called. ‘All those trees!’
    â€˜And all the mummies in their Volvos delivering their kiddie-winks because they’re too little to walk.’
    â€˜Can you blame them? These missing kids, these abductions – that little kid last week. Any news of him, by the way?’ He picked his way back towards her.
    â€˜He’s as well as can be expected,’ she said. ‘But no more than that.’
    â€˜What had they done to him?’
    â€˜Enough,’ she said shortly. ‘OK, Paul, there’s only the end bedroom – the one that overlooks what claims to be a garden. I shall use it as my office. Careful! The floor’s only staying up with faith and friction – they’ve not put the RSJ in underneath yet!’
    She’d better stay where she was: walking alongjoists would be a worse test of being sober than walking the old white line. Penalty for failure – a rapid descent through the kitchen ceiling.
    Even Paul slipped. Struggling for his balance, he dropped the leather-bound organiser he’d been carrying, more like some business executive than a down-to-earth college lecturer. Except down to earth was what he’d be if he wasn’t careful.
    â€˜Wait – I’ll get something we can pull it with. Hang on!’ She started back down the corridor.
    â€˜No! It’s OK. I’ve got it.’
    Nearly, at least. It wouldn’t do his jacket much good, lying across the floor like that.
    â€˜There!’ He straightened, triumphant. ‘Hey, there’s something else, too.’ He burrowed again. ‘I can just reach it.’
    At last he straightened.
    â€˜Are you OK?’
    â€˜Apart from filthy. Now, what have we here?’
    â€˜Hang on: I thought I heard something – did you drop anything?’
    He flicked a quick eye over his organiser. ‘Don’t think so. It was probably the last of your rats abandoning a sinking ship. Come on, let’s look at this.’
    â€˜The light’s better downstairs.’
    â€˜You mean the lights
work
downstairs! Come on!’ He flourished an oiled-silk package.
    â€˜Let’s use my sleeping bag as a table, in case there’s anything breakable.’
    They knelt. He passed it to her. She untied the tape. Inside the silk was a little wash-leather purse.
    â€˜Well, you can’t break those,’ she said, her voice as prosaic as possible.
    â€˜Diamonds!’ he breathed. ‘Must be a small fortune.’
    She pushed them back into the purse, running her finger tip along the stitching of the sleeping bag to make sure none was trapped. ‘Let’s say, they should keep Cassie in that nursing home a few more months. I wonder why she had cut diamonds: I’d have expected uncut