Touched by Angels by Alan Watts

where rich people keep their valuables. So that’s what they’re after! There must be a fortune inside. There’s just one other thing though, and without it, the number is useless.”
    They both waited in silence for a few seconds, until Robert asked, “What?”
    “ The key. Safety deposit boxes need one to open them. He must have one, either on his person, or…”
    “ The bag!” he said and bolted back upstairs where the bag was hidden.
    When he returned, she tipped the money out in a heap and started groping around inside, guessing that if he’d had any sense, he would have concealed it beneath the silk lining. She couldn’t feel anything obvious. She deftly sliced it all out with a knife, but there was still no key.
    She was r epulsed by the knowledge that she was going to have to lever those boards back up again to search Adam King’s body, even though she didn’t think he would be so stupid as to keep it in one of his pockets.
    Robert seemed to read her mind, as he said, “If I was him, I would have hidden it in the lining of my hat.”
    She patted him on the head and said, “Good boy!” as her hand strayed instantly to the jemmy. Thinking of the noise it would make, she resisted the temptation. Bob had never removed the boards during the hours of darkness for that very reason.
     
    ***
     
    The next morning, the façade of routine continued, as she insisted it should, with Robert going to school, while she kept the curtains shut, and got on with her fortune-telling.
    She was going to delay as much as she could touching a body that had been dead for more than a day. She imagined the cold waxy feel and the half-open eyes that would have started sinking back into his head.
    Later in the day, when no-one was around the street, s he dreaded a knock at the door as she started pulling the floorboards, knowing this wouldn’t take long. At least the nails needed less effort this time. Why was her heart suddenly thudding?
    It was almost as though she had anticipated what she was going to see.

Eighteen
     
    There was nothing there. No body. No trace of King whatsoever.
    She found herself stumbling backwards, on her elbows, eyes bulging, flesh creeping in waves down her arms. She couldn’t breath e.
    “ This is crazy!” she muttered. “He has to be here!”
    She made herself crawl back and peer into the hole once more, her nose wrinkling against the dank odour of rot, certain she would see him, certain her overstressed brain had been playing tricks.
    Her breathing came in rapid gasps. Her head was swimming. She had lifted the wrong board. It had to be that. Being tired, she couldn’t have been paying sufficient attention. She didn’t want to put her hand down there, because of this sudden feeling that if she did, his hand, cold and clammy, would close around hers and she would scream.
    When she had finally plucked up enough courage, she found there was nothing there at all, except dust, ancient rat droppings and the cold glass of a group of bottles that were part of a previous stash.
    It was impossible. Was she going mad? Had she really put him down there in the first place? And if she had… was he dead?
    Was it possible he had woken up, crawled off somewhere and then expired for good?
    She was sitting in the armchair, staring at the hole in the floor, when she heard a knock on the door. She knew she had no choice but to sit outside telling those stupid fortunes.
    She quickly replaced the board, not daring to leave it as it was, and went through the charade of setting up her table, ball and chairs in the mud, from which a sickly sweet mist was rising, while Mrs O’Brien kept giving her nasty little looks from her door step as she scrubbed it.
    The minutes merged into hours as the pile of pennies slowly grew, though however hard she thought, she couldn’t make any sense of it.
    With no other explanation, she could only assume the rats had devoured him, though it was surely not possible in a single day, and