Illicit Magic Read Online Free Page B

there it was, predictable as ever. Grateful to be inside my tiny flat, my heart still hammering, the awful fear still swam through every inch of my veins, though I felt a lot happier now that I was enclosed in familiar space. It might not be a castle but at least it was my home. A tear slipped down my cheek in relief and I brushed it away with the back of my hand.
    After a succession of ill-fated flat shares and grimy, overpriced bedsits with communal – and even grimier – bathrooms, having my own place at a price I could afford was something for which I was persistently grateful. It was the only reason why I hadn’t moved on. I would have to have a good long think about that, now that security might be a problem.
    I moved my head forty-five degrees to the side and let my ear press against the sheets of laminated wood. I tried not to breathe. There were no sounds from the other side of the door. Slowly, I rolled my head a little more until my eye was level with the peephole, my forehead gradually becoming indented with the peeling paint job on the thin door. The hall lamp, operated by a sensor, was still on and the hall seemed clear. The two other flat doors were shut but I couldn’t hear familiar sounds of footsteps or TVs through our thin, shared walls. My nearer neighbours were not home yet and paranoia was apparently becoming my middle name.
    I exhaled, relief replacing fear, and stumbled away from the door, dropping my shoulder bag on the floor next to the sofa, tossing my mail on the little wooden table that I salvaged from a skip one night, and made use of after cleaning it up. I shrugged my coat off and dumped it on top of the envelopes. It landed in an untidy heap and I winced again at the sight of the rip. I tossed my gloves on top and pushed my hair away from my face.
    My flat was small, just like my unspectacular wages. Even calling it a flat was spinning out its size as something better than it was. In reality, it was one large room with enough space to squash in a bed-slash-sofa with arms so worn that the colour had all but gone in those spots. Across the room there was a TV that dated from the late eighties – requiring a thump every time the picture went – almost museum-worthy and, like everything else in the flat, in need of replacement.
    It was dark inside but I left the lights off as I entered the kitchen. The room was far too optimistically named and resembled a slightly over-sized cupboard (which it probably had been once), with a tiny worktop, a microwave, mini-fridge and sink. There was no oven or washing machine, much less a window. The other cupboard held the bathroom which had just enough space for a toilet, sink and shower cubicle. Though it always smelled damp, I was just thankful that I didn’t have to share it with other people and their sketchy interpretations of personal hygiene.
    The only light came in through a broad bay window in the main room and it cast shadows over my past-it furniture. The bay looked out over the street and had the unfortunate position of being right next to a bus stop, so the net curtains, sprinkled with mildew at the hems from where the creeping black fungus, which frequently appeared around the windows contacted them in spots, were a necessary evil. I left the curtains open. Smart move , I told myself. That way, anyone who happened by the house wouldn’t know whether I was in or out.
    I flipped on the kettle and rested my lower back against the countertop as I looked out onto the main room. Thankfully, due to my lack of belongings, I never needed much space. I had always travelled light after being shunted from foster home to foster home and never had the inclination to hoard, like some people who desperately try to put down roots. I guess I’ve just never been materialistic because stuff doesn’t matter that much to me.
    As such, my few possessions included a cluster of clothes hanging on a rail: a basic combination of smart casual that I could wear to