Maggie had always come to Richard in times of trouble. Tonight she was back.

It was midnight. She'd never come this late before. And it was raining; a solid wall of the stuff flattening the corn in the fields around my isolated cottage. She stood on my doorstep, her hand still grasping the old iron bell pull, oblivious of the water streaming off the brim of her clear plastic rain hood onto her upturned face. Her beautiful, sad face.

A summer mac was no protection against this downpour; it was sodden around the shoulders and clung wetly to her bare legs. Not that she noticed.

"Come inside, for crying out loud," I said. "Get that thing off before you catch your death."

I stood aside as she crossed the threshold. Our eyes met fleetingly and an overwhelming sense of defeat emanated from beneath her long dark lashes.

She said nothing, just slipped out of the mac and rain hood, handing them to me as she headed slowly for the welcoming heat of the fireplace.
"I'll get us some coffee," I said.
She sank onto the sofa, her hands dropping listlessly to her lap. Her eyes lifted to mine, and I halted my retreat to the kitchen: I was hit by her sense of total loss, of utter hopelessness.

"How about something stronger, Maggie?" I suggested. "I usually have a brandy before turning in...helps me sleep."
She nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on mine.

I turned away to the corner bar. 'What could have happened?' I wondered as I busied myself with the drinks. I'd never seen Maggie in such a state; at least not since that night six years ago, when Jack split.

It was my shoulder that she had cried on then; reliable old Richard had dried the tears, kissed the hurt away, put the pieces back together. Ready for the next mongrel to walk in and take over. Was she back for more of the same? Could I go through that again?

We sat together on the sofa, sipping from large bulbous glasses, occasionally exchanging glances and weak smiles. Maggie wasn't ready. Until I could keep my curiosity in check no longer. I braced myself to ask the big question, prepared for the opening of the floodgates --

"He's gone," she said.
"Jed?"
"He disappeared two nights ago. I've looked everywhere...tried all his old haunts...no- one's seen him. I've even been to all the restaurants on the strip -- well, he's got to eat somewhere, hasn't he? And it's not as if he doesn't stand out in a crowd. Everybody knows Jed. It's as if the earth has opened up and swallowed him."
"Maggie, was this really such a shock? I mean, were there no clues to what might be happening?"
"Nothing! It came out of the blue. Oh, there's that brassy bitch down at number fifty-two, but I nipped that in the bud, believe me. I let everyone know that I'd take a whip to her if I found her sniffing round my Jed."
"Maybe the threat wasn't enough," I said.
"Richard, I spent all last night staking out her place...just in case. He's not been near her. I've run out of ideas. What can I do?"

She looked so small and fragile beside me, cradling the brandy glass in her lap, gazing into the remnants of her drink. But the answer wouldn't be found there.

I slid a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Don't you worry, Maggie. He's just off on a jaunt. He'll be back, believe me. He knows where he's well off. Look, I've got a few ideas of my own. Leave it with me...Richard will fix it."

She smiled up at me and swamped me with those deep brown eyes. "You sure?"
I returned the smile. "Have I ever let you down?"

Two days later, true to my word, I came up trumps. Maggie opened her front door to find me still tapping the bell push, in a playful mood and having no truck with her morose expression.
"Cheer up, sweetheart," I said. "I've brought someone to see you."
Her eyes lit up. "Jed? Oh, Jed!"
She dropped to her knees and buried her face in the shaggy mane of the Saint Bernard at my side.
"Where've you been, boy? I looked everywhere for you. Oh, I've missed you, Jed."

The End
© Frank Swales