Things I Did for Money by Meg Mundell

rapid, almost panicky. There was nothing I could do but raise myself off the bed and creep toward the door.
    I could hear my blood moving. I could hear everything. I felt terribly alive.
    Nina
    Early this morning there he was — the guy from downstairs, on my doorstep, in his pyjamas. He said, ‘I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, but I think there’s someone in my house.’
    Then I noticed his eyes, and before he told me I realised: he’s blind. Completely. No colours, no light. His world is shapes, textures, echoes, smells; voices that come out of nowhere and fade back into nowhere.
    He was shaky and spoke softly, head tilted to the stairs, listening. His hand was bleeding where he’d snagged it on the rail. I guided him in my doorway and into a chair.
    The intruder was in his lounge room, he said, the noise had woken him up. He’d crept out of bed, down the hallway and out the front door. The other tenants leave early for work, and my door is the closest. He didn’t know what else to do.
    Even craning my neck out the kitchen window I couldn’t spot anyone down there. He wanted me to call the police. But I took a heavy monkey wrench and walked quietly downstairs, with him tip-toeing behind me, whispering dramatically that we could both be killed.
    It was a bird. A blackbird, flapping round the room, trying to find a way out. We got there just in time: the green-eyed cat was watching every wingbeat, picking his moment. I put the cat outside and caught the bird in a towel. Poor little thing. Must have been in the chimney when I lit the fire last night, fluttered its way down and got lost.
    We were standing near the window. He flicked open the catch without hesitating or fumbling. Then he stopped and said, ‘Can I touch it?’
    The bird was quite still. It did not seem afraid, cupped in my hands with its head poking out. The feathers, the bright black eyes: the whole animal was so beautiful I didn’t answer for a while. He reached out, found my arm and followed it down. He touched the bird’s feathered body very gently and just stood there. Neither of them moved. It was weird.
    Then I pushed the window open and let it go.
    After I bandaged the cut on his hand — tiny, but he made a real fuss — I stayed for a cup of tea. Realised I hadn’t had a real conversation in ages. We talked about animals, books, the sea, normal stuff. The sea air is perfect for clearing the head, he said, but the rocks are slippery and there’s a strong undertow; it’s not smart to walk down there at night (how did he know I do that?).
    He also asked if I could wear slippers round the house, ‘instead of those bloody high heels’. Apparently I’ve been driving him mad with all the noise I make. How was I supposed to know?
    Mind back on the job: one last painting to do before the show tomorrow. When I came back upstairs, I found, on an old bit of foolscap near the door, a single drop of blood. A perfect red dot.
    Blood … burgundy … port … claret … strawberry … madder … vermilion …
    I can still feel that bird in my hands, its weightless warmth, the hard-soft shell of its feathers. It felt like nothing I’ve ever touched before. I hope it flew home: the storm’s about to hit.
    Almost there. If I can just block out that voice ( Who’s Nina Verlane? ), I know I can paint something beautiful.
    Will
    Thunder woke me, a great cold crack across the ceiling of the world. The sea’s been rough since last night; I can hear it smashing furiously against the rocks. The wet wind comes in gusts, splattering the windows, making the trees hiss.
    James rang, wanting to visit, but I put him off for now. It was good to hear his voice. Yet I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. I feel a strange grief.
    Late last night, over the howl of the wind, I heard the faint sound of her front door closing. I lay awake a long time. I