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I gingerly stepped over all this and plopped into place in front of the computer. The leather chair felt comfortable, and I angled it forward to begin work, ignoring the way the room spun as I scooted forward. I smile despite the pain and begin adjusting my equations. Harmonic overlay, he said… I muse on this point for a minute that seems to stretch forever. My body grows still, and my mind expands to let seventy-six different equation sets play through my head. E = mc^2? I sniff, simplicity isn’t everything. In fact, simplicity is nothing but symbolism for more complicated concepts. What is e? What is m? What is c? What is squared? if you do not know these, if the world had not ground the concepts of energy, light, speed and mass into your mind from day one… e=mc^2, what’s that? Nothing. Nothing at all. On another level, my brain continues implementing harmonic theory. In daze, I adjust, check and re-adjust and re-check my equations. It’s nearing completion. I can feel it. My soul. " Hmmm." giving me an unabashed up and down inquest with her eyes."Camellia! Your friend is here," she calls back over her shoulder, "Come in, young lady," holding the door open for me."I am Camellia's aunt, Miss Jones." You can wait here," she says, pointing to the coach in the bright living room."I'm pleased to meet you Miss. . . " I begin, but am cut off when Cam pokes her head around the hall corner."Hey, Kis. . . shit, girl, you weren't kidding!" staring at me in my white gabardine trousers and blue blazer."Camellia!" Sorry, auntie, but really! I'll be out in a bit!" she blurts and disappears."That child," she mutters, taking a prim seat on the coach. " Now, young lady, I don't abide games. What's your interest in her?" fixing me with a hard stare.I fidget a touch in my seat, deciding on the path."Cam and I haven't known each other long, Miss Jones, but I like her. I like her a lot," I drop my head for a moment, then look her in the eye, "And we aren't just friends, I won't lie.
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You killed them both, and now you have come to gloat.’ Then the incongruity of it all overcame her and she began to cry, piteously, slumping against the wall. Her hands covered her face, her fingers curling in to rend the flesh as tears trickled between her fingers. Tommy stood helpless in his fear and bewilderment. Who was this woman? Why was she in his house. What had happened to Mum? He sat down on the doorstep and began to cry himself. Her grief did not mingle with his fearful self-pity, they remained separate, dissociated. Two people weeping out their misery in solitude, side by side. She slowly regained some composure, and brought him into the kitchen. She poured him a cup of milk, and put butter and marmite on two slices of bread. He ate and drank ravenously. The cup of tea she had poured five minutes ago was cold, but welcome, and she drank it down. ‘Right. Now what is your name?’ ‘Thomas Stanley Lynne, and I live at number forty-four Ladysmith Avenue, Kegworth, Derbyshire,’.

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