It was hard work carrying them downstairs and she was soon looking like a Dickensian chimney-sweep child. Her hair was stiff with dust and she doubted she’d ever get the grime out from under the few remaining nails she had left. The thought of a good long soak brought with it the far more unpleasant one of Bloody Keith Featherstone, and she wondered if she should just write off the money and go and get someone else to finish the job. At least that way he would be cleared out of her head. Then again, she had paid him a lot of money. And why should he get it for doing absolutely nothing? The issue consigned itself back to the ‘to do’ tray in her head. Again. She had a small break for lunch–a nice long glass of clean sparkling mineral water and a thick egg and spring onion sandwich to fortify her for the task ahead. Her stomach had obviously shrunk recently because the sandwich filled her adequately, but her hand reached automatically for the biscuit barrel anyway.
