I can’t believe he went along with it. A balmy night at the end of October, moonless, no whispering leaves in the trees, lamplight pooled on the pavement. He said to meet in the graveyard at the back of the church. Not that it’s a spooky place being right in the middle of town. Macdonalds up one way, Indian takeaways down the other and kebab shop in between. There weren’t crowds around but enough people to give the whole event a bit of pizzazz. Or more importantly that what I said would be corroborated. Or so I thought.

I hadn’t got a proper costume; witches with broomsticks so outmoded and skeletons done to death, no pun intended. But the fishnet tights, scarlet dress like a second skin, black eyes and lipstick gashed mouth looked sinister enough. 

He’d gone for the works, of course, slashed jeans, rubber mask, cobweb strings covering his hair, chains and padlocks wound round every limb. The sound effect was good but … well, it was him that said; ‘Trick or treat?’ and me that shrugged; ‘You do the trick and I’ll give you a treat!’

The church steeple wasn’t that tall, and he’d boasted about climbing when doing his D of E. But the fire brigade weren’t taking any of that on board when they found him hanging from the weather vane atop the spire, all that paraphernalia dragging him down and snarling him up. Blubbing like a baby. 

Not my fault, I said. But like Eve, Cassandra and all the other women over time, I was labelled the brazen hussy goading another poor bloke to feats beyond endurance. 

She greets me, a smile and a nod. It is to be expected after all these days, weeks, nay months, of waiting for an acknowledgment. It’s I, of course, who’ve made the effort, discreetly watched and taken note, but recognition is after all a two way process.

This woman, who will once have been a beauty with pale rose complexion pampered by Elizabeth Arden, blonde curls coiffured to stroke the contours of those fine boned cheeks, cannot be ignored. Even with time’s cruel ravages, the crumpling, drooping, pouching, she is the one you turn to twice.

He will need to be eliminated. The husband with flat cap, brown trousers, fawn anorak is a disgrace beside her fine red wool coat, elegant court shoes, and trim hat.

I await her spoken greeting, for, after all, the voice is all important; so hoping for a tone, an accent that will match. It can’t be long now before I’ll know whether, despite the poor marital choice, I can use her. 

You must agree that finding the right character is a damned difficult business.