A Poisonous Echo
Joyce had lived with foster parents until old enough to work and take rooms of her own . They hadn ’ t invited her to stay on with them – not that she wanted to anyway . They were a plain , quiet couple , dull and unremarkable ; she could hardly recall their faces .
She remembered the cat however – sleek and fat , always eating or sleeping , usually on someone ’ s lap ! They pampered it sickeningly , talked to it in ‘ baby talk ’ and were even annoyed with her when she wouldn ’ t adore it with them ! How she hated stroking it and shuddered even now at the memory of her foster-father ’ s harsh grip on her wrist as he forced her hand to slide down the warm , silk , animal back .
She had been six when she went to them and nine when the cat died ; she felt virtuous , having put up with the thing for so long .
The solution to her dilemma had presented itself when a friend took her to their garden shed where they sat in the shade eating bruised plums , scraping out wasp-holes with a piece of stick to be sure that no drowsy wasps still lurked .
When her eyes grew used to the dimness and she saw an old tin bearing a red skull and crossbones , the plan came instantly to mind : no tedious thinking : a sure mark of genius . Quickly snatching the last plum , she pushed her companion out of the hut with instructions to shake the trees for more .
Tipping the remaining crisps out of the packet – she hadn ’ t intended to share them but it was an emergency – she filled the bag with powder from the tin , concealed it in her schoolbag and later transferred it to a small screwtop jar , innocently labelled ‘ CHALK ’.
She had been too excited to stay for the rest of the feast and glad she hadn ’ t when her friend was off school next day with severe stomach cramps caused , her mother said , by eating too much over-ripe fruit .
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