• It was a pleasant enough day. A slight mist hung over the small lake, birds cawing in the sky. On one of the far banks, a young girl stands, having just changed from her work uniform. She worked at one of the grand houses up above the lake bank, a maid. She had done so all her life, and to her, the lake, and the surroundings, was home.
    Today, she had the afternoon off. She sunk her toes into the damp soil, giggling at the sensation. The family at the house she kept where moving out today; even now she could see the carts hauling their possessions down the hill side. They said they were going to America, to let the husband find his wealth. Not that it mattered. It was hers; her house, her lake. No one could take that.
    The new owner was, so she heard, a writer’s son. Or was it an actor? Either way, he had connections and a well to do family, but not much talent himself, if all the rumours were true. It didn’t matter to her anyway: as long as she has the house, and the lake, she was happy. Overhead a seagull cried: she throw some bread crumbs from the bag beside her to them, and laughed at the flurry of wings and beaks which went after them. These birds would eat anything.
    It was two weeks when the new owner arrived: he called her to the office, a small room on the left of the house, first thing. He was a curious man. His eyes repeatedly swept round the room, and her, as if probing for a weakness. He wore black, and would at periods in the conversation, a briefing as to what he expected her to do around the house, pause and sniff some snuff, sneeze, and continue as if nothing had happened. Presently someone else entered, a resident of another lake side house, and she was waved out after she poured two vodkas for them from the stand on the side. S she left, she saw a small envelope changing hands, and the new owner’s crocodile smile.
    Days and weeks passed, and the new owner seemed rather popular with the locals. Every few days, another neighbour would arrive, and she’d be called in once again to serve them with drinks. Vodka, always vodka. It was a Sunday next time she had a day off to go down to the lake; it was winter, and most birds had left. But the seagulls came. They always came, drawn to the lake like her. She was throwing breadcrumbs from the kitchen onto the bank when he came down the slope. As always, he was dressed in black, a pin striped suit under a long coat, and he stood by her crouching form.
    “I used to live down here, as a child, you know.”
    She kept her eyes down, not wanting to meet his gaze. A white flurry landed at her feet. More breadcrumbs. He had a bag in his hand, and was casually feeding the birds around them, the food falling seemingly at random.
    “Half the people here are old school friends of mine. I know all about them. Their lives, their children...what business they may up to behind the scenes...” He trailed off, and he threw more crumbs to the seagulls on the lake. “God, don’t you just hate the rich? Nowhere else will you see such a worthless, damnable hive. Most places, you see” he continued “show you they are a hive of scum and villainy. But the rich? Oh no. They have to hid it see. If it comes out, they’re finished, since the rest of the hive will pounce on them. I’d say they were like ants, but ants can actually work together.” He said, spitting on the ground as he did so. He dumped the remains of the contents of the bag at his feet, then turned back to the house.
    “Oh, and tell the gardener we’re out of Epsom salts for the roses!” He shouted over his shoulder to her.
    A couple of moments later, she too finished her feeding of the birds. She brushed herself off, and returned to the house. Should she have looked back; she would have seen the seagulls which eat the man’s feed keel over. There was a reason they were out of the salts.
    It was the week after this exchange when the police came crawling round the house. Not that it mattered to the owner. He was dead; murdered, they said in the village shops. Then there was the standard question `but who would?`
    A slight pause.
    `Everyone.`
    But why?
    `Blackmail.`
    It was a small word. But like he said, he knew everything about everyone in the area. Just a small chat over vodka, a subtle hint, and he’d come out richer.
    `How did he die?`
    `Epsom salts, I heard.` came the reply.
    And then they would look at her, and the mutterings would increase. `in on it too I heard....can’t trust the girl.....never would have thought....`
    Five days later, she left the lake. The lake, which she had loved for so long. But, at this point, she’d be lying if she said she cared. On the train away, she clasped her bag to herself and smiled.
    The empty packet of salts, brought by the gardener, sat at the bottom.