If Rhia could be said to belong to any particular time, it was October. Whenever I thought of her I saw leaves falling in colours of russet and gold. She was in the cold air that sank into each of my bones. I sensed her then, as though she was waiting for me.

I saw her first on one of those dull English days when the streets shine with rain and people hide their faces in their collars. But not her. She was laughing, throwing back her shorn head, flashing brilliant white teeth. I remember those. They seemed to be the only white things in a world made of grey.

She sat on a low wall outside the pub car park, wearing a hairy jumper that almost reached her knees. One hand waved a half-smoked roll-up, a silver ring worn about the thumb. She was animated, constantly shifting about, until she saw me watching.

I half expected her to shout something. "Get lost, granddad," maybe. But she just took a long drag on the cigarette, holding my gaze, smiling as she sucked in the smoke. Then she breathed it out, her lips curled upwards at the corners.

Her friend turned. He was dressed in army surplus and had dreadlocks tied back with twine. He saw me and said something to her. She laughed, then shuffled her way off the wall and started across the road.

I looked away, began to move on, but then I felt her hand on my arm. Her fingers were thin and sharp, and dug into the thick fabric.

"Buy me a coffee?" she said.

***

She kept talking and laughing, going on about how Fin said this and Gaz said that, and she knew she shouldn't take drinks from strangers; I might think it meant something. I just shook my head and watched her lips forcing out words, those white teeth.

Her skin was pale. I saw the suggestion of blue veins beneath, as though she were transparent. Her eyes, too, were light, almost colourless. Her gaze darted about as she spoke, from my face, my overcoat, the walking stick leaning against the table, the window, torn notices tacked to the wall, the door. I thought she was looking for a way out, but she stayed and drank a second coffee, strong and black. She lit a cigarette in defiance of the no smoking signs, the grey curls of it mingling with bitter steam. She never caught my eye. I remember that.

When I saw her up close, I realized she had wisps of colourless hair clinging to her head. I had thought it shaved, but now I wondered. It looked as though it was in the process of falling out, or just growing back.

I asked stupid questions like where are you from, what do you like doing, just to hear her talk. I asked who her friend was, and she gave me an arch look and laughed.

"Oh … I didn't mean … I just wondered. I wasn’t trying to find out if you have a boyfriend," I said.

She smiled and took another drag. I wondered if it was cancer that made her hair fall out. But then, she should have given up smoking, shouldn't she?

It was only when she drained her cup that I thought to ask her name.

"Rhia," she said. "Like Rhiannon. Like my mother was a bit weird."

I smiled at this, in spite of myself, and was surprised when she grinned back.

"You're all right," she said, jumped up from her chair and in a moment, was gone.

I saw her through the window, heading down the street. She was in the gutter, half bounding, half skipping. She landed in a puddle and the last I saw of her was a fountain of bright spray.

***

I saw her next in the park. I often walked there, trying to forget perhaps, or trying to remember. My wife had been gone about a year, and I still wasn't used to the silence in the house.

Then I saw someone running across the well-kept lawns, shouting. It was Rhia. She wore a short, yellow dress dotted with tiny flowers. The air was clear but cold and I wondered at her wearing it. It was too short, as though handed down from a bigger sister, and clung to her small breasts, too close for her to be wearing a bra. I focused, uncomfortably, on her face.

She doubled up, gasping for breath, and laughed. "Eddie," she said. "Eddie. I knew it was you."

"Malcolm," I corrected her, and smiled, showing that I didn't mind.

"You bought me coffee."

"Yes."

"Buy me another?"

She walked off, straight across the grass towards a low fence that barred the way to the High Street. I knew that climbing over would hurt my back, but I followed anyway.

Then she paused, her hand to her stomach, head bowed. "Are you all right?" I asked.

She didn’t answer, just sucked in deep breaths of air. Her face was whiter than ever, making her eyes look pouchy.

"Sit down," I said. "I'll get help." I looked around, knowing I couldn't run to fetch anyone, but she plucked at my sleeve.

"It’ll pass," she said. "Hungry, that's all."

We walked slowly to the cafe, her arm just resting on mine. She ate a mountain of sausages and eggs covered in ketchup and mustard and brown sauce, all mixed up together.

"Thanks, Malc," she said when she had finished, and then put a hand across her eyes as though she was going to cry.

"What is it?" I kept saying, but she didn't answer. I just sat there. She still wore a ring around her thumb. It was in the shape of a piece of rope with some kind of knot in it.

"I'm sorry. It's … I mean, this is great. Really kind. It's just not what I need right now."

"I don't want anything," I said. "It’s not like that. I'm not some dirty old man. I didn't bring you here."

She waved a hand in the air. "I know. You're all right." She smiled. "You're nice."

"So what is it?"

And then her eyes rested, properly, on mine. They were watery and cold, like something disintegrating in the rain.

"I could show you," she said.

***

My hallway was dark after the daylight, and I was aware of a slightly musty odor. I hadn't hoovered in a long time. Such things slipped sometimes; it didn't usually matter. I pushed back the lace curtains and let in some light. Dust motes shone in the air.

"Come in," I muttered, and saw her from the corner of my eye, staring at the patterned wallpaper.

I led her through to the lounge. There was yesterday's newspaper on the floor, an old mug on the mantelpiece. I realized it looked dark in here, too. Her eyes followed the brown swirls in the carpet, examined the antimacassars on the chair backs. Clara had made them. She'd liked to crochet.

I glanced at the photographs on the sideboard—Clara laughing, Clara in a white veil. Rhia followed my gaze. After a moment, she walked around the sofa and slumped down on it. "I've been ill," she announced. "My hair. You probably noticed. It fell out."

I nodded.

"I can't eat," she said.

I stared, picturing her ploughing into piles of eggs, sausages, bacon.

"Not really. I mean, I can eat, but it doesn't work. I don't get what I need. That's why I'm so thin. No hair."

"Have you been to the doctor?"

She snorted. "I tried them. They know what I need, but they won't let me have it."

"A hospital, maybe."

"I tried once. Took it, but I nearly got caught."

"What is it? What do you need? If I could help..."

"Would you?" Her eyes were fixed on mine again, sharp and eager.

"If I could."

She patted the cushion next to her, dust flying up. "Sit with me," she said. "Sit with me and I'll show you. Only, you have to say it’s all right."

"What? What is it?"

"Please. Please, Malcolm."

I paused. “All right.”

I crossed the room and eased myself into the chair.

"You've been so kind," she said. She was stroking my arm now, over and over. No, not stroking it. She was fumbling at it, undoing the button on the cuff, rolling up the sleeve. I tried to pull away.  "What..."

"Shh," she hissed. Her grip was steel. I could have thrown her off, once. Now, I was helpless. She twisted my arm, hard, and I cried out. She bent, pressed her mouth to it. And then I felt her narrow tongue lapping against my wrist. She pushed down, hard, and I felt the nip of those bright, sharp teeth.

I think I moaned, and I squeezed my eyes tight shut. There was a rush of warmth, of darkness. A wave of comfort. Then there was nothing.

***

When I came to, Rhia had gone. Dust motes danced in the silence of the room.

I looked down at my arm. There were scuffs of dark red where splashes of blood had smeared and dried. Beneath was a row of narrow gashes, sharp and clean.

I bent over, gulping, nauseous. And suddenly, tears rushed to my eyes. I looked up as they took hold, gasping in the musty air, and saw Clara looking at me from a picture on top of the television. She was smiling, but somehow it didn't seem to reach her eyes.

I hadn't cried since I was a child, not even when she died, and the thought of it sent sharp pains through me. I sobbed uncontrollably. I could hear her voice in my mind. "You old fool," she said, although I could never remember her saying such a thing. "You old fool."

I turned and looked at all the other pictures. Clara smiling, Clara laughing, Clara with her eyes shining. Clara, loving, and beautiful, and watching for me, but always silent now. Always still.

And I knew, if the girl came back, asking me for coffee, for money, for anything, even for my blood, fool as I was, I would open the door and let her in.

***

It was in October I saw her last. She was standing once again on the corner of the High Street by the pub wall. She had her back to me, but I knew it was her from the way she jumped about, shifting from one black boot to the other. The man with the dreadlocks was with her.

Rhia, I thought. Rhia.

She had the most beautiful deep russet hair. It was short and uneven, and stood out from her head in wild spikes. It was the colour of autumn, the colour of leaves beginning to turn.

Then she spun around and I saw her face. The delicate features, the pale blue eyes. A flash of small white teeth. She saw me. For a long moment, we stared at each other.

Then her companion pulled her away. She looked back, just once, and touched a hand to her new-grown hair.

I never saw her again.

But always, when the leaves began to fall, I thought of her. She was there in the autumn shades, the way the year passed away. And I thought of how everything would grow again in the spring, being renewed, re-born. Becoming young again. And inside, I shivered.

END