by Andy Monk
He made it to the edge of the roof and paused again, no sounds from the house or the porch below, nobody was in sight. It wasn’t a long drop to the yard, but he was getting old for such stunts. In and out of the bedroom if he was going to be honest.
He looked over his shoulder and let out a sigh. A sprained ankle was a lot better than a shotgun wound…
He hit the ground and rolled in one movement before coming up in a crouch. Maybe not so old after all. His heart was thundering, but everything else seemed ok. The back door was closed, no curtains were twitching, and he scurried down the garden, bent half forwards in the manner of a man desperately searching for a toilet.
The backyard was small, only twenty yards or so long, and other than two cherry trees at the back and a few piles of assorted bric-a-brac tossed into the yard, the only thing of note was a clothes line from which Mrs Godbold’s functional and unflattering underwear was flapping majestically in the breeze. In John X’s humble opinion, she looked a lot better without the bloomers.
A shoulder high wooden fence marked the end of the yard; it didn’t quite qualify as rickety, but he put his chances of scaling it without it collapsing under him at no better than fifty-fifty. However, there was a latched gate in one corner (the latch was conveniently being left off several mornings a week at the moment) and he let himself out into a narrow alley that run between the houses on Icke’s Street and Low Street. Quite why the alley was there he didn’t know as it served no obvious purpose and was seldom used, other than for dumping the junk that was even more unwanted than the stuff in the backyards, that and allowing discreet access to the homes of married ladies of course.
“Well, till next week then,” he said, winking at the Godbold’s house before carefully closing the yard gate. The passage was known as Cherry Lane thanks to the trees that lined the yards on either side, though Dumped Junk Lane would have been equally accurate. Other than some of the local kids who used it as a playground and the town’s small, but hardy, community of tramps who scavenged the garbage, nobody much used it and it was rare for John X to see anyone on his “constitutional strolls” along it.
To walk straight into someone was a completely new experience.
“My, we are in a hurry!” A voice exclaimed after John X had bounced off him. Admittedly he’d been half looking back at the gate to make sure no irate husbands were about to come bursting through, shotgun in hand, but even so, he’d been so certain Cherry Lane had been as deserted as normal that he let out a strangled, high-pitched little cry as he staggered backwards and tripped over the half rotted remains of an ancient pall.
“You know, a man rarely wakes up in the morning expecting to kick the bucket,” the Mayor of Hawker’s Drift said amiably, resting upon an ivory handled walking cane in the manner of a swanky gent out upon a promenade, rather than a junk strewn back alley.
“Mr Mayor!” John X exclaimed, once he’d recovered, “what are you doing here?
“Oh…” he looked about, nodding his head like a small excitable dog, “…I keep myself acquainted with all of the town, not just our fashionable square, throbbing Main Street and wide boardwalks, but the mean, dark little corners too. You just never know what you might come across…” He poked his cane at a pile of sun-bleached canvas and something small and dark scurried away. He shrugged and looked at the gunsmith, “…though usually I just find rats here…”
“Vermin everywhere.” John X tried to sound casual, he’d always been unnerved by the Mayor, the way his eye constantly moved, not the random meandering of malfunctioning muscle, but methodically, like anyone might look from place to place, just much faster.
“Yes… we have a perfectly good refuse pit out of town. You would think decent folk would rather put their trash there than at the end of their yards, but I suppose that’s just human nature, as soon as you can’t see something then you don’t really think about it, don’t even believe it’s there. That’s the trick isn’t it Mr Smith? Making sure people never actually see you… that way they never actually know what you are?”
“I suppose…”
The Mayor pulled in a great lungful of air and looked up at the overhanging branches, “You know, I’m rather quite fond of trees, not many of them out here on the plains, other than in our little island of civilization of course. We should have more trees… don’t you think?”
“You’re the Mayor, sir.”
The Mayor seemed to think about this before replying, “Yes, I suppose I am. Maybe I’ll get people to plant some more, on Corner Park perhaps. I’d like that… So Mr Smith, I’m here to enjoy what little foliage we have in Hawker’s Drift. What about you? Tinkering I suppose?”
“Tinkering?”
“That’s what you do, isn’t it? Or have you other hobbies now?”
“I make guns…”
“Oh guns! Pah, anyone can make a gun, can’t they? I meant the other stuff. You still tinker with… what would you call them? Gizmos? Contraptions? Things that go buzz in the night?” He pronounced the word buzz like a child imitating a bee, his eye still flicking disconcertingly from place to place.
“Yeah, I mess about with stuff.”
“Messing about? Yes, I suppose you do. Excellent! Curiosity eh? Quite a virtue. We all need at least one of those.” He smiled and tipped his hat, “Well I must be going. Town business and all.”
“Good day then Mr Mayor.”
“Indeed,” the Mayor brushed past him, Cherry Lane was barely wide enough for two men to stand abreast, even if it hadn’t been clogged with junk and John felt the sleeve of the Mayor’s jacket as he passed, while his nostrils were filled with the smell of sweetly perfumed smoke.
The Mayor took a few paces before coming to a halt. He didn’t look back as he spoke, “Ash Godbold has quite a collection of cut-throat razors I believe, a steady hand too. A barber needs that of course, one little slip when you’re shaving a man and… well; it would be all quite unpleasant.” He took another step before adding, “You might want to fix your shirt before you get back to Main Street Mr Smith.” With that, he headed off down Cherry Lane, whistling loudly.
John X looked down at his miss-buttoned shirt and cursed.
The Clown
Mr Wizzle settled himself down amongst the long grass, surrounded by the buzz and hum of little creatures. He took off his battered derby and placed it in his lap. From one of his jacket’s many pockets he pulled out, eventually, a small brown paper bag which he placed inside the upturned hat.
Humming along with the insects, he fished out a pickled egg from the bag, which he ate with small precise bites while he looked up at the sky. It was an hour or so from sunset and mountainous islands of grey cloud, fringed with halos of silvery white, were strewn across the dark blue sky.
It was a sky that promised a splendid sunset. Perhaps the scattered cloud would thicken to rain. Mr Wizzle usually liked rain in the evening, it washed the sweaty filth of the old day away and the world would be clean and new again when the dawn arrived. Today, however, he was going to spend the night under the stars. He hadn’t brought so much as a blanket let alone a tent, so it would be a miserable night if it did rain. However, he had prayed diligently in regard to the weather and he was confident he would be rewarded with a dry warm night.
He didn’t know if the angels liked the rain too, though he’d seen them in most weather. He was sure they liked the dusk though; they undoubtedly came more often at the end of the day, particularly after sunset as the last of the light bled from the world and the clouds were soft washed by wonderful colours.
Mr Wizzle belched loudly after he finished his egg and wrinkled his nose at the smell that came up. He wasn’t sure what the angels felt about eggy breath. He suspected they probably didn’t care too much, being above such mundane things; however, he tried not to take too much for granted when it came to the angels.
The sun was dazzling and warm, blanketing him in light. Once he finished his second egg he was tempted to tip his hat over
his eyes and take a little nap. The angels were unlikely to appear before sunset.
That, however, was lazy thinking. The angels, who obviously saw and knew everything, might not make themselves visible if they saw him snoring in the grass like some drunken bum who’d staggered out of the saloon. It wasn’t really respectful.
So, he stuffed his bag of eggs in his pocket before placing the hat back upon his head. He climbed to his feet, his knees, which weren’t what they had been, clicked in protest and he stretched out his arms and arched his back. He really was tired.
He looked about him, but there was nothing to see but grass. He’d hitched a lift on the back of old Freddie Hooper’s wagon out of Hawker’s Drift, but his little farm was a fair few miles back now. Hooper had raised an eyebrow when he said he was going to spend the night out in the grass, but he hadn’t said anything much. Fred Hooper had never been one for saying much anyway, but, like pretty much everybody else, old Fred thought Mr Wizzle was utterly mad, so had just shrugged.
He’d jumped from Fred’s wagon where it turned off the road to his farm; he’d plucked a pickled egg from Fred’s ear by way of thanking him for the ride, though he hadn’t seemed overly impressed. Some people just didn’t like pickled eggs.
Mr Wizzle had long since decided there was no accounting for the strangeness of folk.
After leaving Fred, he’d waddled north along the road, actually it was just a rough track between the grass, but people round here had always been partial to a bit of exaggerating. After a while the track disappeared, consumed by the encroaching grass. There was nothing much north of Fred Hooper’s place that actually warranted even a narrow track. He walked till he could see nothing but grass and sky; no trace of humanity save his own shoes.
The breeze rustled the grass while insects buzzed about their business, and that was about it. A man could just get swallowed up out here; there were no landmarks, no features, just dead flat land beneath an ever-changing dome of sky. It was quiet and peaceful and nobody had got round to mucking up this little corner of God’s Earth just yet.
Which was why the angels came here he supposed.
Satisfied he was in the right spot, he settled down and watched the clouds parade across the sky, slowly changing colour as the sun fell towards the west.
And waited for the angels.
The Lawyer
“Is that you?”
“Yes dear,” he closed the door behind him and rearranged his face, he’d hoped, like he always did, that he’d got home late enough for Lorna to have passed out for the night.
“Well keep the noise down,” she shouted, “I’ve got a head!”
Guy Furnedge slid his case into its customary spot under the hall table as Amy came down the stairs. She looked flustered and grateful to be pulling on her shawl. The evening was warm and the sun hadn’t quite set, but Amy pretty much always pulled her shawl about herself when she went out. Or at least when he was around anyway.
“I’m done for the day Mr Furnedge,” Amy announced, breezing past him.
“Well, goodnight Amy,” he tried to catch a glimpse of her behind, but her dress was as disappointingly shapeless as usual.
She paused by the door and looked back at him, flicking a few strands of honey coloured hair that had escaped her ponytail away, “She’s having a bad day…” Amy whispered, unnecessarily. Lorna never had good days anymore, but Amy’s hangdog expression and flustered cheeks told Furnedge as clearly as a billboard what kind of day his wife was having.
“Thank you, for all your work Amy,” he said. Amy came in four days a week to tidy the house, do the laundry, look after Lorna and run whatever errands his increasingly incapacitated wife dreamt up.
None of which constituted the kind of work he would put Amy to.
“My pleasure, Mr Furnedge,” Amy said in a flat perfunctory voice that suggested it was anything but.
What a pouty little madam, I should put her right over my knee…
Amy was nineteen, not the prettiest girl in town (Furnedge knew that because he kept lists of all the young women in town, ranking their various qualities, including their prettiness. Amy was currently 27th on the prettiness list), but she was engaging all the same. He suspected she had an intriguing little body under the shapeless smocks she always wore. Such a waste. If it were up to him he’d insist she prettified herself for him before entering the house, but, of course such things weren’t up to him. Not just yet anyway.
He watched Amy let herself out and took a deep slow breath before entering the parlour where Lorna spent most of the day draped across an upholstered daybed drinking bourbon and entertaining the sorry collection of dried up old women that passed for her friends. He thought of it as the Throne Room, though he never said that aloud. Lorna had lost her sense of humour a long time ago.
“Dragged yourself home then?” Lorna peered at him from behind a cloud of blue-grey fumes. His wife insisted on keeping the windows closed and the drapes drawn whatever the weather or time of day, resulting in the Throne Room being generally as dark, noxious and over-heated as his wife’s moods.
“Busy day my dear, Malky Thurkettle is buying a big chunk of land from-”
“There you go again, droning on about your day. As usual everything is about you!”
“Sorry my dear,” he took a breath and dived through the ring of smoke that shrouded his wife to graze her pale hollow cheek with a kiss, “how have you been?”
“Terrible, that useless girl you hired has just been making the most infuriating racket all day. I really don’t know what she’s being doing, but it’s totally set my head off,” she blew smoke towards him, “I should have known better and found an ugly girl to hire.”
Furnedge retreated from the fumes, and tried not to cough. Lorna hated coughing.
“Well, I’m sure Amy is doing her best…”
“Well, I can tell you, Amy is as hopeless as every other flea-brained piece of skirt you’ve hired to ogle since we came to this sorry excuse for a town.”
“Well she seems to be doing a splendid job to me.”
And the chances of getting anyone else to work for us in Hawker’s Drift are pretty remote given your reputation.
“You’re too busy sniffing around her cunt to care,” Lorna lifted an empty glass and pointed it in his direction.
There were several responses that came to his mind, but he bit down on all of them. What was the point? Telling her she’d had enough to drink would do nothing but make her drink more. Telling her not to use such foul language would only make her swear more. Telling her he had never ogled Amy or anyone else would only make her laugh. Telling her she was a miserable, bitter old harridan would just let her know she’d got under his skin spectacularly quickly this evening.
So he poured her a generous measure of bourbon, and then some more besides. With any luck she’d soon be too drunk to talk any more.
*
Guy had once considered Lorna Allenby to be an attractive woman; admittedly that attraction was largely due to the money her father had given him to marry her. For an ambitious young man it had seemed too good an offer to pass up. After all, wealthy families looking to offload a daughter, along with a juicy lump sum bonus, to a struggling lawyer were not unduly common.
It had seemed like providence, a chance to escape the madness. Elliot Allenby wanted his oldest daughter settled, looked after and taken as far away from the family home as possible.
They’d been a scandal, several he suspected, and for reasons best known to himself old man Allenby had seen Guy Furnedge as a safe pair of hands. So he’d agreed and Lorna, much to his surprise, had agreed too. He’d met her three times previously and she’d spoken to him just twice.
He’d found out later that her father had made it clear that if she refused she would be out on the street and penniless, so being married to Guy Furnedge would be a much better deal for her.
She’d seemed wild and headstrong, full of vitality and interested in just about ev
erything. He was, he was now embarrassed to admit, a little bit intoxicated by her. But that had been twenty years ago and he’d long since worked out she wasn’t wild and headstrong at all.
She was simply as mad as a bear with its head stuck in a beehive.
He sat and ate his supper alone in the kitchen; Amy had kindly prepared something for him, probably more out of pity than anything else. He usually ate alone given his wife pretty much lived on alcohol and tobacco, that and the fact that she generally couldn’t stand the sight of him.
Which was fine by him.
The house was quiet and he finished his meal, meat pie and cold vegetables, in peace. He hoped Lorna had drunk herself into a stupor; his evenings were always more pleasant when that happened.
He would read for an hour, in his comfy chair by the good lamp. Then a warm glass of milk before putting his pyjamas on and retiring to bed, where he would lie awake in the darkness and stroke his cock for a while as he dreamed about how much better his life would be after his wife died.
“Where are you!!!?” Lorna screeched. He sighed, pushed his plate aside and rose to his feet; it looked like he wouldn’t be able to unwind just yet.
The Widow
He was standing by the kitchen window drinking coffee, looking out across the yard.
Molly folded her arms about herself as she watched him from the doorway. Her head was thumping and the rest of her body wasn’t far behind; her sleep had been restless and fitful, haunted by nightmares that had chased her back to consciousness to find her heart racing and her nightdress melded to her skin with sweat.
And that the other side of the bed was still empty.
