This Is Midnight: Stories

by Bernard Taylor

‘Mommy!’

  She reached out a foot for a rung of the stool, but it was too far and the stool went over with a dull thud.

  ‘Mommy . . . Mommy . . . Mommy . . . Mommy . . . Mommy . . . Oh, Mommy.’ The only way to get down from the counter now was by holding onto the sink edge and lowering herself. Unless she jumped – but, no – that was too far, too high.

  ‘Mommy, oh, Mommy.’

  It was hard to hold on and support herself with both hands when her left arm hurt so bad. But she had to try it.

  The crash that followed was the dish of ice cream smashing, shattering on the floor.

  ‘Mommy! MOMMY!’

  Mommy did hear, but Mommy took no notice, except to purse her lips even tighter and gaze unflinchingly ahead.

  ‘Oh, please, Mommy . . . Please . . . I’ll be good . . . Please. Mommy . . .’

  It was impossible to hold on, what with the blood making it slippery, and the pain. Laurie fell, her feet slipping, skidding in the mess of ice cream and glass.

  ‘Oh! MOMMY! PLEEEEEEEEEZE!’

  Sarah looked at her watch. Just four minutes to go. There had been no sound from the kitchen for some time now. Just as well, she thought. One had to be firm with children; it was the only way.

  On the screen handsome Doctor Brett stood tall and strong, his wife held in his arms. He looked down at her, his eyes warm, crinkling at the corners while she looked up at him with a wan smile, brave, trusting. And then the screen flickered, the picture jumped and jumped again.

  ‘Christ!’

  Sarah leaned forward, moved a dial, flicked a switch. Nothing did any good. The scene before her was lost in a tumbling, cascading series of images falling one on the other. Faster, faster, and then the pictures were not pictures any more, but just flickering lights, dazzling and brilliant with blinding rapidity.

  And then the lights stopped. The screen went blank. Nothing that Sarah did helped in the least. In the end she gave up trying. She straightened up, impotent in her rage. Just wait till she got hold of that klutz of a TV repairman. She’d have something to say to him!

  Remembering Laurie, she crossed to the lounge doorway and shouted towards the kitchen.

  ‘Laurie!’

  There was no answer. The kid was probably sulking. Well, if she didn’t quit it right away she’d get good reason to sulk. Kids these days – they thought they had to have everything their own way. Angrily Sarah strode across the hall and wrenched open the kitchen door.

  ‘Laurie! Laur – ’

  At first, just for a moment, Sarah thought that the red was the raspberry syrup. But then she saw that it was not. The blood was everywhere, and in the midst of the mess lay the figure of her daughter, her blonde hair smeared with blood and ice cream and broken glass.

  Sarah stood there, staring down. Then she opened her mouth and gave a loud, long terrified scream. Laurie’s eyes, unmoving, their brightness glazed and dulled, stared at some point in space beyond Sarah’s shoulder. Sarah screamed again.

  But maybe there’s a chance! she thought desperately. I must get a doctor, an ambulance, the hospital . . . Whirling, she ran for the telephone.

  She was just about to pick up the receiver when the telephone rang. She snatched it to her ear.

  ‘Hello . . . ?’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Rooney . . . ?’

  ‘Yes – ?’ Get off the line! Get off the line! her mind was screaming. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘This is the television repairman,’ the voice said. ‘I was wondering whether I might have left a bit of my gear behind at your house. I wonder if you’d mind looking by your TV set . . . It’s a tool something like a screw-dri – ’

  Sarah’s voice cut in, leaving him no further chance.

  ‘You and your goddamn gear!’ she said. ‘You were supposed to have fixed my TV! You said I’d have no further trouble with it. No trouble, my ass! Can’t a person depend on anybody these days?! Well, let me just inform you, Mr TV Repairman – Mr Efficiency, that because of you and your superior goddamn workmanship I have just missed a part of my favourite programme!’

  GREEN FINGERS

  She shouldn’t have told me that I’d be one of the only three beneficiaries under her will. That’s what caused it all. I had nothing against Aunt Ada. She was a harmless enough little woman, and really rather fond of me – she must have been, otherwise she wouldn’t have made out her will, naming me, as well as Allan and Judith.

  We were her only relatives. Allan was her second cousin, I believe, young and unmarried; while Judith and I are the children of her sister. Allan always struck me as being rather stupid, but mind you, my sister isn’t likely to win any Brain of Britain contest either. I tolerate her, and have done for years, but we’ve never been on the same wave-length. Somehow our minds just don’t go in the same direction. Both she and Allan have such mundane interests – as Aunt Ada did, herself – whereas I, on the other hand, am extremely sensitive and imaginative. One thing’s for sure: neither Judith nor Allan could ever have conceived of anything like – that . . . Probably because they’re basically good – if you can think of a more nauseating description of a person.

  I had guessed for some time that I would be one of Aunt Ada’s beneficiaries when she died. That was why I made all the regular visits to her cottage in Little Winborough. There, a couple of times a month I would listen to her chatter on about her flowers and her vegetables; her produce as she called it all.

  ‘Come into the garden and see my produce,’ she would say. There was always something so smug and irritating about the way she said ‘my produce’, but I put up with it – with a happy smile. I had to, I had to keep in with her.

  Mind you, I wasn’t alone in paying her visits. I know Allan called on her regularly, as did my sister Judith. Allan would roar up in his souped-up M.G., and my sister would go there by train. And there were even a few occasions that found us all visiting Aunt Ada at the same time – quite by chance. I don’t know their motives for their visits to this rather sweet, boring old lady, but they certainly paid them often enough. Maybe their motives were the same as mine; maybe they also wanted to just keep in with her. I rather think, though, that Allan did it out of pure goodness (what a phrase!) and suffered Aunt Ada’s interminable ramblings just to cheer her up. Judith, on the other hand, went, I think, because she genuinely enjoyed her company. Not having much up top herself, I think she actually found her sessions with the old girl stimulating. I do know that she was genuinely fond of her, anyway – but there, nothing surprises me about my stupid sister. I just thank God we don’t have to share a house together. I left home long before our mother died, and now Judith and I rarely see anything of each other, which suits me fine.

  This, of course, is all leading up to what happened on that particular Sunday. The last Sunday I visited Aunt Ada.

  It was about time I called on her again, I thought, so I got into my small car (secondhand) and drove out to Little Winborough. Not an unpleasant drive, apart from a little boring engine trouble that held me up for half an hour en route – God, I must get a new car, I told myself. Anyway, the sun was shining, and a light breeze was blowing, and all told it was a good day for a visit.

  I got no answer to my ring at the front door, and I guessed she’d be out on the garden. She always was whenever the weather allowed. Skirting the house, I went round to the back where her garden plot, surrounded by trees and a large, unused paddock, stretched down towards the river. Aunt Ada looked up as I walked along the garden path.

  ‘Why, Tom-Tom – hello!’

  Tom-Tom, her pet name for me since I was a child – and how I hated it. But I smiled at her, and she beamed all over her gentle, good-natured face, straightening as I approached, her gloved hand moving to brush back a wisp of grey hair that trailed over her bright blue eyes. ‘What a lovely surprise!’

  ‘Hello, Aunt Ada . . .’ I
kissed her wrinkled cheek, warm and tanned from the sun.

  ‘Somehow I knew you’d be here today,’ she said. ‘I just knew it. It’s been one of those days. Dear Judith’s only just this second left to get her train. What a shame you missed her.’

  ‘Yes, what a shame,’ I echoed, trying to make my voice sound genuinely sorry. Aunt Ada always referred to my sister as Dear Judith. God knows why.

  ‘She’d have gone in the opposite direction, of course,’ Aunt Ada went on, ‘otherwise you’d have seen her on the road.’ She looked at her little gold wrist watch, half hidden beneath the cuff of her gardening glove. ‘And Allan’ll be here any time,’ she added.

  ‘Allan?’

  ‘Yes, he’s due here any minute.’ She gave me another bright smile. ‘As I said, it’s been one of those days.’ She looked sadly back at the patch of newly-raked earth. ‘I wanted to get this planted before Allan arrived. Still, it’ll wait till tomorrow.’ She clasped her hands before her, eagerly, like a child. ‘When Allan gets here we’ll all have some tea together. Won’t that be nice?’

  ‘Lovely,’ I said, nodding my appreciation of the treat in store. Secretly I was beginning to regret my visit; I should have left it till next Sunday. But I kept my thoughts to myself, of course, and stood beside her and made the right comments about her garden. The vegetables and flowers grew in profusion. It really was a picture.

  ‘It’s really quite a picture, isn’t it?’ she said, as if reading my thoughts. I agreed with her and she beamed at me.

  ‘Well, you either have green fingers or you don’t. Some people do, some people don’t. It’s no special talent, and it’s nothing you learn; it’s just something you have or you don’t have.’ Her smile became arch. ‘And I do. And I’m grateful.’ She looked back at the garden, a blaze of greens, reds, yellows, blues, golds and pinks. ‘I really do. And I’m glad and thankful. Look at it all. I don’t mind saying that I’m really proud of my produce.’

  ‘I’m afraid nothing would grow like that for me,’ I said. I didn’t know whether that was true or not – I’d never owned a plant of any kind – except once a friend had given me some potted flower – an aster, I believe – which lasted about two weeks. Well, who can remember to water those things? Anyway, it was the right thing to say to Aunt Ada; the quickest way to her heart was through her garden, and that was a fact.

  And it was then, as she stood there beaming over her produce, that she told me about the will. I suppose it was the happiness of the day that made her confide in me. Dear Judith had just been to see her; I was standing there beside her, and second cousin Allan was on his way. She was feeling very much loved. And there again the sun was shining and her plants were growing. It all made a perfect day for her. And that’s what made her tell – she must have been brimming over with happiness.

  ‘I’m so lucky to have such thoughtful relatives,’ she said. ‘People who really care about me. I really am so lucky. And living out here, so secluded – no one nearer than the village, and that’s half a mile away – one would expect to get dreadfully lonely. But you know, I don’t. I always know that either you or Allan or dear Judith will be along to see me. I’m never alone for long.’

  And that’s when she mentioned the will. Sixty thousand pounds each, we’d get, she said. Sixty thousand. My God, it came as a surprise to me, I can tell you. I had thought maybe she had a few grand stashed away in the post office somewhere, but I’d never dreamed it ran into quite so much. Sixty thousand pounds each. Sixty thousand. Sixty thousand to be mine as soon as she died.

  As soon as she died.

  I looked at her standing in the sunlight with her gardening tools about her feet. She was a picture of health. For all her sixty-­eight years she looked absolutely radiant, vital and bursting with life. She looked as if she could live for ever.

  Almost as if reading my thoughts, she said:

  ‘Mind you, Tom-Tom, I’ve got no intention of letting you have your money yet. Oh, no – none of you.’ She gave a little chuckle. ‘You’re all going to have to be a bit patient. I intend to live for a very long time yet. There are so many things to do before I go.’ She gazed down the garden and beyond it to the paddock. ‘That paddock,’ she said wistfully, ‘I’d really like to get something done about that . . . but it’ll take years . . . Still, I’ve got time. I’ll get around to it someday.’

  She would, too, I thought, taking in her rosy complexion and the smile that showed her strong white teeth. All that fresh air – all that plain, simple food – she looked as if she’d live to be a hundred.

  ‘Allan is late,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘Still – he’ll be here soon.’ She smiled at me and turned back to the little patch of finely sifted earth over which she had been stooping. ‘I’ve grown dahlias here for the past few years,’ she said, ‘but this time I’m going to try something different. That’s the secret, you know – variety in your produce.’

  Her voice was full of happiness and satisfaction as she bent over the bare earth.

  And it was then that I hit her.

  I was still wearing my driving gloves, so I knew there’d be no fingerprints on the heavy stone I used against the back of her unsuspecting skull. I hit her three times, very hard. She gave a kind of choking moan and just crumpled, sagging to the ground. Then I ran back down the path and out of the gate. I had to get away before Allan arrived and saw me.

  I did. I got almost a mile away before I stopped the car and sat nervously behind the wheel, my fingers drumming. I would have to go back, I realised. Now – this minute. I must. I wasn’t even sure that she was dead.

  There was no sign of Allan’s car when I got back to the house. Thank God for his lateness. I hurried up the path at the back to where Aunt Ada lay sprawled on the earth, and came to a stop, looking down at her. And going by the position of her outstretched right arm, I realised that she had moved since I’d left her. I hadn’t killed her. My God, that was a close thing! She was still alive! She could tell them everything.

  And then, bending closer, I saw the deep markings she had gouged in the soft, fine soil, and saw what she’d been up to – what she had planned. And I laughed.

  ‘Oh, you’re a clever one, Auntie!’ I said. ‘It’s a good job I came back – you’d have got me for sure.’

  Quickly I picked up her trowel and scooped up quantities of earth which I then scattered over the letters of my name. Then, taking up the stone again I smashed it once more against her head. This time there was no mistake. I felt the bone of her skull cave in under the impact of the stone; I watched her eyes glaze over. This time when I left her there, she was quite, quite dead.

  Outside the front gate I dodged behind a hedge just as Allan’s car pulled to a halt before the house. I watched him get out and open the gate and vanish from my sight. Then, running, feeling quite exhilarated, I returned to my own car parked round the corner and drove away.

  It had been so easy, I thought. Even if they did find out I was there they couldn’t prove that I had killed Aunt Ada. I wouldn’t even deny that I was there, I decided. Let them think I had nothing to hide. They had no proof that I had done the killing. After all, Judith had been there just minutes before me, and Allan had arrived just seconds afterwards. How could the police prove that either of them hadn’t committed the crime . . . ?

  As it turned out I was right. We all three of us had to undergo rigorous sessions of questioning, and all three of us stuck to our stories. Judith said she had left Aunt Ada well and happy and working on the garden; I said that I had had no answer to my ring at the doorbell and had left, thinking that she must be out; and Allan said that he had found her dead. I don’t know whether Allan or Judith suspected me or each other but, like the police, whatever suspicions they had were useless without proof.

  My God, but those police don’t give up easily. Here it is, June, and they requested me (there’s a polite way of putting it
) to drive up to Aunt Ada’s cottage and talk to them again. Well, they wouldn’t get any further now than they had before – particularly after so much time has elapsed. I wasn’t in the least worried. For one thing it was a sure bet that Allan and Judith would have to go through the same thing again. It was just a bore, that’s all.

  I drove my new sports car with the top down. I’m afraid most of Aunt Ada’s money had gone now – but there, what’s the good of money if you can’t enjoy it. Mind you, the cottage was still to be sold, I reminded myself, so I’d get a bit more when that happened.

  I really felt quite light-hearted as I drove. I sang at the top of my voice; I was so aware of the look of the countryside, the flowers, the trees, the sounds of the birds. Life was good.

  There was no sign of Allan or Judith when I arrived at the cottage. But they’d be along later, I assumed. I did, though, see the uniforms of the police – but that was to be expected, of course, that’s why I was there – at their request.

  When I asked one of the officers if Judith and Allan would be arriving later they said they didn’t think so . . . I thought that was rather odd . . .

  Later I found myself standing in the living-room of Aunt Ada’s cottage while they started again – asking me the same tired old questions all over again. I gave them the same tired old answers as before. Where was it all leading to? I’d thought that that was all just about done with. But there was something in the way they nodded at me; little looks passing between them which made it all not quite the same as before. It was almost as if they were listening to a well-played gramophone record where every sound is completely predictable. It made me nervous . . . They knew something, I thought; I could tell. And with the thought I could feel sweat break out under my arms and run down inside my new tailor-made shirt.

  My anxiety grew when, minutes later, they took my arm and led me out into the garden. Skirting the hedge, I looked again at the patch of ground on which Aunt Ada’s body had lain.

  She lay there. Again. Her body was lying sprawled in exactly the same position in which I had left her; it was exactly right. But then all at once she got to her knees and I saw that it wasn’t Aunt Ada at all, but just some policewoman got up in Aunt Ada’s clothes. And she’d done it very well. Although her face was different, of course, everything else about her was just perfect – right down to her gardening gloves and the little packet she held in her hand. And seeing that, the packet of seeds, I started yelling again. I couldn’t stop. The words just bubbled up out of me; I was screaming and babbling and I just couldn’t stop.