by Maynard Sims
As Beth stared into Dolores Franklin’s eyes a chill passed through her body, and she shivered. For all the woman’s beauty and sensuality there was something repulsive about the image. Dolores Franklin sat, serene and imperious, like a spider in the center of a web of twisted sexuality and corruption.
Then the woman on the computer screen blinked.
Beth tore her eyes away for a second and then looked back. The face was still, like the water on the lake. The eyes dark and impenetrable.
Then the lips smiled.
They pulled back from the teeth in a hungry smile that wasn’t inviting, it was threatening.
Beth moved the mouse but she couldn’t delete the picture; the cursor traced invisible lines over the skin, helplessly trying to erase the image.
Then the three men at her feet began to caress her legs, sweeping firm hands over bare flesh, at the same time looking out at Beth, challenging.
The woman winked, her left eye closing slowly, and opening again as if in slow motion.
Beth switched the monitor off, waited moments and then turned it on again. The screen gradually opened, the erotic scene again portrayed in colorful glory.
“She was a very beautiful woman.”
Beth jerked round at the sound of the voice.
Chapter Nineteen
Arthur Latham stood in the doorway of the study, leaning against the doorframe, relaxed, with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his corduroy trousers.
Beth ignored him, staring back at the monitor. The woman sat, the men draped in devotion, but all were static.
“I rang the doorbell but there was no reply,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind me barging in like this, but the back door was open.”
She did mind. She minded very much. And why was the back door open? Perhaps James had opened it this morning and forgotten to close it before he left. Latham had given her a start.
She watched the computer for a while longer, waiting for something, but it evaded her.
Her nerves were still jangling after the night she’d just had; a night that had, apparently, been nothing more than a figment of her chaotic imagination. How could she have imagined with such vividness? It all seemed so real to her.
She recovered enough to paste a smile on her lips, and direct it in Latham’s direction. “That’s okay, Arthur,” she said, with a brightness she didn’t feel. “I wasn’t doing anything special.” Only going mad, she thought. “What can I do for you?”
“I brought you a gift: an apple pie. Gwen was baking yesterday and thought you might like it. I grew the apples myself,” he added, with a hint of pride.
She stared at him, looking for the gift.
“I left it in the kitchen,” he said, and pushed himself away from the doorframe, sauntering across to where she was sitting. “Yes” he said, almost to himself. “Very beautiful.” He pointed to the screen. “I’ve never seen that photo before. Where did it come from?”
“The Internet,” Beth said. “I Googled her.”
“Remarkable. It never ceases to amaze me just what’s floating around out there in the ether. I’ve never really got to grips with the World Wide Web. I’m old school. I prefer books and libraries.”
“I’ll put the kettle on,” she said. “I take it you’ll stay for a cup of tea.” She framed it as an invitation, but it wasn’t. She moved away from the desk, and wheeled past him to the kitchen.
Gwen’s apple pie sat in the kitchen counter: golden short-crust pastry, with more pastry decorating the top in an elaborate pattern of apples and leaves. The air was redolent with the aromas of apples and cloves. Beth hated cloves. “The pie looks lovely,” she said. “Thank Gwen for me.”
“You can thank her yourself,” Latham said. “She’s outside in the car.”
“In the car? For…Arthur, go and fetch her in. I’ll get another cup.”
“Well, they’ve certainly done you proud with the renovation,” Gwen Latham said, as her husband pushed her into the house.
“I didn’t realize you’d been here before,” Beth said.
“I came over when it was standing empty. Had a peek through the windows. It was a terrible mess. No, this is a hundred times better. Look, Arthur, what I said to you about lowering the worktops to make it easier for me to cook, you can see now how that would work.”
Latham flashed a rueful smile at Beth. “I can see,” he said to his wife. “But I dare say it cost a pretty penny.”
“Thank you for the pie, Gwen,” Beth said. One cup of tea, she thought, and I can get rid of them. And the awful smell of cloves.
“You must think we’re awful, barging in like this,” Gwen said. “I assure you we won’t make a habit of it. Only Arthur said you’d called round when I was at the hospital and I was sorry to have missed you.”
“Let’s take the tea through to the lounge,” Beth said.
“Good idea,” Latham said, and swooped onto the tea tray, picking it up and carrying it through, setting it down on the coffee table. He picked up the teapot. “Shall I be mother?”
“Feel free,” Beth said. Her patience was at a low ebb.
“Arthur said you were asking about the Franklins,” Gwen said, pulling up beside Beth’s chair. “I knew you wouldn’t let it go.”
Ah, Beth thought, the real reason for the visit.
“Beth’s unearthed a remarkable picture of Dolores,” Latham said. “On the Internet of all places. Dolores and her pets.”
“Pets?” Gwen said. “Oh, her disciples. Stupid young fools, taken in by a pretty face and the promise of a fuck.”
“Gwen!” Latham said. “That kind of language…”
“…is entirely appropriate,” Gwen countered. “Come on, Arthur, we both heard the stories about her, and what was going on in her sordid life.”
“And that’s all they were,” Latham said. “Rumor and gossip. The twin curses of village life.”
Gwen shook her head. “Sometimes, Arthur, your naivety astonishes me. Why Bernard Franklin tolerated his wife’s philandering I’ll never know.”
“Perhaps he loved her,” Arthur said.
Gwen made a noise in the back of throat to convey her contempt. “Perhaps he did, but that’s no excuse for becoming her doormat.”
“Did Jessica know about the other men?” Beth said. She’d watched the matrimonial discussion with some amusement, an onlooker into a private world.
“My dear, the whole village knew. If Jessica was unaware of her mother’s behavior then she must have gone through life impersonating an ostrich.”
“And the hexes, the spells,” Beth said. “Do you believe she had some kind of paranormal ability?” She aimed the question at Gwen, who shrugged theatrically.
“I was convinced for a while. I blamed her for my illness,” she said, confirming what her husband had said.
“And now?”
“Now I’m not so certain. I’m older, I suppose, and possibly wiser. Now I realize the MS was going to get me sooner or later. She was a handy scapegoat where I could channel my anger and frustration.” She smiled, but there was no warmth in her eyes. “I’ve since heard even more lurid stories about her, but apart from the ones about her sexual perversions, I choose to dismiss them. Believing in her powers make them real, and I’m not prepared to give her that satisfaction.”
“You make it sound as if she’s still on the scene,” Beth said.
“She’s current,” Gwen said. “Even if no one has seen or heard from her for a decade and a half. She cast a huge shadow, and some of the older residents of the village—me included—still find it difficult to lift ourselves out from under it. Let me see the picture you found.”
Beth led them through to the study. The computer had gone into energy-saver mode and the screen was blank. Gwen rolled up in front of it, Beth next to her. Beth reached out, hit a key a
nd the screen burst back into life. As the picture of Dolores Franklin appeared, Gwen Latham drew in her breath, letting it out in a low whistle. “My God,” she said. “It takes me right back there. You can see the corruption, there in her eyes.”
“I wonder what happened to the young men,” Beth said.
“I should think they went back to their dull and boring lives once the bitch left the area. They’re probably bank clerks and car mechanics now, married with two point four kids and living in the suburbs,” Gwen said, laughing.
“They’re all dead.” Arthur Latham was standing a few yards away from the computer, staring out through the window at the garden. “Your roses need deadheading, Beth. You’ll get a second bloom if you do it now.”
“I’m not much of a gardener, I’m afraid,” Beth said.
“I’ll pop round and give you a hand if you like.”
“Whoa!” Gwen said. “Arthur Latham, you can’t just drop a bomb into the conversation like that and walk away from it.” She was glaring hotly at her husband. “What do you mean, all dead? Did you know these boys?”
Slowly he turned away from the window. “I knew one of them. Carl Page. I taught him up to the age of fourteen, but then his parents moved out of the area, and he went to a new school closer to town.”
“And you kept tabs on him?”
Latham shook his head. “No, not me. But there were pupils at school who stayed in contact with him. He was always a bit of a tearaway, but not a bad lad for all that. That was why I was surprised when I heard what had happened.”
“What did happen?” Beth asked.
“The police arrested him, probably not long after that photo was taken.”
“Why?” Gwen asked.
“He killed the other two boys in the photo.”
Gwen’s face blanched. “Both of them?”
“Knifed them.”
“But why?” Beth said. “Why did he kill them?”
Arthur Latham pulled up a chair and sat down heavily. “The police never got to the bottom of it. It seemed to be a completely unprovoked attack.”
“He never explained his motives?” Beth asked.
“Not directly, but he did say he was told to do it.”
“And did the police press him on it? Did they ask who was it told him to kill them?”
Latham sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “I only had the newspaper reports to go on—the case made quite a splash—but, from what I read, they tried, but he clammed up, and never said another word. He was silent throughout his trial and, when he was sent to Broadmoor, the secure mental institution, for an indeterminate period, he merely smiled at the court and gave them a victory sign.”
“But if it made such a splash in the media,” Gwen said, “how come I didn’t hear of it?”
“It was in 2001,” Latham said. “If you recall you were very ill for most of that year.”
“Yes, I remember,” Gwen said grimly. She turned to Beth. “It was before I discovered the benefits of marijuana. I was in a lot of pain that year.”
“So is he still there?” Beth said.
Latham shook his head. “He died in there, five years after he was sent down. An accident—fell down a flight of stairs and broke his neck.” He pointed at the screen “That’s him, the one on her left, staring up at her like a sick puppy.”
Beth looked at the screen. Carl Page was dressed like the others, leather trousers and not much else, but he looked younger. The heavy kohl eye make-up added no maturity to his features. Instead he looked like a boy who had ransacked his mother’s dressing table and painted himself with whatever came to hand. He looked neither evil nor menacing, Beth thought. Rather he looked sad and pathetic.
Latham got to his feet. “Gwen, if you’ve finished your coffee we should go and let Beth get on.” He turned to Beth. “This was just meant to be a flying visit to drop off the pie. We’ve taken up too much of your time.”
“It’s all right, really,” Beth said. She was relieved they were going but tried hard to construct the lie.
“No, Arthur’s right.” Gwen wheeled herself to the door. “I want you to finish the new book. I can’t wait to read it.”
Beth accompanied them to the front door.
“I’ll drop by in a couple of days to attend to the roses,” Latham said. “Don’t worry, I’ll ring first. I won’t just descend like today.”
“Thanks.”
As they headed to the car Latham stopped and turned back. “When I come I’ll bring my spade and fill in the hole in your back garden.”
“Hole?” Beth said, puzzled.
“I saw it when I was looking out through the window. Pretty nasty if you come across it by accident. But don’t worry. I can have it filled in a few minutes.”
After they had gone, Beth wheeled herself through the house, and opened the back door. Even as she rolled down the ramp she could see what Latham was talking about.
The pile of earth that marked Teddy’s grave had gone. Instead there was a neat hole about two feet across. She stared down into it. Apart from a few clumps of ginger fur the grave was empty. There was no sign of Teddy’s body.
Chapter Twenty
“Mirri, who exactly did you see when you first came here with me?”
“Darling, I told you at the time, I didn’t get a good look at them.” Miranda cradled the phone in her neck and lit a cigarette. The offices were No Smoking but, hell, she paid the rent. Let them prosecute her! She inhaled, tried to speak again but ended up coughing. When it abated, she said, “Why?”
“Because someone has dug up Teddy.” Beth said it as calmly as she could, but her emotions were in turmoil, and she was close to tears.
Why? She kept asking the question over and over again. It was rattling around her brain like a walnut in a tumble dryer.
“What do you mean, dug him up?”
“I couldn’t be more specific. I’ve just been outside. The grave’s been desecrated and his body’s gone.”
There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment. “A fox could have done it…you know…after fresh…excuse me…after fresh meat.” She heard Beth groan. “I’m not saying that’s what happened,” she added quickly. “I’m just saying it’s a possibility.”
“The sides of the hole are very neat, straight, and there are no claw marks.”
“Okay, a fox who brought his own spade.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“I’m sorry, honey, but how do you expect me to react? It was a cat, for God’s sake. It’s hardly body snatching, is it? Not up there with Burke and Hare.”
“I know,” Beth said. “But you have to admit it’s bloody strange.”
“Beth,” Miranda said calmingly. “You’re a city girl. You’re living in the country now. I’m sure these things happen all the time. Foxes, badgers…all manner of wildlife are hunting for food during the night. I think you’re reading too much into this.”
Beth bit back an angry retort. Miranda didn’t, couldn’t, understand, but then there was an awful lot Beth hadn’t told her, so how could her best friend see the full picture?
Beth realized the phone call was a mistake. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m overreacting. I shouldn’t have called.”
“Of course you should. What are friends for? I’m just saying, you shouldn’t get so worked up over something that is probably quite commonplace in rural Suffolk. Now, how’s the book coming along? Are you on schedule?”
They talked for another ten minutes or so until Beth finally ended the call with a promise to get together soon, and to carry on writing in the meantime. She went to the back door and stared out at the hole and scattered earth that had once been Teddy’s grave.
She was starting to firm up her theories about what was happening there at Stillwater. A fractured family living in a st
ate of antagonism: Dolores, the whore wife, Bernard, the weak and cuckolded husband and father, and Jessica, the repressed and isolated wild child. Their disturbed and volatile lives produced ripples and echoes in the house that seeped into the very fabric of the walls, where they lay dormant until being unleashed by another life force—in this case hers—inhabiting the house. She was the catalyst.
And it was messing with her mind. The incident in the bathroom, and the attack by the wheelchair, had only happened in her imagination. James’s seduction had never happened at all—but he had confirmed it had. So what was that? Wish fulfillment? Or was it just the house showing her how easy it would be to smash her dreams, and bring her face-to-face with her own demons?
A pathetic cripple. Wasn’t that really how she saw herself? The house had recognized the truth behind the bright smile, and studied cynicism, and fired it back at her; taunting her with her own words, put into the mouth of a ghost.
But her cat had died. There was nothing fake about that.
So show me the body.
“I can’t. It’s gone!” she shouted at the empty space, frustration and anger jostling for position.
How can you be sure you didn’t imagine that too?
With the questions rattling around in her head she went back to her computer and woke it up.
The picture of Dolores and her acolytes had gone, replaced by a 404 error message. She swore and hit the back button that took her back to the Google screen. She scanned down the headings, but there was no mention of Dolores Franklin this time. Irritated, she typed the name in again, with the same negative result.
Exasperated, she plunged her hands into her short hair, kneading her scalp with her fingertips, and tugging her hair at the roots. “It was there,” she said to herself. “Gwen saw it. Arthur saw it. I didn’t imagine it!” But the Google screen remained unhelpful.
“Fuck!” she spat at the computer, and wheeled away from it, heading toward the kitchen. She snapped down the switch on the kettle, and grabbed her mug. She spooned two heaped mounds of coffee into the mug and, as the kettle came to the boil, filled it with water.
