"It's just not logical to have your head in the clouds. Sara always let you get away with it. All the writing and painting and what-not. Girl's stuff."
"I should have sent you to boarding school, but Sara always molly-coddled you. She said it would upset you too much. That you were fragile. You're not right in the head, boy. She made sure of that. Ruining my only son. Sometimes I feel like I have two daughters instead of one."
"You couldn't just be normal, like Emily, could you? Such a pretty girl. Always did what she was told. But you, well, I'm glad I will be seeing the back of this ridiculous behaviour. You are not your sister. You are a man. That I'll make sure of. Oh, stop crying. They are gone and there's nothing you can do about it."
The words kept going in Danny's head, even though he tried so hard to banish them, pressing his hands into his eyes. But all he could see was the burning colours of his skin against the fragile layer of skin that protected him from the pain. But they didn't. His eyes may have closed to the world, but his brain wouldn't let go. All he could see was the girl, blue skin against fragile white snow. Her long blonde hair darkened by the blood. The blood was everywhere. Danny stopped again: the blood was everywhere. In her hair, on her clothes, all over the wall. It soaked the snow that suffocated him. All over my hands; in his hair; on his skin; dried into his clothes; across his lips; buried into the ridges of his fingerprints. It turned the white world red with blood. Snow melts. He pulled his jacket off and searched for a lighter. I gave it to Diane.
"Fuck!" Danny ripped the jacket in to pieces and put each piece in a different bin on his way home. Each bin was just far enough out of his way to ignore a pattern. The last bin was Mrs. Roberts, the old woman that lived next door. He lived on the top floor of a maisonette in Winston Close. A dark building, cornered by other houses: being bullied. Upon taking the rooms, the landlady had commented on the pale of his skin: "Well you'll fit in here Mr. Fores, no light in this house. You'll always have the lights on. Unless you like the dark..."
He unlocked the door and pushed hard on the frame. Always sticking. The money I pay... Danny caught himself: thinking about such trivial things when I am covered in blood. He ran up the stairs to his apartment, opened the door and locked it behind him. He padded to the bathroom and turned the shower on. The steam rose, taking that first layer of ice from his heart. He went back into the bedroom/living room/study and took off his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. Everything was dark with blood. He turned the bedside lamp on to look at the mess. It's everywhere. He could see the handprints of the girl on his jeans, she had struggled. He had panicked and pushed back. He shook himself, don't think about it, and put the clothes in the bin.
"Oh, Daniel, you stupid boy: falling over. Now that's your best shirt ruined, look at this, there’s blood everywhere. Oh, and you tore straight through the elbows. What an earth were you doing in that tree anyway?"
"I was watching a bird, Mummy. It was so beautiful, and it was signing. I drew it, Mummy, look". The young Danny attempted in vain to show his mother his sketches.
"Not now Danny, Emily needs her lunch. Go and wash up, no more climbing trees, now, you hear?"
"Yes, Mummy." Danny looked to his feet, but was filled with glee moments later when his father walked through the door.
"Daddy, look, I drew a -"
"Not now, Daniel. What's wrong, Sara?" Marcus kissed his wife's cheek and took the shirt from her hands.
"Your son was out in the woods today." Sara shot her husband a scornful look.
"Really, well boy, what happened here?" He held up the shirt.
"I was in a tree, Daddy. I was-"
"Climbing trees, finally. Just be more careful next time, kiddo. OK?"
"Well, yes Daddy but-"
"Sara, where's my dinner?"
"How should I know, I've been watching the damned kids all day. Daniel, go play with your sister."
"Sara, I've been at work all day! All I want is a goddamn fucking meal when I get home from work. Is that so much to ask?" Marcus stood up from the armchair he had just occupied and approached his wife. "Is it, Sara? Just a bit of dinner. Not difficult is it? All you do is sit around and drink. Maybe next time you could make my-"
Sara slapped her husband across the face, and stood trembling in front of him. Marcus shoved her against the wall, making her drop the plate she had been holding.
"Now look what you've done, you stupid cow. Made a mess. You're going to clean that up, aren't you, Sara?" Tears ran down her face as her husband’s breath hit her lips.
"Is that Chanel I smell, Marcus. My, you have gone up in taste." The fear in her eyes diminished her thinly veiled threat.
"That's enough! Clean this mess up." He released his grip on her shoulders and sat back down. Sara cleaned up the broken shards of china, and threw them away. She had stopped crying by the time she brought Marcus a beer. She smiled sweetly at him and kissed him on the cheek.
"Danny was a smart boy today, climbing up that tree. Shame he did it to draw. Kid needs to learn to man up a little bit. It was only a shirt, Sara. Just buy him another one and shut up about it, OK?"
"OK." She smiled again.
Danny remembered that day so well: the first time he had ever seen his parents fight. It was only years later he had found out it had been happening since he was born. They had wanted a girl, not a boy. Sara never wanted a boy.
"He'll end up like you, you know.” She muttered.
“At least he's not a coward."
"He is a coward, Marcus. He's your son."
Danny climbed into the shower and let the water burn him.
Chapter Three
Diane walked out the main door of the pub, and headed east to find a taxi. She walked for a few minutes before she saw any sign of a waiting cabby. They always avoid this part of town; I suspect they don't want pick up any students. I don't blame them. They make so much noise. She waved him down and climbed in.
"Where to, love? It’s time and half because of the snow."
"Yes, it's fine. Westgate Drive. No rush." The cab driver switched the overhead light off and started the engine. Diane sank into the back seat. She had always hated cabs, but she couldn't drive when she'd been drinking, and it was freezing, so there was no point fussing. She thought about the boy, the boy with the blonde hair and the cut-glass cheekbones. She closed her eyes and he was there; kissing her; whispering deep, love-filled words into her ear. Danny looked like the boy a little bit.
"He's gone, stop thinking about him. He isn't going to come back to you. He can’t come back: Jerry made sure of that. So, stop thinking about him." She whispered to herself.
"You alright, love? Bit of boyfriend trouble?"
"Nah, a bit of husband trouble, mate." Diane scolded herself for speaking like that. She hated pretending she was common, but it stopped her feeling superior most of the time, knowing that everyone around her thought she was a common housewife from the estate, instead a posh housewife with a criminal for a husband. Westgate Drive was certainly not an estate. She had lived in Canterbury nearly all her life, in that exact house, for 35 years. Diane loved that house more than anything. 23 Westgate Drive was the smallest house amongst the 50 houses that surrounded it, because it was sandwiched between two great manor houses. Number 23 was a faded duck-egg blue, with silver woodwork and a dark-stained oak door. Over the years, the house gained a reputation as far as owners were concerned. Mrs. Tabatha Finn died in 1954 and left it for Diane's great uncle, a Mr. Roger Tate. When her uncle died of an unsuspected heart attack; Diane's parents inherited the house, and left it to Diane for when she married and started a family. After Diane’s father, Roger died when she was seventeen; her mother burned all the photos with any trace of him in. Diane never knew how her father died, and she didn’t care to find out. Diane met her husband six months before they got married. She had fallen in love with him, with his beautiful violet eyes and the shiny auburn hair. But, like the flame of his mane; Jerry had a temper.
"All I said was that I was tired. Why did you throw a book at me?" Diane's voice was cold, like Jerry's touch.
"To teach you a lesson, baby." Jerry's violet eyes darkened as they bore into Diane's white face. He grabbed her hair and jolted her head backwards, so he towered above her. "You never say no to me. Got it? I own you: you are my wife. I know you've been messing around, Di. I won't stand for any wife of mine messing around with some marine on the side. Remember me like this: standing over you and ruling you. I will always own you, Diane." The anger filled Diane as she sat in the back of the taxi. Part of her just wanted to scream at the cabby to stop and take her back to the pub; to drown in a pool of tequila and her own tears. To not be with Jerry anymore. To be with Jamie and to be in his arms. But, she couldn't and she never would.
That poor boy. Poor Jamie. He didn't have to hurt you. I know he says he didn't but I know him. I know what he did you and your pretty face. Carved it off is what he did, I know it. He's such a brute. But I can't go. I can't leave my beautiful house and all of Mamma's things. I need her things to feel safe. They are all I have left.
"I don't know why you're with him, Anne. I see the way he looks at you. It's like you're a dog that he can just kick when it misbehaves. Leave him, Anne. Please, leave him." Sophie begged her eldest daughter, but she knew any promise of Diane's was empty. She had been empty for a long time.
"I will Mamma, I promise. But not yet, we have the Robinsons' twins boys christening on Saturday, and then the social on Tuesday, and-"
"Your social calendar isn't an excuse for what he does to you, Anne. You know that right?" Sophie watched Diane look at her perfectly manicured hands, and simply say:
"But, Mamma he can't cope without me. He's not even sure how to put on a cravat. He needs me, Mamma."
"You don't need him. By lord, if your father was still here..."
"Well, he isn't. Daddy would have sided with Jerry anyhow, and you know it, Mamma. So, I'm going home to my husband, to love him, and tie his ties. To cook his dinner and feed the dog." Diane stood to leave, and as she turned to do so, her mother spoke.
“Diane?”
“What, Mamma?”
"Does he kick the dog as much as he kicks you?"
Diane slammed the taxi door and walked up the drive. Her shoes were hidden beneath the snow’s surface. She had always loved the snow and when she was younger, she had asked her father about snow.
“Where does it go, Daddy? Does snow have a home?”
“No, Diane. The snow melts.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it dies and never comes back.”
“But it snows every year, Daddy. How can it die?”
“Every snow flake is different, and only ever falls once. When it melts, it’s gone forever.”
The snow kept her calm when all she wanted to do is lay face down in its icy fluff, and wait for the snow to die and to take her with it. Diane stopped, as always at the post box. A sign of a happier time in their marriage: two blue hand prints on a black box attached to the porch's brick wall. The painted flecked off onto her fingertips. She brushed away the layer of snow covered the top of the post-box, and wiped her hands across the cheap leopard print coat. I hate this thing. Diane took the coat off, and folded it gently into her handbag. She stood at her front door in full business attire, and unlocked the oak door. "Jerry? Are you home? Sorry, I missed dinner..." Diane laughed at her own sarcasm as she shut the heavy door behind her and waved the snow off of her suit jacket. She removed her shoes and placed them in the shoe rack to the left of the door. Walking upstairs, she unfolded the coat and approached a locked cupboard opposite the top of the stairs. She pulled out a set of keys, opened the cupboard and put the coat neatly on a hanger. As she walked towards her bedroom, she heard a woman's voice.
"Jerry, I hear someone. I think it's your wife. You said she was out of town?"
“She’s always out of town, baby, come on, ignore it.” Diane heard his gruff voice through the panel of the door. She paused for a moment; hand on the brass door handle, and grinning, opened Jerry’s bedroom door.
"Jerry dear, is this one staying for tea, or should I fetch her coat?"
"Fuck off, Di." Diane exited the room just in time to avoid the pillow Jerry had just flung at the door, and headed for her own bedroom. They had had separate bedrooms for seven years. Diane had returned to her childhood bedroom, where she felt safe and unharmed by her husband’s actions. The door is only wood, Diane. It won’t stop him forever. Using the set of keys once more, she unlocked the white-panelled door and went inside. The room was a pale yellow, decorated with delicate floral ornaments. It had always been yellow. Diane smiled every time she looked at the walls of her bedroom: sunrise on a winter’s day. A beech laminate floor lay beneath a fluffy chocolate-coloured rug. Diane spent most nights curled up in the warmth of the rug, hiding from the world and the fists of her husband. To the right of the rug sat a small round table, covered with lace, and on top: a canary yellow circular vase donning twelve red roses. Diane looked at the roses and sighed.
"I suppose I should throw them now he's gone, but they are quite beautiful." As she placed her keys back in her bag, Jerry entered the room.
"Are you talking to yourself again? Crazy old-"
"And why exactly are you in my doorway, Jerald? I thought we had an agreement. I stay out of your door, and you stay out of mine."
"Well, as far as I see, you broke the rules first. And anyway, I’m only here to accept your apology for storming in on me and Janine." He shrugged at her.
"I haven't apologized, Jerry."
"Yeah, but you’re going to." Jerry winked and strode across the small room; pushing her against the tall white wardrobe. "You interrupted my big finish, Di. I think you owe me at least that much?"
"Is she still in your bed, Jerry? Did you leave her there to come beat your wife up and then go fuck her? Does she get off on wife-beaters, eh?" Diane spat at the gorilla in front of her.
"You think you're so high and mighty - don't you, Di? I'm going to bring you down a peg or two." Jerry grasped her neck with his right hand and pushed her back harder. The glass of the wardrobe's mirrored door smashed, and Diane felt the glass bury itself into her shoulder.
"Get out of here, Jerry, before I get angry." She smirked at him, and looked into the violet eyes that haunted her dreams. Be brave, Diane. "Do you think I care who you sleep with? I don't give a shit. Just make sure they're gone by the time I get home."
"Well, I would, but you're never here. You’re always out drinking your weight in vodka. Where do you go, eh Di? Kicking it out in the slums with the poor boys? Eh? Got a little bit of a Mrs. Robinson thing going on, do you? Promise them the world? Yeah, I think you do. I think you might have loved one or two of them."
"Stop it."
"Ouch, did I touch a nerve?" Jerry looked down Diane's body as the blood soaked her crisp white blouse. "Or was it an artery? What was his name, do you remember? James Macclesfield. He was only 26 you know? God, Di. They're getting young, aren't they?"
"Wasn't that Janine from down the market? You know she's 17, right? Cradle robbing was always your style. At least you're consistent, I'll give you that much." Jerry shoved her on to the bed, still holding her neck.
"Don't you ever shut up, Di? You always make me hurt you. Every time: it's your fault, Diane. You're just as weak as your mother: You're pathetic, the pair of you." Jerry picked up a photo frame from the bedside cabinet. "I'll tell you one thing though: she was a piece, your dear old Mum. I wouldn't say no to that face." He smashed the frame on the corner of the cabinet, and dragged the picture out of th
e broken glass. "Not looking so good now is she? Blood on her face and glass through her tits. Looks a lot like you last month, doesn't she, Di? How is that heeling? Shall I add another scar to the collection: my little trophies on my little trophy wife." He bit her cheek and she screamed. The blood ran hot down her face.
You can do this. You know you can do this. It's your home. It's your bedroom. It’s your life. Kick him out. Kick him. Diane kicked her husband in the shins, hard enough for him to recoil in pain and quick enough to give her time to breath and wipe the blood from her face. She stood smartly from the bed and straightened her pencil skirt. She picked up Jerry's shirt collar, and pulled him to the bedroom door.
"Goodnight, Jerry. That's enough blood for one day".
Chapter Four
“I should call her, just in case.” Danny mumbled to himself and tapped his foot on the floor; making a mental note to hoover later. “This place is always a mess. Good thing I don’t have a social life, otherwise I would actually have to clean the place up a bit.” Mental note Two: buy cleaning products.
“She doesn’t need you interrupting her life. Stupid boy.” Danny’s conscience chimed in.
Funny, he thought, he’s normally quiet. I just want to make sure she’s OK, and maybe see if she has heard of anything about the girl. It’s important to find out if she knows anything. Whenever Danny thought of his conscience, he always imagined the cricket from Pinocchio, with a top hat and tails. Danny’s complete opposite. He looked in the mirror at his shabby appearance: two-year-old jeans, a band tee, and Converses he had owned since he finished college. “I need to go shopping… “
Danny went in to the corridor and took the cordless phone off of the wall. He punched in the numbers and waited for the dial-tone. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in breathe-
“Hello?” Relief smacked him round the face as he heard Diane’s voice. “Hello? Is anyone there?” Her voice became irritated. “If you’re a salesperson-“
The Snow Killer Page 2
