The Tallow Image

by J. T. Brindle

  Wondering how Cathy could ever want such a thing, he thrust the lid back on. Just looking at the doll made his flesh creep. He had half a mind to throw it into the ditch. Only the thought of Cathy’s distress stopped him from doing so.

  As he pulled away, the skies opened and the rain spewed down with a vengeance. Switching the windscreen wipers on full speed, he was astonished when the raindrops hardened and a furious hailstorm was unleashed, the large white crystals lashing the windscreen and bouncing off the road like miniature golf balls. His visibility was dangerously impaired as the skies blackened, and day became night. Slowing to a crawl, he was deafened by the relentless impact of hail against metal. Then, as he was about to pull over and park by the side of the road until the storm passed, it stopped as instantly as it had started. In a moment, the sun broke through and the day was bathed in brilliance, the hail melted away, and it was as though the blizzard had never been.

  Relieved, Bill glanced at the dashboard clock. It was almost one thirty. He would need to put his toe down if he was to make the hospital by two o’clock. Pulling out on to the main road, he activated the radio-cassette. Suddenly he needed to hear the reassuring songs on his favourite tape… the Beatles… Gerry and the Pacemakers – a bevy of 60s classics that never failed to cheer him. In the back of his mind he deliberated on the advert that would go into the local newspapers. He wasn’t sure yet as to how he might word it. Strange, he thought, how he was convinced that Matt was not too far away. He believed also that Matt loved Cathy as much as he had ever loved her. Paramount in his thoughts was always the prospect of bringing Matt home. The advert was his best chance. He prayed Matt would see it, and respond.

  13

  It was midnight. Through the porthole, Matt could see the stars high in the heavens, tiny scintillating jewels against a black velvet scarf. Like every night for as far back as he could remember, sleep eluded him. Restless, he shifted in the hard unyielding bed, turning this way and that, his senses ebbing in and out, and the ever-wearing pain persistent and wicked, playing on his nerve-endings, sapping his ability to think, draining his energy, sucking at his very existence. He felt like a man drugged, his head too heavy to raise from the pillow, too tired, it was all too much; the effort was crucifying. Now, as he rolled on to his side, he could hear the voices – the same faceless whispering voices – a man and a woman. They were close, only an arm’s reach away. ‘Who are you?’ he murmured, his own voice seeming stranger to him than did the other two. He waited in the darkness. No answer. Silence was oddly comforting. Rocked by the gentle roll of the barge and the muffled echo of the water slapping its hulk, he turned again, burying his face in the pillow. Then, as always, she came to him. ‘Cathy… Cathy.’ Smiling, bright like a child, her arms open, waiting, wanting him, in the sunlight her grey eyes sparkling, the breeze teasing her golden hair. Suddenly her smile faded and she was crying out, struggling in his hands, his hands, tight round her throat. ‘Cathy!’ She oozed through his fingers, dark, ugly, and laughing, then crying.

  ‘Shh, go to sleep. It’s all right.’ The voice bathed his mind, her touch was soft, and cool against his burning temples. Soon he was resting, a shallow troubled interlude before they invaded his thoughts again, the nightmares, the screams, the unearthly laughter, the terror, the guilt and the helplessness, the awful, awful helplessness. He felt her move away, heard the voices far off, too distant, too vague. Weariness crept into every fibre of his being, such weariness; death would be a welcome release.

  ‘Two thousand pounds’ reward!’ The man’s voice was low, incredulous, trembling with greed. He thrust the newspaper before her eyes. ‘We can’t afford to ignore that kind of money. Think what we could do with it. And anyway, if you ask me, he’s dying.’

  ‘And you said I was hard hearted.’ Her laugh sounded like the rush of water in the wake of a gently moving barge, soft, almost purring. ‘He won’t die. The wound has become infected, probably from the filthy canal water, but he won’t die. I won’t let him, you know that.’ In her mind’s eye she saw his handsome chiselled features, the thick mop of earth-coloured hair and oh, the dark frantic eyes, the way they looked up at her, tragic, beseeching. He was in her power. She liked that. Somehow he had created a hunger in her; a hunger that only he could satisfy.

  ‘If I thought…’ The man’s voice was menacing. ‘If I found out that you were keeping him drugged,’ she winced with pain as he snapped his fist round a hank of her long, flowing hair, ‘I swear I’d kill you!’

  ‘Fool!’ She spat the word out, wrenching herself from him. ‘Why would I do such a thing?’

  ‘Because there hasn’t yet been a man that you can keep your hands off, because you’re too beautiful for your own good and –’ he paused, moving away. There was a brief span of quiet. When he spoke again his voice was filled with pain. ‘Because you still haven’t forgiven me; won’t ever forgive me.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ she lied. ‘That was a long time ago. Your one indiscretion. Do you think I would punish you for ever?’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Don’t be foolish.’

  ‘Are you keeping him drugged?’

  ‘A small amount, yes, but only enough to dull the pain and give him time to recover.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘That’s all,’ she lied brazenly.

  ‘And you have no designs on him?’

  ‘I’ve told you.’

  ‘Then why can’t we turn him in? We could go a long way on two thousand pounds.’

  ‘I dare say, but could you really turn him in?’ Disbelief, then, ‘It was you who saved him from drowning. And have you forgotten what it’s like to suffer? To be hounded from place to place, treated like so much dirt?’

  ‘No, I haven’t forgotten. But what if he dies, what then? Have you thought of that?’

  ‘He won’t die.’

  ‘Then how long do you intend to keep him on the barge?’

  ‘For as long as it takes. I won’t let you turn him in.’

  ‘How can you stop me?’ He laughed softly, caressing her hair. He knew she had lied. His instincts told him so. ‘Two thousand pounds,’ he reminded her.

  ‘Judas money!’

  ‘Let’s not quarrel.’ His hand slid over her sunkissed shoulders, plucking at the thin straps of her nightgown. ‘It’s such a glorious night, a night for making love.’ He heard her sigh as the garment slithered to the floor. She was all woman, all his, but only for as long as he remained alert and cunning. At first he had felt compassion for the man. Now, though, he was bitterly jealous. And, for two thousand pounds, what did he care whether the man lived or died. This was his barge, his woman! And she was using his supply of drugs. The stranger was no longer welcome.

  The officers had followed for many hours, waiting for the right moment. When the moon was dipping low and all was deathly quiet; that moment was now. Like slinky black rats they closed in, incredibly silent, frighteningly swift, swarming the vessel and overwhelming the unsuspecting occupants. In a matter of minutes it was all over. Nothing was left unturned, no one was spared. Not the couple who were locked in the last deliciously agonising throes of passion; not even the man who slept a fitful fearful sleep, a man gripped by a fever that would be the death of him, a man without purpose, without hope, riddled with guilt yet not really understanding why.

  The intruders swept in under cover of night. They left when the dawn was beginning to herald a new day. Only one remained, to watch, to keep vigil over the now silent barge. Nothing stirred, no sound was heard to disturb the eerie solitude, only the morning song of awakening birds, and the soft swish of creatures moving beneath the rushes.

  ‘Matt’s dead, isn’t he? Isn’t he?’ Cathy’s grey eyes were hard and shiny as she confronted her father. ‘You think I don’t know. You keep things from me, but I do know!’ She swung away from him. ‘I know, because I killed him!’

  ‘No, no, Cathy, you did not kill Matt, please believe me.’ He would have taken h
er in his arms, but Cathy backed away, her face clouded with suspicion, her eyes drilling into him, accusing, defiant.

  ‘Where is he, then?’

  Dropping his arms to his sides, he drew his gaze from her face. He couldn’t bear to have her look at him in that way. He should never have told her that Matt was missing, but the doctor had persuaded him that ‘She should know. She feels instinctively that you’re lying to her, that Matt would have been to see her before now, if he was able. You must tell her, Mr Barrington. She’s strong enough to accept the truth. Not knowing is far worse, when she imagines all kinds of horrors.’ And so today, when she asked for Matt, he told her in as gentle a way as he knew how.

  ‘Matt went away,’ he explained. ‘We’re doing everything we can to find him.’ At first she had not believed him, then, when she realised he was telling the truth, she had cried. Now her mood was more disturbing, for she was convinced that he was dead – that she had murdered him. The doctors had warned that she would suffer a whole gamut of emotions. That was why the nurse was present in the room, keeping a discreet distance but closely monitoring the situation. He turned to look at the nurse now, to draw strength from her and maybe to find an answer. She only smiled and nodded. He looked away, returning his attention to his daughter. ‘Cathy…’ He took her by the hands, persuading her to come and sit down.

  She snatched herself away; her look was contemptuous and she told him in a shrivelling voice, ‘You liar! I don’t ever want you to come near me again.’

  ‘Don’t say that, sweetheart,’ he implored. He knew in his heart that this young woman was Cathy, his own daughter whom he loved more than ever, but now, when she stared at him through those glittering dark eyes, her face twisted with such loathing, he knew that he was fast losing her. In all of his life he had never been more afraid, never been more desperate. ‘Try and remember,’ he quietly urged. ‘Try hard, Cathy. What happened the last time you saw Matt?’

  ‘I have to go now,’ she answered, positioning herself beside the nurse. ‘Tomorrow they will hang me. I killed him, you see.’ She smiled. ‘I meant to kill him… had to!’ In the sunlit room her eyes were markedly black. She seemed to grow in stature and he was shocked by her arrogance. ‘They must be punished, every one.’ She laughed softly. ‘Let them hang me. There are worse things than death.’

  Her laughter was frightening to him. For the first time he wondered whether she really was mad. He wondered also whether there was any way back for her. He moved towards her, to console and reassure her.

  ‘No! Don’t touch me.’ She spread both her hands in the air, erecting a barrier between them. Shattered, he saw the nurse shake her head, warning him, leading Cathy away. In that moment before the door closed on them, Cathy looked back, her wide eyes regarding him with childlike curiosity. He was softly crying now, bitterly, unashamedly. Suddenly her lovely features softened and there was real sadness in her gaze. ‘I love you, Dad,’ she said, remorsefully. ‘Don’t cry. Please, don’t cry. It won’t be long before they let me come home. Tell Matt I miss him so, and I love him with all my heart. Tell him that, will you? And tell him I’m sorry if I hurt him. Oh, please, tell him.’ The tears fell softly down her face. ‘I never wanted to hurt him.’ The nurse drew her away. The door closed with a soft thud.

  ‘I’ll tell him, sweetheart,’ he called, brokenly. ‘I’ll tell him.’ He heard their footsteps echoing down the long stark corridor. An unbearable silence descended. And still he did not move. It was all too much for him, more than any man should be asked to bear. He cast his mind back, to a few days previously, when routine police enquiries had led to Cathy being questioned about a certain priest who had been found dead in his own study… ‘Suicide,’ they said ‘… satisfied that no one else was involved.’

  All the same, it was a sad mysterious incident and the police were obliged to question anyone he might have interviewed in the week leading up to his death. According to the housekeeper’s information, and the old gravedigger, a particular description had led them to Cathy.

  Cathy’s answers to their questions were given in childlike innocence… yes, she had gone to see the priest and to seek his advice on her failing relationship with Matt, ‘But he couldn’t help me,’ she told them tearfully. ‘No one can help.’ She described how, when she left, ‘He was looking out of the window towards the churchyard… sadder even than me, I think.’ The old gravedigger had substantiated Cathy’s account.

  The police were satisfied. The case was closed.

  Bill was greatly relieved, though he wasn’t sure why. As a child, he believed in God, in that all-powerful majestic being who answered his prayers and kept him safe. He still believed, even now. He had nothing else to cling to.

  14

  When the last of his equipment was loaded into the van, and the men were ready to move out, Mr Wilson reported to Emily. ‘Finished,’ he said proudly, the two of them looking round the garden. ‘Exactly as you wanted it, and all done in time for Mrs Hinson’s homecoming.’

  ‘You have been as good as your word, Mr Wilson,’ she agreed. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Tomorrow, isn’t it, when Mrs Hinson comes home?’

  Emily nodded. She did not trust herself to speak. It would serve no purpose to tell him how desperately ill Maria was; ‘Nothing more we can do,’ they said. It was only natural that the old lady be brought home, to end her days in this grand old house which had been her home for over fifty years. That Maria would soon leave her was incomprehensible to Emily. Choking back the tears, she bade Mr Wilson go with her into the kitchen. Here, she paid her debts and he signed a receipt. Everything was too normal, too pleasant, too unbearably painful.

  ‘If there’s ever anything else you want done, a barbecue, or pergola, well, you won’t forget to give me a ring, will you?’ When Emily assured him that she would keep his card safe by the telephone, he was suitably gratified. ‘You’ll not find no better landscaper than me,’ he remarked. He sauntered on to the terrace, hawkish eyes surveying his handiwork, his small pointed head nodding in satisfaction. ‘A grand job, though I say so myself!’ he decided.

  ‘It is,’ Emily agreed. It was exactly the way she wanted it… wider walkways, and two lovely rustic benches, one half-way down the garden, and one where the apple tree used to be. There was even a bird bath in the shape of two dolphins playing with a large round dish. Mr Wilson had been right to persuade her on that new addition.

  ‘I’ve put some bulbs in the soil round the benches. You’ll get a marvellous show next spring and summer,’ he promised.

  ‘I’m sure we will,’ Emily remarked. It occurred to her that Maria may never see another spring and summer. She couldn’t bear to think on it. ‘Goodbye, then,’ she told him, ‘and thank you.’

  ‘Wait a minute, miss!’ He dug a grimy hand into the pocket of his overalls. ‘One o’ my men found this.’ He held out his fist. ‘It were nestled in the roots o’ that old apple tree.’ He unfolded the palm of his hand to reveal an odd-looking object with ugly dark particles of earth still clinging to it.

  ‘What is it?’ Emily was reluctant to touch it.

  ‘Not sure, miss.’ He picked at the object, flicking off tiny specks of mud. ‘I reckon it could be a doll of sorts. You’d need to clean it up, but look…’ He wet his finger and rubbed it over the smoother, upper part. ‘That’s a face, ain’t it? Grimy though, but not rotted, d’you see?’ He held it out again. ‘That there apple tree must have been nigh on forty… maybe even fifty year old, and this ’ere artefact, well, it were right down deep, enmeshed in the roots.’ He paused to examine it, a frown deepening the lines between his eyebrows. ‘Funny thing though,’ he said quietly. ‘The roots hadn’t speared it, like you’d think they would after all this time. No. In fact, they were all entwined round and round… like a cradle, you might say.’ He thrust it forward. ‘You take it, miss. I dare say when you’ve cleaned it up, the thing would make an interesting ornament.’ He chuckled. ‘It could even be valuable. After all, i
t’s been buried in the ground so long you could say it were an antique!’

  Now, when Emily took it from him, he discreetly wiped his hand down the leg of his overalls. Antique or not, he wouldn’t like that thing sitting on his sideboard; it had a sickly, slithery feel about it. Strange that, because, as a rule, when a thing had been buried in the ground for so long it either fossilised or rotted away, and that object had done neither. Even the garment it wore was intact, though to him it looked no better than a bit of sacking. ‘I’ll be on my way, then,’ he said cheerfully, ‘and don’t you forget, miss, should you need anything else doing…’ In a moment he was disappearing round the side of the house; the merry tune he was whistling echoed in the air long after he had gone.

  Inside the kitchen, Emily took great pains to clean the object with the corner of a wet flannel, gently washing the hessian dress, the bare creamy-textured limbs and the long silken strands that shone coal-black in the incoming sunlight. Little by little the doll came to life. Now, as she carefully gouged the earth from every exquisite feature she was made to gasp aloud. ‘Why, it’s beautiful, so beautiful!’ At first the doll had been cold and clammy to the touch, like a corpse must feel, she had mused with regret, but now, shining and vibrant, there was a warmth about it, a living vitality.

  It occurred to Emily that the doll may well have belonged to Maria. After all, she herself had planted the tree and, if the doll was entangled in its roots as Mr Wilson had described, then it must have been unintentionally committed to an early grave at the very time the tree was planted. Emily wondered now whether the old lady had ever kept a dog – certainly she had never mentioned it, but it was the sort of thing a pet might well do – playfully take such an object from the house and drop it into the ground. Emily had no way of knowing how it had occurred, but she was convinced that this exquisite object did belong to Maria, and that somehow it had been lost all those years ago.