A Scarecrow to Watch over Her
by
Craig Saunders
Copyright © 2011 Craig Saunders
All characters in this novel are fictitious and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover or format other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchase.
2nd Edition
1st Edition published 2011 by Blood Bound Books as 'Scarecrow (Craig Saunders)/The Madness (Robert Essig)'
Edited by Blood Bound Books
Proofreader: Andi Rawson
Cover Art Copyright © 2015 Craig Saunders
CONTENTS
Foreword and Acknowledgement
1.
Thursday
2.
Friday
3.
Saturday
4.
Sunday
5.
Monday
About the Author
Also by Craig Saunders
Foreword and Acknowledgement
This story was first published by Blood Bound Books as a part of double-header horror feature packaged with Robert Essig's 'The Madness'. It was my first published novella, and that acceptance gave me enough of a boost to carry on submitting stories to publishers.
'A Scarecrow to Watch over Her' features a violent and rather nasty family, the Mulrones. People think they're gypsies, or maybe a travelling family. The truth is stranger, I think. I always intended to return to the Mulrones and find out for myself who they are, especially their matriarch, Ma Mulrone. She and her kin feature in other fiction (notably 'Flesh and Coin', a new novella titled 'Death by a Mother's Hand').
The future for the Mulrones? I don't know...yet.
Thanks to Andi Rawson, too, who proofread this revised and updated version (roughly twice as long as the original) and made the story damn near as good as I could hope. Thank you.
Craig
The Shed
Jan 2015
1.
Thursday
‘Madge!’
‘What?’
‘Door!’ Bernie, shouting at her from somewhere upstairs.
‘I heard it. I’m doing breakfast!’
‘I’m in the toilet, woman!’
Brilliant.
How just like Bernie. Delivering orders from the throne.
Margaret swore under her breath about Bernie, the persistent caller at the door, and just the general kind of swearing that put-upon people mutter quietly to themselves.
She took the pan off the AGA, wiped her hands on a tea towel, tossed it onto the worktop. The bacon still sizzled as she walked from the kitchen, along the hall, to the front door.
She checked her hair in the full length mirror in the hallway. Grey, but tidy. Good enough. There was a spot of fat on her dress. She thought about a quick change, but the ringing at the door wouldn’t give up.
‘Just a minute!’ she called, pulling her hair back from her forehead with her palm. The strands fell back across her face as she pulled open the heavy door.
‘Oh,’ she said, as she saw the policeman on her doorstep. He was smiling, but that didn’t stop her asking, ‘Is something wrong?’
‘No, ma’am,’ he said, keeping his smile in place. It came out as ‘marm’. Policemen really did still speak like that in the rural heart of the fens.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m sorry, am I interrupting your breakfast?’
Well, yes, she thought.
‘Not at all.’
He nodded. Took a breath.
'It’s just a courtesy call, really. We’re stopping at all the homes in the area.’ He made a show of stepping back, taking in the view. ‘It’s a nice house.’
‘Thank you,’ said Margaret, a trifle impatiently. She knew full well it was a nice house. It was a Georgian farmhouse; old enough to have space and style, but not old enough to be tumbling down around their ears.
The policeman coughed into his hand. When he took his hand away his beard was slightly askew, wiry ginger strands pointing this way and that.
Margaret wondered what the world was coming to. Policemen wearing beards indeed!
And gormlessly, he stared back.
‘Officer?’ she prompted.
A quick sniff and the man dragged his mind back on track.
‘Ah. Yes. As I say, a courtesy. We thought we should let you know, there’s a load of gypsies coming the weekend. A horse and pony show. The long weekend?’
‘I know it’s a long weekend, officer. Your point?’ Margaret smiled as she said it. She was aware she was being brusque. She didn’t like to be thought of as rude. She was, despite her best efforts, thought rude among the ladies of the parish council. Margaret simply was not a people person.
‘Well, we thought we’d let you know. You know.’
‘No, officer, I’m afraid I don’t know. What about the gypsies?’
‘They’re in Mr. Davis’ field.’
‘I know Mr. Davis. I’m sure who he lets in his field is of no concern.’
The policeman coughed again. This wasn’t going how he had expected.
‘Erm, Mrs…?’
‘Rochette.’
‘Mrs. Rochette, as I’m sure you are aware, gypsies are prone to stealing things, and can be quiet, ah, unsociable, shall we say?’
‘And stealing away babies and suchlike?’
‘Please, Mrs. Rochette. I’m just doing my job. I understand your point, but it’s a fact. We’re calling at all the houses in the area. I’d advise you to make sure your doors are locked, and the barns, too. You may wish to give them the benefit of the doubt, but we’re letting you know for a reason. Thefts in the area rocket whenever the gypsies come, and that’s a fact, ma’am.’
Margaret nodded. She deemed it the quickest way to get rid of the man. Her bacon would be ruined. She was more concerned about that than any gypsies.
‘Well, thank you for the warning, officer. I’m sure I shall take it in the spirit intended.’
The policeman wasn’t sure how to take that. He tipped his hat and rubbed his face, seeming surprised to find his beard there.
‘I’ll leave it to you ma’am.’
‘I should think so,' she said. 'Is that all?’
‘Yes. Good morning to you.’
Margaret sniffed and looked out into the field past the policeman. The scarecrow was down again in the front field. She’d have to tell Bernie about that.
She closed the door.
*
The policeman shrugged and walked away. He’d tried. Some people just didn’t want to listen to sense. Being politically correct was all well and good, but they hadn’t called in reinforcements from three counties on a whim.
He turned up the gravel drive and gave one last look back at the house. It didn’t look secure, but it wasn’t his job to tell them that.
'I'll be a monkey’s uncle if they don’t lose their best silver before the weekend's through,' he said to himself as he crunched back down the drive to his car.
*
Bernard came down the stairs hitching his trousers around his waist. He was a man with an ample waist and very little behind, hence his habit of pulling on his trousers. If he didn’t, they were likely to fall down around his ankles
at the most inopportune of moments.
‘Who was it?’ he asked, pretending to scratch his nose, but really smelling them, in case his finger had slipped a little while wiping. Bernie wasn't much of a hand-washer.
‘The police.’
‘What? The police?’
‘Yes, Bernie. The police.’
‘What?’
‘The police, Bernie.’
‘Hmm. Buggers. What did they want?’
‘Apparently we’re to batten down the hatches for the weekend. The gypsies are coming. If that young man had his way I suspect we’d all be hiding in the cellar as if it were the Germans.’
‘Gypsies, you say?’
‘Yes, Bernie, gypsies.’
‘Hmm. Can’t abide gypos.’
Bernard turned smartly on his heel after this pronouncement and walked out into the hall. Margaret sighed and followed him.
‘Bernie?’
He was in the dining room with his head bowed before a the locked cabinet, fiddling with the lock. The lock and key were small, and Bernard’s fingers large. Like sausages.
Margaret watched him with a frown on her face. Her arms were crossed and her fingers tapped out a rhythm on her bicep, too. As if any one of the three signs of displeasure wasn’t enough.
When Bernard turned around with the shotgun, a side-by-side Berretta twelve-gauge, she shook her head firmly, just in case he didn’t get the point.
‘Where do you think you’re going with that?’
‘If the gypos are coming I’m going to be ready. Thieving buggers.’
She snatched the gun from him before he could load the shells he was fumbling with, and thrust it back in the cabinet.
‘Nobody is shooting anybody, you hear?’
‘How are we supposed to protect ourselves if we haven’t got a gun? I’m not young enough to be doing any fisticuffs, you know.’
‘Bernie, don’t be an arse.’
Bernard looked sufficiently chagrined, she decided. She held her hand out.
‘Key.’
‘Madge!’
‘Key.’
‘Oh, blast it, woman. They’ll be in here, raping you, you know. Stealing the cows and the silver.’
‘Key.’
He puffed air through his red-veined nose but gave her the key, then stalked out of the house in a childish huff.
Margaret put the key in her mother’s blue vase.
Bloody fool, she thought. He’d probably shoot himself before he shot any gypsies, but she didn’t trust him enough to take the chance.
*
2.
Friday
The Rochette's Volvo bounced and jostled its way along the dirty, pocked road. Bernard drove, Margaret watched the road, negotiating with Bernard as he negotiated with the road.
‘One.’
‘Aw, come on, Madge.’
‘One.’
‘Madge, seriously. I’m a grown man.’
‘Doctor Reed also says you’re a grown man with a liver the size and texture of an elephant’s testicle.’
Bernard gaped at her.
‘Oh, Bernard. Shut your mouth. You’ll catch flies.’
‘That was two years ago, Madge.’
‘When you were turning yellow, I hasten to remind you, Bernie. One beer. That’s your lot. If you can’t promise me that, I won’t let you go.’
A lesser man might have argued the point. He might have said, 'You can’t stop me', or something equally foolish. But the simple fact was, Margaret could stop him. Bernard might not be the sharpest knife in the rack, but he knew when he was beaten. Every morning, he woke, opened his eyes, and thought, yep, I’ve lost this one, too.
It saved a lot of time in the long run.
‘As you say, Margaret.’
Something in his tone raised Margaret’s hackles, but a huge pothole knocked her teeth shut.
‘Damn it, Bernie! Watch where you’re going! I damn near bit my tongue off.’
Bernard kept his smile to himself.
After that, the drive was quiet. They didn’t talk until they got into town.
Bernard heaved himself out of the car, hitched his trousers, and nodded to his wife. He hadn’t kissed her for…oh, damn near twenty years. Since their eldest was officially conceived, he believed.
‘One,’ she said again, making the point with her finger, jabbing it at him over the roof of the car.
‘Yes, dear,’ he said.
‘Don’t you…’ she said, but he was already walking away.
She thought about chasing after him, but decided he’d stick to it. She turned and headed off to the market. It seemed busier with people than usual, but with fewer stalls. She frowned, then remembered – the gypsies. Apparently the market types didn’t like gypsies, either.
More fool them, she thought. She looked at all the people milling around. She couldn’t tell a gypsy just by looking. Must be one or two, she mused. Market was only busy in the summer, with the tourists. Winter was knocking on the door. There were no tourists.
She smiled. Perhaps she’d meet a real life gypsy, after all.
Exciting. Like that time we went to Spain.
*
Bernard looked around to make sure she wasn’t keeping tabs on him. He wouldn’t put it past her.
‘Same again?’
‘Yes, I do believe I shall take another pint of Woodeford’s finest, thank you very much.’ He laid a five pound note on the bar.
‘Ah, Bernie, are you drunk?’
‘Not at all,’ Bernard said, with a wink. ‘What leads to you to believe that?’
‘I wonder,’ said the barman, with a wink for Bernard’s companion.
‘Because you talk like a Rupert when you’ve had a drink,’ said John, his drinking partner, neighbour, and fellow souse.
‘I resent that implication,’ Bernard said, turned and took the two drinks from the bar, wiping the bottoms off on the Wherry’s mat.
The barman put the change down.
Bernard picked up the two pound coins. The rest, he left on the bar. ‘For you, my good man,’ Bernard told him with a lofty wave of one hand. Unfortunately, that hand had a pint of bitter in it, which slopped down the front of his green body-warmer.
‘Thanks,’ said the barman with a shake of his head, looking at the five pence piece on the counter.
‘Bernie, come and sit down, before you fall down.’ John shook his head. ‘Jesus, you’ve only had one. I dread to think what you’ll be like after another.’
‘Blathered, one should hope.’
‘Come off it, acting the toff.’
‘Yeah, okay.’
Bernard took a healthy gulp of his pint and wiped his lips.
‘Did you hear about the gypos?’ he said, as though he and John were part of some great conspiracy.
‘Yeah. Bugger’s are all over town. I saw one this morning, taking a piss up the front of the florists, he was,’ John said; he, too, speaking in the manner of a man imparting a great secret.
‘Really?’
‘Well, why would I lie?’ said John. His cigarette fizzled as he took a long, satisfied drag. You weren’t supposed to smoke in pubs, but in the Red Lion you could pretty much do what you wanted as long as you hit the trough that passed for a toilet and didn’t get too much sick on the tiles.
‘I suppose. I heard they shit in the street. Like dogs.'
‘They don’t pay poll tax, either.’
‘Buggers,’ said Bernard. The ‘s’ was somewhat slurred.
‘Used to be they stole children. Maybe they still do. You don’t know, do you?’
‘All the children go missing these days…well…there seems to be more gypsies. Makes sense.’ Bernard was half way through his second pint. Bad genes and a dodgy liver led him to believe that this was wisdom, damn it, wisdom.
‘Thousands of ‘em. Out in the field. They’re tearing it up.’
‘Well, Davis knows what he’s doing.’
‘You think so? He doesn’t know what
end he’s talking out of, most of the time,’ said John, not quite as pissed as Bernard, but on his way.
Bernard pursed his lips and frowned as he thought about the statement. He let it pass.
‘Anyway. Margaret loves them.’
‘She what?’
‘Oh, you know Margaret. She’s all, you know, 'Nignogs are people, too.' She wanted me to take on some bloody Portuguese bugger in the summer, to help out. I said no, of course.’
‘Of course. You don’t know, with them, do you? Anyway, nobody calls black chaps 'Nignogs' anymore. Margaret should know better.’
‘Well...' said Bernard, sniffed and took a large mouthful of bitter. He didn't know what people called black people, really. He didn't think he'd ever seen one that wasn't on the television. He drank some more and decided to let that one go.
'Anyway,' he continued. 'It's not like I've got nothing against foreigners, as such. You know. Take Italians. You know where you are with them, sort of. Those funny new countries, though. You know,’ Bernard thought for a minute. Took another drink. ‘Well, you can’t trust ‘em.’
‘No, time was you knew where you stood with the foreigners. Used to just be the Germans, I suppose, back in the old days. I don’t know. You’ve got all these, what are they called, Lithuanians? You never used to have them.’
Bernard nodded in agreement with this sage statement.
‘Another?’ asked John, half-rising from the well-aged and well-worn wooden chair.
‘Thought you’d never ask.’
John walked to the bar, still steady on his feet. Bernard's eyes, though, couldn't quite seem to follow him.
Kebabs, he thought. What's that? Chinese? At least that's useful. But Lithuanians?
'Pfft,' he said to himself.
The door swung in, letting in a waft of chill air which Bernie felt on his flushed cheeks. Two young men wearing skinny jeans and tight tops, walked in. Bernard’s first thought was: damn, the one on the left looks just like a cock.
He was a farmer. He'd grown up on a farm, worked a farm all his life. He thought cock, not like an insult, but a male chicken kind of thing. A rooster, he guessed. The young man's head popped on his neck, like he was pecking, tasting the air, taking in whiffs.
A Scarecrow to Watch over Her (A Horror Novella) Page 1
