by DaNeo Duran
Sometime later he heard the doorbell a second time.
This time a voice called through the letterbox. ‘It’s Greeny. We going boxing?’
He ignored it.
Later still the doorbell went yet again.
He didn’t react. His eyes had closed some time ago. Again the bloody bell sounded.
Then came the sound of the backdoor being knocked on.
He heard a woman’s voice muffled by its journey upstairs saying, ‘Are you in there? It’s Linda – Miss Wilkinson.’
He didn’t respond but heard footsteps rounding the house.
She spoke though the front door’s letterbox. ‘If you can hear me Barry, I know what happened. I’m here for you love. I’ve cooked for you, and your dad. Shepherd’s pie.’
He didn’t respond.
‘I’ll leave it on the step.’
He’d been emotionally numb for hours. His body too had become like dry clay. He’d imagined his skin as a hardening crust. Now his core threatened to dry out but still his beating heart refused to silence.
With a deadened mind his heart remained as if the only conscious part of him and there, as if for the first time, he discovered his mother.
Too far gone to cry, he let her sing through his despair with familiar love and kindness. As numbness closed evermore around his heart he hoped her voice would eventually lead him from Earth so he could join her forever. Surely that would be better than carrying on.
But the singing seemed protected. He wondered instead if he could stay in this stupefied state forever but with that thought his mother’s voice forbade him to do so.
Wake up now my love. Wake up. Be strong, with my love.
His thoughts floated towards his head. He inhaled reflexively.
As much as he fought to remain out of reality his circulation restarted. No longer like drying clay his organs came back to life like flowers soaking the soil’s summer rain.
Still the voice in his heart sang. After the rain everything grows.
And so with everything else, despair returned and grew.
But it wouldn’t defeat him.
He slid from the bed onto his knees and rolled onto the floor. He cried out. The sound blew his mind. Tears poured as he bawled.
* * *
Finally his mind cleared. His eyes focused; he looked around the room. Everything still seemed as alien.
Getting up he stepped into the landing and to the bathroom. After peeing he stood at the sink and splashed cold water over his face. In the mirror his eyes looked as puffy and red as if he’d been sparring. He drank from the tap for ages.
Returning to the bedroom he switched the light on but straight back off. The darkness muted the room’s non-invitation.
He neither understood nor questioned why he felt like an intruder. He simply sat on the floor facing the one object that made a difference. Illuminated by the moon, the guitar seemed to smile.
He stripped off his school uniform guessing the drunken troll, the ogre, would be back soon. He had no idea what horrors that would bring. But, whatever happened he knew he wouldn’t sleep until the devil did. For reasons he couldn’t explain he redressed in jeans, T-shirt and sweater.
Shortly, from the back bedroom where he waited, he heard the menace battling with the front door key. The door thumped open. A crash followed. The shoe rack must have gone over.
Expletives and roars caused the waiting boy’s veins to pulse with instant adrenalin as the splintering shoe rack fell behind the advancing horror.
‘Where are ya?’ the voice growled from downstairs. ‘You who tells me I killed my wife and son.’
The boy had lived years with terror but never like this. Behind the closed door he maintained a karate attack stance knowing it might be the last thing he ever did.
Fear gripped tighter with each approaching step. The door flew open.
‘Hah!’ the boy shrieked.
His lightening fist speared an apparition silhouetted by street lighting.
The blackness before him then stumbled under the force of a side kick to the stomach. Still the advancing boy had more.
Each repeated kick sent the blackness back the way it’d come.
Now bathed in street lighting the boy acted before the ogre could reappear as an image of the father it’d once been.
A flying jump-kick collided with the enemy’s chest. The mighty push propelled the boy backwards into the awful room. But, though engulfed in darkness he still saw the enemy driven two critical steps away from him.
Retreating towards the top of the stairs the ogre’s left foot expected but found no floor. Its tumble began. A desperate hand grabbed but missed the banister.
The eyes shot back and locked on the boy’s.
All the way to the bottom the ogre clattered.
Enough light found its way from the street for the boy to see, smashed into the wall a heap of tragic alcohol and hate poisoned cells. The ogre’s eyes; open but not seeing. The chest; neither rising nor falling though vomit leached down its overalls.
With no love for what lay at the foot of the stairs the boy felt no remorse. Nevertheless his heart pounded.
He sensed his mother with each mighty beat, Out Out Out OUT.
He spun round and grabbed his parka coat. He looked at the guitar; a symbol of hope.
Leave it.
Unable to face the mess at the bottom of the stairs he opened the landing window. The night’s chill welcomed him as he disappeared into it.
On the ground he’d no notion except to walk but felt snared. Something, made him turn. He saw a bag beneath the back door.
Take it.
He took Miss Wilkinson’s bag and walked.
* * *
One aimless direction followed another. Only his mother’s presence stopped him feeling so utterly alone in the world. He’d confide in no one because murderers had no one to confide in.
He trudged to Crown Street’s tunnel above which eight or so railway tracks lay. Climbing the verge he overlooked the rail yard south of the station’s platforms.
At that late hour he saw just one passenger train. Diesels shunted coal wagons and box carriages. He zipped his coat up and squatted beside trees watching where the working men wouldn’t see him.
With no place to go or deeper trouble to get into, instinct drove him to action. Standing, he leapt over the bridge’s wide rail.
He marched directly towards a southbound goods train. In the distance the rolling stock’s diesel locomotive fierce shout suggested the empty flatbed waggons would be leaving the station rather than merely being shunted to one side.
He didn’t try to hide. He simply marched; then ran alongside the accelerating wagons.
Once securely aboard a flatbed wagon he looked out at the workmen. None had seen him. Looking back he spied the guard’s van and ducked his head low.
The tracks split in four directions. Wherever they led he guessed he’d deal with the consequences when he got there.
But the train kept rolling and soon he looked over Cumbria’s mountains. Their remaining snow luminesced in the moonlight.
He drew his coat tight and thought of Miss Wilkinson. Finally checking the bag she’d left earlier, he discovered Tupperware pots of food.
Emotionally too exhausted for food he pulled his fur lined hood up using it for comfort as he curled tighter into the foetal position against the plunging temperature.
Monday 04th June 1984
As she’d promised Johnny, Linda had been at Montana Avenue’s Citibank before 9am. Everything had gone smoothly and five minutes later a clerk handed her a receipt showing her newly recalculated bank balance – a dismal paltry number.
She’d arrived at her rented office as her assistant Fiona passed Johnny’s call to her. She listened to him explain that he’d tried to avoid handing the money over but wondered why she believed anything he said; especially the bit about him pickpocketing one of the trio’s wallets.
‘No, Johnny I ha
ven’t heard of Benedict Beatty,’ she said. ‘Let’s just hope this PI of yours finds he’s a criminal then we’ll get the police on it. My god, what were you thinking, you could’ve been killed?’
‘I had to try something,’ Johnny said.
* * *
Unfortunately Linda had needed to talk her assistant, Fiona into reducing her hours from the start of the following week. Fiona had been fine with it but Linda had hated having to do it.
Later that day Linda drove home to her empty apartment. She waved to her neighbour Joan and watered her potted trees an action that always relaxed her.
After showering she wrapped herself in a towel and left the steam and candle scented bathroom.
Stepping glumly towards the bedroom she became aware of a fishy smell in the corridor. Puzzled having not noticed it earlier she turned towards the living area.
Without warning a mighty hand flashed before her.
Before she could react it twisted her face, pressing it against the wall. Her arm vanished, bent painfully behind her. A hefty man’s weight pressed her body against the wall. Her thoughts raced, she hadn’t heard a sound.
‘Don’t scream, don’t even move,’ the man’s voice rasped into her ear with his chin bristling her neck.
Crushed against the wall Linda felt her feet leaving the floor.
‘What d’you want?’ she said into the plasterboard.
‘You Sexy,’ the man said releasing and turning her round.
‘Dwight,’ she seethed rubbing her wrist.
‘Who else?’ He grinned. ‘Had you going huh?’
‘What have I told you about being rough with me?’
Making to walk off he caught her arm.
‘Hey.’
‘Leave me alone.’ Memories of ex-boyfriend Earl swept back.
‘I’m sorry. Look I got flowers,’ he said waving a bunch he’d concealed under one arm.
When she stormed to her room Dwight caught the slamming door.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come around unannounced. I’m sorry I scared you and … I’m sorry I was such an idiot last weekend.’
The still unresolved argument.
‘That’s your apology?’ she said still with her back to him.
‘I was an idiot, I realise that now.’
‘You upset me. When I didn’t see you afterwards I almost hoped you’d left.’
‘Jeez Linda. I figured you’d be okay if I came round here with flowers and …’
His voice trailed off as he stepped towards her releasing the knot that held her towel around her.
Snatching it back she clutched it tighter. ‘I’m still mad about this. You stink of fish what have you been doing?’
‘Working, I left you an answering machine message,’ he said defensively.
‘You’ve spent the day on a trawler?’
‘All weekend actually. I showered before coming round.’
‘Well you need another one.’
‘Fine, I’ll shower.’
Though a hopeless cook, Linda dressed and went through the living area to the apartment’s kitchen.
She took a pan from the cupboard but left it on the side. Unable to carry on she sighed. Dwight’s rough play had come too soon after Earl’s violence. He had loved making things right in the bedroom following his losses of control.
After Earl, she’d vowed never to fall into such a pattern again. Yet, she so nearly just had.
Getting her head together she went to the fridge cursing when she realised she also stank of fish.
Always the same isn’t it? she thought whilst chopping vegetables. This one, the last one, the one before that. She would have believed all men the same but Trudie had been seeing a lovely guy. Yes but he was as strong as a cup of water. Her assistant Fiona had a decent boyfriend. They’re just kids; not even Johnny’s age.
Then she realised she’d never had a decent boyfriend since she’d been fifteen. It’s you. You either keep choosing the wrong man or you’re bringing the worst out of them. Which?
’You alright Sexy?’ Dwight said approaching the dining area.
She didn’t want to talk.
They ate in silence.
Linda picked his plate up when they’d finished.
‘I’m sorry,’ Dwight said.
Linda sat back down tired of hearing him apologise. ‘What exactly are you sorry for?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he sighed.
She studied his face. ‘This isn’t love.’
‘Maybe it’s still too new.’
‘You remind me of Earl,’ she said in a whisper.
‘Oh come on—’
‘Sometimes.’
Dwight stared.
Eventually he said, ‘Well if that’s the case I guess we’re through.’
‘Would you like that?’
She watched him thinking. After Earl she thought she’d have a new start; use the money from the sale of her office to buy a new apartment. But now her business seemed to be slipping; she’d given thousands to The USed Wonz. And Dwight?
She didn’t wish to discuss such things with the man who’d created an argument from nothing and disappeared to sea only to come back playing a violent joke.
‘Okay. No more rough play,’ he said as if reading her mind. ‘Only sweet love.’
Linda nodded.
‘And,’ he said. ‘I won’t stay the night. I’ll see you at the weekend if you want me and I won’t smell of fish.’
She laughed. Maybe she’d been too harsh.
He took the plates to the sink.
He didn’t wash up but made to leave. ‘I’m sorry about the flowers too. It’s stupid of me to think they’d make up for my dumbass behaviour last week.’
‘The flowers are lovely,’ she said.
Soon she watched Dwight’s Dodge disappear into the evening.
* * *
At their next venue, a soon to be stuffed-full ballroom, Johnny stood on stage facing his band. ‘Let’s run through that new song we were doing in rehearsal. Everyone remember it?’
Everyone did and though they played as they previously had, Stu made a face at Johnny.
Johnny knew since Linda had saved The USed Wonz’ second album that his better feelings had changed the song’s emotional drive. Stu’s expression had confirmed he knew that too.
Thinking of his agent miles away Johnny smiled. When he’d spoken to her earlier she’d sounded worried for him and without him ever mentioning the violence or that a gun had been pointed at him.
‘Sounding good enough to drop into the set,’ Dane said.
‘Maybe, soon,’ Johnny said not that he welcomed Dane’s opinion one way or another.
Back in the dressing room Mazz handed Johnny his acoustic guitar. ‘I liked those other chords you were playing.’
‘Cheers,’ Johnny said taking the guitar and repeated the pattern.
Soon another new song began pouring from the song-smith and Stu tried underpinning the man behind the emotion.
‘After the rain everything grows,’ he sang.
Saturday 27th April 1974
The train of flatbeds rattled on. Freezing and dozing Barry had reached a point where he couldn’t have grown colder. Still, hour after hour the train beat out its rhythms and Barry wondered when it would run out of rails.
Eventually the dozing stowaway came to with the sun and a sense of the train slowing.
He peered backwards towards the guard’s van.
Nobody watching.
But, he looked forwards with alarm seeing rows upon rows of railway tracks. The decelerating train clattered over the points heading for a terrace of sheds and bypassing platforms lying to one side.
He’d have to jump, but beneath the train gravel whizzed by still faster than he could run. Gripping Miss Wilkinson’s bag he chose the side away from the station seeing nearby forested area.
When the brakes screeched again he leapt from the wagon.
The landing’s momentum force
d his cold-stiffened legs to sprint. Pumping them impossibly hard he kept from tumbling. Maintaining pace he ran for the trees. Nobody shouted after him. He thought he’d make it but a moment before breaching the treeline he careered into a wire fence.
Stopped dead, he looked back. Someone must have seen him. Surely someone would be chasing him down. But, as he scanned the yard he realised the train would’ve so far blocked anyone else’s view.
Now that it had passed, he felt hideously exposed despite his parka’s deep blue. He jogged tracing the fence away from the station until he spotted an unmaintained section, loose enough for him to scramble under. Safely in the woods he collapsed and fell asleep.
* * *
He woke some time later. Cold, stiff and ravenous he realised he’d not eaten since the previous morning.
In Miss Wilkinson’s bag he found three Tupperware containers. The smallest tub had cold-congealed gravy, the next contained generous amounts of peas and carrots and the biggest held enough shepherd’s pie for four people.
He looked at his travel-blackened hands and decided he needed cutlery. Despite his stomach’s painful objections he replaced the lids.
This far from Carlisle he assumed nobody would recognise him so headed out the woods and to the roads leading to the station.
After reaching the ticket office he saw the station’s café. Saturday’s early hour meant spare tables. Though taught by his mother the rights and wrongs of stealing he swept past an unoccupied but cluttered table and borrowed a porridge-sticky spoon.
In the station’s toilets he washed his hands and the spoon before dropping it in the bag. Then he noticed something tucked under the shepherd’s pie tub. He pulled out a note.
It read: Barry, I’m extremely concerned about you. Telephone me if you need or want anything, Miss Wilkinson.
She’d written a telephone number which he committed to memory before flushing the note down the toilet.
Sitting on a bench overlooking the platforms he gorged himself even managing the gravy. When he’d had enough he put the remaining half of the shepherd’s pie away and sat wondering where he might be. He neither saw Carlisle nor any other destination he recognised on the departures. He needed to know.
Back in the toilets he used the rinsed gravy pot for drinking before returning to the café. He approached the waitress who leant again the doorway to the kitchen.
‘I borrowed this.’ He handed her the spoon despite knowing he’d need it again.
‘Thanks darling,’ she said. When he didn’t move on she asked, ‘Can I help you?’
He stared at the counter’s confectionery stand. Running a fingertip over a Mars bar’s paper wrapper he said, ‘I want one of these.’
