Screaming Yellow

by Rachel Green

  “Robert, his name is.” Meinwen rolled the R across her tongue. “He’s charming and charismatic and sensible and mature and he has this tiny dimple in the corner of his mouth when he smiles.” She demonstrated with her finger on her face. “He’s lovely. I fell in love with him the moment I saw him.”

  “Oh, aye?” Dafydd paused for a moment, concentrating on the road. “Mature, you said. Just how mature? Big brother sort of mature or my old man and a coffin mature?”

  “Well, he’s a little bit older,” said Meinwen, on the defensive. “You have to be a bit older to achieve true wisdom and harmony with the world.”

  “’Struth, he’s old enough to be your granddad, isn’t he?”

  “No.” Meinwen looked out of the window at the mountains dotted with sheep. “He’s in his early fifties, which is no age, these days.”

  “If he’s told you early fifties he’s pushing sixty.” Dafydd frowned. “How old does he think you are?”

  “I might have been a bit conservative with my age.”

  Dafydd snorted. “Go on.”

  “I said I was twenty-five. All right? Are you happy now?”

  “There’s no way you still look twenty-five, love. What did he say when you told him?”

  “He didn’t say anything. Just how much he was looking forward to us being together.”

  “Where was this? In the shop?”

  “Sort of, yes.” Meinwen reached in her bag for the flask of tea then put it back again. “Look, can we stop in Machynlleth? I need to find a bathroom.”

  “Aye, we can.” Dafydd glanced across again. “What did you mean ‘sort of’ in the shop?”

  “I was in the shop.” Meinwen looked away. “And he was at home.”

  “Eh?”

  “I said he was at home. We were chatting on the internet, all right?”

  “On a computer?” Dafydd frowned. “Have you not met him in real life, like?”

  “Not exactly, no.”

  “How do you mean, not exactly?”

  “I mean I haven’t, okay?”

  “You mean you’re packing up and moving three hundred miles for a man you’ve never even met? What are you like?”

  Meinwen folded her arms and returned to looking out of the window. There were scattered houses now they were on the approach to Machynlleth. “I’m not moving just for Robert,” she said after a while. “I had to get out of Dovey. It’s stifling there. When they wouldn’t renew the lease on the shop I thought ‘Well that’s it then. There’s nothing else stopping me.’”

  “But what will you live on, cariad?”

  “I’ve got my savings, and what’s left from when the council bought Mam’s house and Robert’s found me a little cottage to live in that isn’t too much rent.”

  “You’re not moving straight in with him then?” Dafydd pulled to the left to let a car overtake safely. “That’s a bit of a relief to be honest. Sensible of him, like. If you’d moved in and then found you didn’t get on together you’d be stuck.”

  “Oh, he wanted me to move in all right,” said Meinwen. “It’s his wife that didn’t.”

  Chapter 5

  Robert Markhew leaned back in his chair and watched the girl in front of him with lidded eyes. She stood stock-still, her gaze lowered and fixed upon the paperclip he twirled from finger to finger. As the minutes ticked by she began to fidget, first rubbing her fingers together, then scratching her arm and jigging her leg. Finally, her eyes strayed to the window.

  “What am I to do with you?” he said at last, his soft voice crashing against her eardrums after the silence of his study.

  She mumbled something and his hands stopped moving, the glint of reflection from the twisted steel pausing in its endless rotation.

  “What?” he asked. “Speak up girl.”

  She brought her eyes up to meet his for just a moment. “I said ‘anything you like, sir.’” The ghost of a smile flickered across her mouth.

  “Anything I like?” Robert smiled and dropped the paperclip into a shallow tray on his desk where it became lost among its brothers. “Ah. The opportunities you offer with such a simple statement.” He paused, one finger pressing his pursed lips as he considered the merits of this action or that. He stood and walked around his desk until he was standing behind her. She tensed, as if expecting a slap at the very least but still jumped when he spoke.

  “I think I’ll have you stand in the naughty corner for the rest of the day.” His voice was sibilant in her ear and he had to fight to prevent the warble betraying the smile.

  “What?” She looked up, defiant, her head turning to the side to catch a glimpse of his expression. “I’m twenty-seven years old. I’m not a child.”

  “Are you not?” He grasped her shoulders lightly and turned her to face the mirror. In the dim light her slim figure looked years younger compared to his. His white beard served to accentuate their differences in age. He reached to open the door with one hand. “Then leave.”

  She hesitated. “I’ve work to do.”

  “You have your choices.” Robert returned to his seat and took a pair of bunny ears and a camera from the top drawer. He reached forward and tucked the ears into her hands. “Put these on while you decide.”

  Chapter 6

  Simon stepped out of the rectory to walk to the Church of Our Lady of Pity, the center and lifeblood of his parish, with his head bowed and one gloved hand thrust deep in his pocket against the April wind. The other clutched his briefcase as if the wind might pluck it from his grasp. As he opened the gate to the road, his attention was caught by the incongruity of an ice-cream truck, faded stickers advertising the delights of summers past, parked in the driveway of The Herbage next door.

  A middle-aged woman with red hair in a braid that reached almost to her waist was carrying boxes into the house, accompanied by a young dark man with dreadlocks. He paused and frowned before setting off again.

  He crossed the road, heading to the church tucked into a side road that also served both the Royal Park and St. Pity’s Primary School. The children in the playground were playing hopscotch and bulldog, and he watched them for a moment, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, before walking on to the church.

  He stopped in the nave to genuflect and touch the base of the marble statue of Mary Magdalene, the namesake of the building. The stone around her feet was worn from countless touches as people begged for her intervention in their prayers.

  Jean Markhew was in the apse, tending to the candles. She waited for him to finish his silent prayers before she approached, her feet silent in soft shoes.

  “Father.” She nodded and half-bowed.

  “Jean. How are you?” Simon smiled and took her hand in both of his. He nodded toward the display in the transept. “You’ve done us proud again with the flowers.”

  “They’re just daffodils from the garden.” She smiled and looked down to conceal her blush. “I thought Our Heavenly Father would like them as much as I do.”

  “I’m sure he does.” Simon patted her arm. “How is Robert?” Jean was the widow of Robert Markhew’s brother Anthony, and lived at The Larches with him, her daughter Mary and his stepson, Richard. Like the manor, they were one of the few houses in the parish that were sufficiently well-off to employ staff, since Robert was a highly successful writer and internationally acclaimed photographer.

  “Like a bear with a sore head,” she said, her face dark. “Like a little boy who’s dropped his sweeties.”

  “Why?” Simon squeezed her hand. “Though now you have me imagining the famous Robert Markhew in short pants.”

  Jean forced a smile. “He’s wracked with guilt over Grace Peters. They had a fight, you know, and now that she’s dead he’s inconsolable. They never made up their differences.”

  “Oh?” This was news to Simon. “What did they fight about?”

  “He didn’t tell me. I expect it was all the pills she took.”

  “What pills? I knew Grace quite well. I
never saw her voluntarily take pills for anything.” An image of Grace choking on little white torpedoes sprang into his mind. He shook his head to rid himself of it.

  “Sleeping pills. She took them for nightmares. Didn’t you know? I thought everybody knew.”

  “I’m sure it’s just a rumor, Jean. Pay it no heed.” Simon handed her another votive candle. “I’m amazed at the speed with which gossip spreads through the town, but gossip is all it is. Certainly it’s nothing to set your stock by. How are things at the house?”

  “All right, I suppose.” Jean’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “At least they would be if Richard left for good.”

  “Oh?” Simon dropped his voice to a whisper. “There’s no trouble, I hope?”

  “Nothing new, no. He has his mind set on money from Robert and treats me like I’m his servant sent to fetch and carry. He’s an angry young man. Robert can’t see what a money-grubbing little sod he’s dealing with. Only the other day I caught him poking his nose in Robert’s private room.” She lit the candle, placing it in the rack before crossing herself.

  “I’m sure it was perfectly innocent. Richard’s a good lad.” Simon tried to be reassuring. “I didn’t even know Robert had a private room.”

  “Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. All I’m saying is that he shouldn’t be poking around where he’s not wanted. Robert’s got no time for me but as much as you like for the servants. I’m sure he shares his bed with them too. That’s what I was lighting the candle for.”

  “I’m sure you must be mistaken.” Simon clasped her hand. “There must be a reasonable explanation.”

  “Not one he’d confess to you or anybody else.” Jean pursed her lips. “They’ll be damned, the both of them.”

  Simon laughed. “I shouldn’t think so. There’s always time to repent.”

  * * * *

  The church was filled with shadows when Simon turned the lights off at four o’clock. It was usually enough to send people scurrying to the refuge of the open doors at the end of the nave. The only light inside the church now came from the flickering votive candles as they burned away the prayers said over them.

  Simon’s footsteps rang against the wood floor and echoed from walls of eighteenth-century granite as he walked past the pews, checking for lingering parishioners and lost possessions. He paused at the third row from the back at the sight of a silent figure on her knees, a rosary in her hands as she prayed.

  “I’m sorry, I’m closing the church for the night.” His voice was soft enough to prevent her from being startled.

  She looked up, her face translucent in the dim light from the stained glass windows. “I’m sorry, Father. I’ll go.”

  Simon held out a hand to help her to her feet. “It’s Susan, isn’t it? Susan Pargeter?”

  “That’s right, Father.” Susan took his hand and edged out of the pew. “I was praying for Mrs. Peters. Is it true she killed herself?”

  Simon shook his head. “There’s no doubt about it. I feel responsible. I used to see her regularly but I had no idea whatsoever she was so depressed or likely to do such a thing.”

  “Nor I, Father. I saw her every day to take her a hot meal and she never once said she was tired of her life. I don’t like to think of her going to Hell. She was a good woman.”

  Simon nodded, holding out his hand to help the woman out of the pew. “I’m sure that at worst she’ll spend a little time in purgatory, Susan.” He led the way to the doors. “What sins she had are between her and God now.”

  “Then I’ll pray for Our Lady to intercede on her behalf.” Susan paused at the door. “Father? Is it true that she took sleeping tablets?”

  “That’s just a rumor, Susan.” Simon held the door open for her and repeated what he’d said to Jean. “Gossip for old women and nothing to take any heed of.”

  “But there’s no trace from sleeping pills, is there? How would anyone know if that’s what she took?”

  “She didn’t, Susan.” Simon took out his set of keys in an effort to chivvy her out. “Besides, if she’d taken any pills at all it will be picked up in the autopsy. Your body can’t digest pills after you’re dead.”

  Susan frowned, lingering on the threshold. “But what if the sleeping pills were just a cover for something stronger? What if she’d taken heroin or worse after the sleeping pills? How would anyone be able to tell that?”

  “She didn’t take any pills, Susan, and she didn’t take any heroin, none at all.” Simon ushered her out and locked the great oak doors behind them. “If she’d eaten or injected anything it would come up on the blood test.”

  Susan stared at him for a moment, until Simon felt like looking away. “That’s good to know, Father, Thank you.”

  Susan turned and hurried down the path toward the park, her coat tails flapping.

  At the door, Simon turned to look back into the shadowed nave. A second image of Grace intruded, this time of her red and bloated face, looking up at him as she hung from the banisters. He rubbed his eyes and left, locking the church doors before his rounds.

  * * * *

  It was evening before Simon had finished visiting parishioners and was walking back through the cemetery on the way home. At least it was beginning to get lighter at night now, only a month ago it was already dark by six o’clock. When he passed the gate to The Herbage again the truck had gone and his remaining steps to the rectory door seemed a little lighter. He stepped out of the wind into the inviting warmth of the house and was surprised to find Jennifer was not on the computer but in the living room. She called out to him as he closed the door.

  “Simon?” Her voice trilled with suppressed excitement. “We have a visitor.”

  He shrugged off his coat and went in, setting his briefcase on the floor next to the armchair. The large gentleman sitting on the sofa next to his sister was none other than Robert Markhew himself, a trail of biscuit crumbs leading from his goatee to the treasure of a half-empty plate on the coffee table. He made to rise as Simon entered, pulling himself up with the aid of his stick, but Simon waved him down again.

  “No need to get up. We don’t stand on ceremony here.” He turned to Jennifer and bent to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Is there any tea left in that pot?”

  “It’ll have gone cold now.” She stretched upward for the chaste peck. “I can easily make up a fresh one for you, though.”

  Simon waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it.” He lowered himself into the easy chair and threw a leg jauntily over the arm. “Good to see you, Robert. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  “I came to invite you to dinner one evening.” Robert held his chin with one hand, his thumb stroking the grey hairs of his beard and dislodging crumbs over his sports jacket. “All this business with Grace dying has got me thinking about the afterlife.”

  “Heaven, you mean?” Simon smiled. “I shall be delighted, of course. What day are we talking about?”

  “Would tomorrow suit you?” Robert asked. “I don’t know when Grace’s funeral is yet, but it shouldn’t be this soon, and I know you’re busy on Sundays, of course.”

  “Tomorrow will be fine.” Simon pulled out his pocket diary and wrote in the appointment. “Shall we say seven o’clock?”

  “Capital.” Robert heaved himself upright and turned to Jennifer. “You’re invited too, my dear, naturally.”

  “Thank you, Robert.” Jennifer smiled up at him. “Will Richard be present?”

  “Ah.” Robert hesitated. “I’m afraid not. He’s in London at present.”

  “Is he?” Simon stood to show his guest out. “I thought I saw him in the cemetery a day or two ago. He and Jean were leaving flowers on her late husband’s grave and chatting. They seemed to be quite close.”

  “You must be mistaken.” Robert made his way to the front door. “He’s been there all week, looking for work in the museums.”

  Simon shook his head. “My apologies.” He opened the door. “It must have been a trick of the light. We’ll see
you tomorrow then. Seven o’clock sharp.”

  Chapter 7

  Nicole yelped as the hemp rope bit into her thigh. “I’m sorry, Sir.” She spoke through the two strands running vertically across her lips. “I don’t think I’ll be able to take this for long.”

  “As you wish.” Robert relaxed the cord, allowing her to lower her foot to the floor again. “Good girl for telling me before I went any further with this form of binding.” He felt her hands. “Are your fingers all right? They feel a little chilly.”

  “Fine, Sir, thank you.” Nicole shifted her weight to the other foot.

  “How about this?” Robert used a length of silk rope wrapped several times around her thigh as padding against the bite of the hemp.

  Nicole danced on one foot as her leg was hoisted in the air again. “Much…better, Sir.”

  Robert laughed. “Relax. You’re not going to fall. Most of your weight is supported by the karada I’ve worked around your torso. Lean back.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Trust me.” Robert forcibly bent her supporting leg until her weight was suspended by the network of hemp and jute attached to the hook in the ceiling. He plucked at each of the ropes, refining and adjusting the web until each one supported her equally.

  “Ooh,” she said. “I don’t think I can take this for very long, Sir. The ones around my waist are too tight.”

  “Relax.” Robert stroked her hair. “How long can you manage, do you think? Ten minutes? Five? Do you need to call yellow immediately or do I have time to tie off the other leg and take a few shots?”

  “Five, perhaps.” Nicole grunted as a lark’s hitch was tossed over her free ankle and attached to the hook. Her angle tilted nearer to the horizontal as Robert tightened the ropes supporting her foot, wrapping several loops around her to keep her leg straight. “You’re fully suspended now.” He brushed his lips across her shoulder. “I want you to count to two hundred and it will all be over.”