He got home, put Winston in the cupboard with all his other props and tried to put it all out of his mind. A few weeks went by before he had to think about Winston again. He had another booking in his diary for a boy’s birthday party. It was another Saturday and as he prepared his props he picked Winston up and recalled the last gig. He looked the dummy in the eye and said, “you caused me a few extra heart beats last time, didn’t you?” He held the glossy face next to his own and then said, “Mind you, she did call you names, didn’t she?” He smiled at Winston. “Perhaps we need to get you some nice new clothes.” He gently straightened Winston’s jacket and once again looked at the label with Mr. Withers’ details.
“He's still got my Sunday best at his house,” a voice said.
Des stared at the label. “I wonder,” he said out loud.
For the rest of the afternoon he could not get the thought out of his mind and decided to pay Mr. Withers a visit. It was about four o’clock when he pulled into Acacia Avenue in his squad car. He had just come on duty for the night shift. He knocked on number 16 and as the door opened, he recognized the old man.
“Mr. Withers?”
Withers looked at him and said nothing and then bowed his head slightly.
“May I come in for a moment?”
“I suppose you have to now,” he replied still not meeting his eyes.
He led him through the dingy hall into the lounge and told him, in a monotone voice, to take a seat.
He then sat down and said nothing, just looking at the carpet.
“Mr. Withers? Do you remember me from the car boot sale? I bought Winston from you.”
He looked at Des with a suspicious look in his eyes so Des gave him a reassuring smile.
Withers narrowed his eyes. “Why are you here then?”
“Look, please excuse the uniform, I am just going on duty. I hope you don’t mind but it is about Winston.
The old man's face was ashen.
“Bit of a cheek I know, but you don’t happen to have any spare parts for him or clothes or anything that you meant to get rid of with him, do you? I don’t mind paying you extra for them.”
“Oh… oh right. I don’t think so but I can go and have a look upstairs for you.” He got to his feet and walked out of the room as if in a daze.
Des stood up and looked around the room. It was very Spartan with few ornaments or pictures. One caught his eye on the mantelpiece. It was of a young couple arm in arm photographed at a street party of some kind. Could have even been VE Day by the look of it. Des looked hard at the image and began to recognize the likeness of a young Withers and his girl.
As he scrutinised it, he could hear Withers coming back downstairs.
“Sorry, but I only have this which should have gone to the sale with him.” He held out a brown paper bag from which he took a small black suit with white-edged lapels.
“His Sunday best, eh?” Des said, half to himself.
Withers’ eyes narrowed slightly again and he mumbled, “yeah, something like that. You can have it, I don’t want anything for it.”
“You sure? That’s very kind,” said Des. He continued to try and make small talk for a while and engage Withers but after a while left, sensing the man wanted to be left alone.
Des got into the car and drove away to start his night shift. The following day he got Winston out of the cupboard and began to re-dress him in the black suit. As he roughly jolted the dummy left and right trying to push him into the suit he thought of the photo on Withers’ mantelpiece. “Wonder where you were on VE Day. Not with some young lady dummy, eh?” Des chuckled.
“I was watching Withers killing someone,” a squeaky voice said.
A sense of panic gripped Des, like at the girl’s party. “This is ridiculous,” he half whispered.
“And he wasn’t the only one,” the voice continued. “There were others, all Yanks. Over here and over sexed!” the voice rose to a shriek. The dummy shook as Des’ hands trembled.
“What is going on?” Des shouted.
The squeaky voice began to sing in a menacing tone, “Over here, over here, oh the Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming over...”
Des threw Winston into the cupboard, slammed the bedroom door and went downstairs. As he sat at the kitchen table trying to finish a cup of coffee, every now and then he thought he heard a muffled voice coming from the bedroom. He felt that the fine balance of his mind had been upset and that Winston in some way had been the catalyst for this. He would have to go.
As he sat and thought, he remembered Winston had ‘said’ there was another suit at Acacia Avenue and it turned out to be right.
He decided to get rid of Winston, but for his own peace of mind he was going to do a bit of digging about Mr. Withers.
Over the following weeks, Des began to search the archives in local libraries and police records to which he had access. From what he could find, there had been nothing on Withers before the war, except that he had been a young socialist. He'd married Edith in 1942, been called up in 1943 and seen active service in Africa, Italy and Northern France, where he'd indeed earned an award for bravery at Normandy. Having been wounded, he returned to England soon afterwards.
During the year following the end of the war, in April 1946, Edith Withers’ name appeared on a police report. She'd been called in for routine questioning about the disturbing case of four American servicemen found dead in a deserted bombed out warehouse in the town. The report stated that they had been billeted with Edith just before the preparations for D-Day. They'd returned to see Mrs. Withers after demobilization on their way back home to the USA. The report stated that on the evening of their deaths, they'd visited her and had met her husband, Mr. Withers, and that was the last she had seen of them.
The only other thing Des could find was what must have been a tragedy for Withers. The local papers describe the disappearance of his wife the following year. All the normal lines of enquiry were followed but to no avail. It seemed that he had lived as a widower since then, never moving away from the marital home.
“What a sad old codger,” Des had thought as he uncovered all this. “Four Americans, hmm, all Yanks,” he had said aloud as he read the report. His hand again had trembled as he thought of Winston and that squeaky voice.
He had gone home, stopping in the hallway and looking upstairs, drumming up courage to go and see Winston. As he gently opened the cupboard door it felt to him more like opening a chest freezer at the supermarket.
He held Winston to his face and said nothing for a while, facing his fears.
“You’re just a puppet, bits of wood and cloth. I can make you say what I want and do what I want, get it? Get it?” He did think for a moment about the ridiculous situation he was in, being so emotionally entangled with a dummy, but he had to say these things; it was to be his therapy. Winston’s face stared lifelessly past Des, who thought that maybe he should keep the dummy until this weirdness passed.
“Maybe I will keep you a bit longer before burning you. They are expecting a dummy at the party this weekend, after all.” His mind began to wander towards preparing for his coming routine. He sat Winston down and began lifting other props from the cupboard.
“I was right about the Yanks, wasn't I?” The squeaky voice said. “Just as I was about the suit – and you know it.”
Des kept on fiddling with things and trying to ignore the voice.
“If you are nice to me I will be nice to you, if not...” The voice petered out as if it were to turn into a chuckle. “Anyway, I can help you. I've seen things. I know things. I can help you make the children laugh or bring murderers to book. I could be your friend, Des.”
“By murderers do you mean old Withers?”
“Of course Withers! He did it and you know he did. I watched him do the first one who came back before the other four. I told him he had to hunt them down that night and punish them for their wrongs.”
“What wrongs? Des asked, choosing to continue t
his surreal conversation.
“I saw them all come and go from her bedroom. Nobody stopped to think I could see it all from the top of the wardrobe where they sat me. She would not listen to me. She wasn't very nice to me, or Withers, risking his life abroad while she was carrying on. She wasn't very nice, so she would have to be punished too, but not yet.” The words of the voice were as though spoken through gritted teeth.
As Des thought about this scenario, it all made sense to him. Curiosity was now gaining the upper hand over fear in his mind. “You told Withers all this and got him to kill the men? To kill her too?”
“Had to be done. It would be our little secret. Withers looked after me in those days so I looked after him. We didn't need anyone else. Our little secret, until he decided to betray me...” The voice rose to a fever pitch, “and throw me out of my home!”
He then said in a much lower tone, “Now he must be punished. He escaped the hangman all those years ago and I was happy to help him but now he must pay. You know I'm right, don't you, Des?”
“We’ll have to see,” said Des in a daze.
“Yes we will, you and me, Des.”
***
The party came and went, as did others. They were very successful and the routine became more and more natural as Des intertwined with Winston. His relationship with Rachel disintegrated until it died altogether. She said that she felt there was someone else and despite Des’ protestations, he knew in a sense that that was true. The crunch came one Saturday night as he and Rachel sat sharing a curry in front of the telly. Winston was seated in the armchair next to the sofa. For some time now Des had not put him in the cupboard but sat him at the table for meals and in the lounge as he relaxed. The conversation took its usual direction. Why didn’t they socialise with others any more, why didn’t they talk things out any more etc.
“And anyway, why does this stupid dummy always have to be here? It really gets on my nerves,” Rachel said, perhaps trying to stir up more than the now usual grunting response.
“Des?” Said a wheedling voice. “You are not going to let this cow talk about me like that, are you?”
Des looked over to Winston and apologetically said, “no, course not, let me handle it.”
“Make sure you do otherwise she may need to be punished and you know what that would mean.”
Rachel shook her head in disbelief. “You really are one sick individual Des, I’ll see myself out. Don’t call me, OK?” She slammed the door as she left.
“Never mind about her! We're better off without her. The time has come for you to do what needs to be done. Get the things together and let’s go.”
Des had known this moment would come and there was no avoiding it. Of course Winston had been right over the months about so many things. The time had come for Withers to pay.
Des had put on his long raincoat, as there was a torrential downpour that evening. He'd picked up the cheese wire and gloves with Winston and driven to Acacia Avenue.
“Now remember, keep the gloves on, quickly in and out. Our little secret.”
Des said nothing, but did as Winston instructed. His mind was on Rachel and his life before he had bought the dummy. He hid Winston under his raincoat, walked quietly to the front door and knocked. A dim light came on in the hallway and there was a noise of bolts being undone. Withers had left the chain on and opened the door slightly.
“Oh it’s you, just a minute.” He undid the chain and opened the door. “What do you want this time of night?”
“Do it now, Des! He has to pay.”
Des pushed Withers back into his hallway, closed the door behind him and uncovered Winston.
“Oh no, not you, no not you.” Withers half whispered.
The policeman's strong hand gripped the old man's throat and he walked him into the lounge where he threw him onto the sofa.
Des sat Winston down in the other chair and then pulled the cheese wire from his pocket, pulled it round the old man's neck and tightened until he breathed no more.
“Justice has been served. He should not have thrown me out with the junk.” The voice evolved into an unearthly cackle.
Des sat down in a daze transfixed by the wire in his hands.
“Well? What are you waiting for?” The squeaky voice demanded. “We have to go now and leave no trace.”
Des began to take off his gloves. “I can’t do this. I need help.”
“They will think you are mad and then it will be you locked in a place you don’t want to be. Believe me, it is not good.”
Des got up and made his way to the telephone on the sideboard.
“Don’t you dare! If you do this, you will pay just as Withers did.” The dummy was shrieking at the top of his little voice.
Des picked up the phone and dialed.
Interview Room 3 - 6.37pm
Des sighed and slumped into his chair. “And that’s where we are now, mate.”
“Wow, some story, Des. Do you want a coffee?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” said Des without looking up.
DS Parkin closed the door to the interview room giving a knowing look to the constable on guard. He found himself walking the opposite direction to the canteen, through the old double doors and down the stairs to the basement where the evidence rooms were. He walked past the shelves of bagged and tagged items until he saw him. Someone had sat him upright.
“So you are the cause of all this mess are you? What are we going to do with you, I wonder?”
“You can leave me here to rot or you can “tamper” with me like you often have with other evidence and make me disappear from this place. It could be our little secret.”
Parkin stared at Winston glassy eyed, “What the…?”
And the Coyotes Sang
By S.A Hunter
Ralph arched and twisted violently. He managed to gather his legs beneath him and spring from the table, landing in the far corner of the room. From there he glared his hatred. Rumbling deep in his throat, he warned them.
“Lisa,” Dr. Allen wearily shoved her hair back and raised her eyes to meet the new assistant's sulky stare. Morosely, Margaret Allen acknowledged to herself her prejudice against the pretty, vapid girl. She modified her tone. “Lisa, you've been shown by both Dr. Kline and myself how to properly restrain. “Dr. Allen pushed her glasses back up her nose, “It'll be easier on him, and us, when we get that anaesthetic in him.”
“He's a horrible cat!” Lisa shouted, rubbing her forearm. “Look what he's done to me!” She extended the pale underside of her arm for Margaret's inspection. The tender white flesh was scoured with four angry streaks—ruby droplets oozed along their length. Lisa's fair cheeks were blotted with hectic colour as she minutely examined the damage. “I hate him!”
Maggie glanced at Ralph who slitted his yellow eyes menacingly.
She sighed. “Here, Lisa. Let's clean that arm.”
Lisa edged over to the sink, where Maggie brusquely sprayed water over the scratches. “Ralph's got an abscess. He hurts.” She eyed the girl over her glasses, “that doesn't improve his temper.”
“Ow!” Lisa jerked her arm away from Maggie's grip. “Will it scar?”
Margaret slapped antibacterial soap into Lisa's hand. “Stripes of honour, m'dear, goes with the territory.”
With no change in her petulant expression, Lisa rubbed the Hibitane over her wound. Her fingernails were pink and perfectly shaped.
Longer than a veterinary surgeon's could be, Maggie observed, and longer than a veterinary assistant's should be.
“Why did you apply for the vet assistant job?”
Maggie had seen some of the applications that had come across the desk. Many of them appeared well qualified for the job.
Lisa shrugged. “I was bored. I needed a change.” She continued, “Dr. Mac said I'd brighten the place up. He offered me the job.”
Maggie bent a jaundiced look at the girl's head. “Where did you work before?”
“Electric Beach. You
know? At the tanning salon.”
“Oh.” Maggie absorbed this information, and mentally cursed male-menopausal aberrations. Irritation gnawed at her as Lisa continued to peer and stroke at her arm. She eyed the clock. “Come on, Lisa,” she said, imitating cheerful optimism, “let's get him knocked down. He looks calmer.”
Lisa's blue eyes were icy. “No. Get Ernie to help you with him.”
“Ernie!” Margaret felt she must be blinking owlishly. “Ernie? What's Ernie got to do with it—he's a janitor.”
The girl arched her brows. “Dr. Mac always gets Ernie to help. Dr. Mac says I don't have to do cats.” A small smile tilted the corner of Lisa's mouth.
Perhaps she didn't realize it was there, or perhaps, Maggie wondered, she meant it to be seen.
“Well.” Maggie shoved at her glasses. “Ernie is busy doing his own work and you and I are going to do ours. Here...” She retrieved two large gauntlets from a high shelf, and stuffed one of the girl's flaccid arms into each. “They're made of kangaroo skin. Tough as hell.” She propelled Lisa back toward the treatment table and turned, swooping down on Ralph who hissed in surprise. Maggie efficiently tucked him against her body, crossing his front legs in a single-handed grip. “Like this. Got it?”
Lisa eyed Dr. Allen sullenly a moment, then wordlessly took Ralph in a reasonably competent restraint.
Maggie Allen paused to deliberately exhale her exasperation. She spoke in low, soothing tones to Ralph. The huge black cat seemed to realize some crises of tolerance had been reached. With one final lifting of lips and laying back of ears, he allowed Maggie to tourniquet his leg. She injected anaesthetic into the vein without any further acrobatics.
The Spinetinglers Anthology 2011 Page 18
