Paupers Graveyard

by Gemma Mawdsley

  TWENTY

  October 2003

  Jenny stayed in her room for the next two days. Her mother laughed at her story about the monster, saying it was a cat or wild dog she had seen. Joe was nice to her and said she had probably fallen asleep and dreamed it. But Jenny knew this wasn’t true. It was a monster, and much scarier than the other monsters, the ones who had talked to her. The nights now brought with them terrors she could never before have imagined. She was sure there was tapping at her window, but when it happened she huddled fearfully beneath the covers rather than disturb her mother. When she did venture outside she stayed at the front of the house.

  ‘Jenny, I have to go out for a little while. You go inside and lock the door.’

  ‘Please, can’t I go with you?’ she begged, but her mother would have none of it. Her dealer didn’t approve of children. Especially when funds were low and she had to pay in kind. Her growing bulk was only made bearable by the drug she craved and she would do anything to get her hands on it.

  ‘Go on, now,’ she called from the car, backing it out of the driveway.

  Jenny looked around once her mother’s car had disappeared from view. She would have to go inside and be alone. The monster would come for her then, she knew it. She locked the door, making sure the dead bolt was in place the way Joe had shown her, and ran up to her room and hid under the bed.

  He was coming for her, she could feel it. She did not hear him walking up the stairs, and tried not to scream when his legs came through the door and he stood before her bed. She could see his shoes. They were torn and muddy, and the buckles were dull and spotted with rust. She hoped he couldn’t hear her crying, and then maybe he would go away and not find her. The mattress sank towards her. He was sitting on her bed. Sweat dripped down her forehead and into her eyes, but she was too frightened to wipe it away. There was a soft clinking sound, and a necklace was dangled down before her eyes.

  ‘It’s a gift for you.’

  She bit her lip; she wouldn’t scream.

  ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m so sorry.’

  Go away. Please go away, she prayed.

  ‘I know I look frightening, but that’s not my fault. I’m really quite nice. It’s just that I’ve come from a time far away.’

  ‘Do you mean from the stars?’

  He almost laughed in triumph at the small, hesitant question. He would need this child. He could learn from her the things he didn’t understand.

  ‘Yes, from the stars. That’s why I look so different. Please take my gift and say you forgive me.’

  A tiny hand reached out and took the chain. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Won’t you come out and talk to me?’

  She shuffled backwards and came out at the opposite side of the bed. He kept his back to her as she slowly made her way towards him. For a moment her eyes widened and she backed against the wall.

  He really was very scary and smelly, but the more she thought about it the more she realised he was just different. Like the monsters she saw on Star Trek and other space movies.

  ‘Do you like your gift?’

  She forgot that she was holding the necklace, and held it up it front of her. It was old and dirty, and there were bits of mud caught in the links.

  ‘It should clean up nicely.’

  She nodded. Her mother had a special cleaner for jewellery.

  ‘Now, perhaps you could do something for me? There is a lot I need to understand. A lot I have to learn. Will you help me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well,’ he stood. ‘You’re no longer afraid of me, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I told you I was nice.’

  Timmy watched from outside the bedroom window. Hanging suspended in the air, he listened to the conversation. After Jack had left, Jenny ran to her mother’s room. Taking out a white plastic container filled with liquid, she removed the lid and carefully dropped the necklace inside. Wrapping the dripping necklace in a towel, she rubbed and polished trying to remove all traces of the ground in dirt. Then she hung it around her neck. The clasp was stiff from age, but she had no need to open it, as the necklace was long enough to slip over her head. She went back to her room and chose a book from the shelf. This was her favourite one, filled with Martians and monsters and daring adventures on other planets.

  Lying on her stomach, she started to leaf through the pages, all the while playing with the chain around her neck. She pulled it towards her mouth, ran it between her teeth, licking and sucking on the metal. It didn’t taste very nice and she spat out some of the bits of dirt that had come loose with her probing. The dirt was mixed with dried louse excrement. Some remained behind, trapped in her teeth, dissolving slowly to release a disease that had lain dormant for over a hundred and fifty years.

  ****

  Sheila Ryan was preparing for bed. It was the first time she had to sleep alone in almost a year. She had mentally prepared herself for Tom’s absence, but now that it had come to pass, she wasn’t at all sure. The night seemed darker than usual, despite the streetlights, and she shivered as she drew the curtains. Too many horror movies, she thought, going through the house to lock doors and windows and switch off lights.

  She looked out into the back garden. The darkness seemed absolute, deep and threatening. It was no use, she would have to take a sleeping pill. Filling a glass with water, she carried it to her bedroom. She took a bottle of the pills from the drawer, shook one into her palm and sat looking at it for a moment, undecided; she would need two, one would not be strong enough. Not when she was feeling so jumpy. She swallowed them quickly and got into bed. She had left the door ajar so the landing light could shine through. Closing her eyes she whispered a prayer for Tom’s safe return. Within minutes she was sound asleep.

  She moaned and arched her back as the hand between her thighs moved higher. His touch felt cold against her warm skin, and she smiled, happy that her husband had managed to get home that night after all. She tried to open her eyes, but it was difficult. The effect of the pills made everything fuzzy and, she realised, the room was in total darkness. The landing light had been turned off. The bulb in the streetlight must have blown.

  ‘You’re freezing, darling,’ she mumbled, brushing at the hand that was roaming across her bare stomach, pushing her nightdress up. God, she was so sleepy and what was that smell? She tried to focus as the cold fingers kneaded her breast, digging claw-like into the soft skin.

  ‘Ouch, that hurt,’ she slapped at the hand, expecting the movement to cease. Instead it dug deeper, bruising and scratching. ‘Stop it, Tom,’ she tried to sit up, ‘this isn’t funny. You’re really hurting me. Stop, I said!’

  She was thrown back against the mattress so hard, it winded her. And the leg that was forcing itself between her thighs was so cold that it felt as though thousands of icy needles were stabbing her. She fought back as hard as her drugged condition allowed, scratching and pinching, pulling his hair. He was on top of her, forcing her legs apart, when the headlights of a car lit up the room. She was staring into the face of the devil. His red eyes blazing with lust and madness, his skin black and mottled with green and yellow, and his dark hair, which almost touched her face, was speckled with white, a whiteness that seemed to cling to each strand and move of its own accord, lice. Their small fat bulbous bodies filled with redness. She saw all this in the few seconds it took for the car to pass, before the room was plunged once more into total darkness. Only then did she manage to scream. A foul-smelling hand was clamped over her mouth, as her legs were forced wider apart.

  ‘Jesus, no,’ she sobbed, chest heaving.

  ‘No! No!’

  It was a woman’s voice; one of the neighbours must have heard her. She pushed as hard as she could. Almost at the same time, he was grabbed from behind so his weight was instantly lifted from her. Jumping from the bed, she reached for the lamp while the sounds of a desperate struggle continued in the room. Her hands shook as she tried in her panic
to locate the switch. The brightness was dazzling as she turned to help her rescuer. Elizabeth and Timmy were struggling with Black Jack, but were not strong enough to hold him for long. All Sheila saw were demons locked in some frenzied dance. One of them turned to her and shouted.

  ‘Run!’

  She was frozen. Her sobbing had turned to a tortured wailing, and Elizabeth had to scream to be heard.

  ‘Run! Run now, or he will get you!’

  She ran around the bed, but he reached out as she passed and caught her nightdress. Sheila felt herself sail through the air as he threw her back down onto the bed. He was on top of her again, pulling up her nightdress, tearing and scratching, laughing at her pleas for mercy. She felt his breath, the smell of death, noxious on her face. He no longer paid any heed to the pulling hands of the others. They had caught him off guard the first time, but now he was unmovable.

  Timmy looked around for something, anything that would have an effect on him. Then he saw it. Black Jack cried out in terror as the noose went round his neck. It was the cord from Sheila’s dressing gown. Elizabeth grabbed her, pulled her from beneath him and towards the door.

  ‘Run. We can’t hold him for long.’

  Sheila ran. She didn’t stop running until she reached the house next door. Hammering on the door, she collapsed with relief, when the hall light was turned on. The door opened and another ugly face was pressed against hers. She screamed again, backing away.

  ‘Come on, now.’

  Strong arms lifted her and carried her into the house. The woman she had seen through the window hovered in the background as he placed her on the couch.

  ‘Old Brutus gave you quite a scare just then.’

  ‘A man,’ she cried. It was all she could say before dissolving into sobs again.

  Only then did Mike Byrne notice the scrapes on her neck and the blood staining the lower part of her nightdress.

  ‘Call the police and a doctor,’ he ordered his wife. ‘Brutus and I will sort that bastard out for you, miss.’

  He charged through the open doorway of number 25 without a thought for his own safety. He was not brave, but this was different. He was angry; a woman needing keeping in her place by all means, even the odd slap was no harm, but rape! Now that was entirely different. Fucking perverts roaming the night and taking by force. No, that was just not on. He took the stairs two at a time and went towards the only room with a light showing. It was in disarray, but it was the smell that made his stomach turn. He’d never known anything as bad in his life. He turned to leave and noticed that the dog was gone. He found him scratching at the back door, trying to get out.

  ‘He went that way, did he, boy?’ He turned the key and let the dog go.

  Black Jack was standing at the bottom of the garden, struggling to loosen the cord that Timmy had knotted around his throat. The man was unable to see him. But not the dog … it stopped, terrified.

  ‘He must have gone through the bushes,’ the man spoke aloud. ‘I’ll have to go back and get my torch. Stay there,’ he ordered the dog, but there was no need, as it was unable to move.

  He was back in minutes, large black torch in hand, the beam lighting the bushes and field beyond. Pulling aside some of the brambles, he ordered the dog.

  ‘Go on, boy,’ but it refused to move. ‘What’s the matter with you,’ he roared. ‘Come on.’

  The dog cast a fearful eye at his master, then at the struggling spectre glaring at him. That did it. The dog ran yelping through the house and out into the street.

  ‘Come back here, you mangy coward!’ yelled Mike Byrne, hurrying after him, ‘I’ll beat the living daylights out of you.’

  He was still searching for the dog when the sound of sirens invaded the quiet, and the flashing blue lights appeared in the distance. The doctor followed the police. He examined Sheila’s wounds, cleaned and dressed them. She refused to go to hospital, and assured him and the police that she hadn’t been raped. Still, her story made no sense whatsoever. The doctor shook his head as he listened. First monsters, now demons.

  The police searched through the gardens and into the neighbouring field, their torches like small meteors zooming across the dark sky. Anyone who tried to run across this field would have broken his neck. There were so many holes hidden in the grass that they were slipping and sliding as though walking on ice.

  A dog yelping in pain made them hurry back towards the houses. Mike Byrne was kicking the hapless Brutus, who had just come skulking back. The police had to drag him away from the dog, and had he been wearing his usual steel-capped boots instead of slippers, the dog would have been kicked to death. He pulled away from the restraining arms and stormed inside, slamming the door.

  ‘Mike, hush,’ his wife brought her finger to her lips and pointed upwards. Sheila was asleep in the guest room. The sedative the doctor had given her ensured she would sleep through the night.

  ‘That fucking dog stays out. Do you hear me?’ he snarled, the spittle dripping from his mouth.

  She nodded fearfully and was thankful when he stalked away to bed. They each had their own room. They hadn’t slept together for years. She bored him. She knew this and was glad. He had made her what she was, beaten and nervous. Making sure that the house was locked up, she wearily climbed the stairs. The street was quiet again. The police and doctor had gone with the promise of returning the next day. She gazed out into the night before pulling her curtains, and it struck her as strange that not one of the neighbours had come out during the ruckus. Not a single light had been switched on in any of the houses. In a few short months this place had turned people from being friendly and outgoing, to strangers filled with distrust and interested only in self-preservation.

  A dark shape crept across the lawn towards the house. Though she never liked the dog there was no need for such cruelty. Picking up her rosary beads from the bedside table, she knelt and prayed. For the safety of her children, for the souls of her long-dead parents and lastly, though she knew it was blasphemous, for the death of her husband. Sighing, she got into bed and turned off the light. She lay for a while staring up into the darkness. Mike had made three trips to the warring Lebanon before he retired. In that time better men than him had died and yet not one bullet had come his way. Damn it.

  ****

  Black Jack managed to free himself from the cord. It was no use making another assault on the woman. Not while Elizabeth and the boy were watching. A rat scurried by with something in its mouth. He followed. Even the vermin’s sensitive ears were unable to hear his approach. The rat ran into a tangle of bushes. The piece of meat in her teeth was intended for her babies. Black Jack pulled aside the branches. The mother rat bared her teeth at the intruder and leapt. Black Jack caught her by the throat, his grip getting tighter, choking her. He smiled as the thrashing body went limp. Then he turned his attention to the helpless babies who squirmed and clustered together, sensing danger. He stamped his foot down again and again, delighting in the feel of the soft bodies exploding. When he was finished and his bloodlust sated he wiped his shoe on the grass, cleaning away the bits of stringy bodies and gore. That had been easy, he was satisfied. And it was practise for the human vermin. Like that man that tried to set his dog on him and the bitch that escaped.

  He was seething with frustration, as he now knew that his body had betrayed him. That the act he had intended to carry out on the woman was beyond him. Still the urge was there, and while the assault offered no release, he had to admit that he enjoyed the hunt, the thrill of the chase. He would attack her again, when the time was right. For now, he would concentrate on other things; the man for instance and his faithful dog. Jack laughed, as he imagined the man’s confusion when the animal turned on its master, and it would. He would make sure of that.

  Somewhere a woman cried out in her sleep, and he turned and walked towards the sound.

  TWENTY-ONE

  March 1847

  Black Jack fell from his horse as he reached the main door of the H
all. His shirt was soaked with blood, and he was dizzy from the pain. Thomas came running out.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ he whispered, on seeing so much blood. He felt no concern for the man, it was just the sight that startled him. Black Jack was trying to get up and reached a bloodstained hand to him. Thomas was much too thin to bear the weight of the well-fed Jack, and ran inside calling for the master. They returned and lifted him into the dining-room. Annie and Agnes came to see what was happening.

  They laid Black Jack on the dining table and Thomas cut the shirt from him to assess the damage. All the while Agnes cried and lamented the wounding of her son.

  ‘Get her out of here,’ Black Jack roared, and Thomas led the crying woman out into the corridor.

  Annie brought water and cloths and set about cleaning the wounds. Once she had managed to staunch the bleeding, it became clear that none would prove fatal. Charles administered sips of brandy to the wounded man who cursed everyone to high heaven.

  ‘What happened, old chap?’ Charles enquired.

  Thomas and Annie took their time clearing away in the hope of hearing his answer.

  ‘That boy, that stable boy, Timmy. He jumped on me, stabbed me.’ Noticing the woman and man cast sideward glances at one another, he asked. ‘Do you two know something of his whereabouts?’

  ‘No, sir,’ they replied in unison and hurried from the room.

  ‘Someone must know something,’ he turned to Charles. ‘He’s obviously hiding out around here somewhere, and if he is, then God help him.’

  Charles nodded.

  ‘I’m going to lie down,’ he lurched towards the door, weak from loss of blood.

  Charles was relieved when he had left the room. Filling a glass of brandy, he sat down to recover. When Carey had arrived in such a state he had put it down to the work of one of those secret societies. They were getting closer by the day, and he knew he would be held responsible for the actions of Carey and his men. It was time to leave Ireland and he had never been one to outstay his welcome. He had some personal items that would fetch a good price and pay his passage, but not to England. There was nothing worth going back for. He would sail for America, New York. He’d heard they appreciated the gentry there and he could start afresh.