The events of last night seemed impossible. The demon-things, whatever they were, had to be part of some crazy nightmare. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she hugged herself. Tom would be home soon, and everything would be okay.
A gentle tapping on the door made her jump, and she climbed reluctantly from the bath, unwilling to leave its womb-like sanctum. Grabbing a towel, she wrapped it tightly around her, and leaning against the door, whispered.
‘Yes?’
‘Are you all right, my dear?’
‘Yes, thank you. I’ll be down as soon as I’m dressed.’
She wasn’t sure if the woman had heard, because she never answered, and there was no sound of retreating footsteps. Was she still standing outside the door, waiting for her to come out? She shivered again, pulling the towel up around her shoulders, hoping to find some warmth within its folds. She couldn’t stop shaking. After cleaning the bath, she sat on the side, delaying the moment when she’d have to face them.
‘Sheila?’
The voice startled her for a moment, then … ‘Tom!’ She was struggling with the lock on the bathroom door. ‘Oh Tom,’ she threw herself, sobbing, into his arms.
‘My God, Sheila, I didn’t know what to think. The police contacted me first thing this morning. I got here as soon as I could. Are you all right?’
She couldn’t reply. The relief at seeing him was overwhelming.
After she had calmed down and changed into the freshly laundered clothes that Ruth had fetched for her, they talked. The four of them went over the events of the previous night. It was hard to believe, sitting in the bright kitchen of their next-door neighbours, that anything like that could have happened.
‘Hooligans, that’s what they are. Breaking into people’s homes, attacking helpless women,’ Mike Byrne’s booming voice made Sheila jump.
‘They weren’t people, I keep telling you.’
He didn’t seem to hear, or chose to ignore what she said. She was a woman after all, and he knew how they were given to flights of fancy.
‘Call the army in. That’s what they should do. Bring in a curfew, clean up the streets.’
His wife tried to shush him by patting him on the arm, but he slapped her away.
‘Well,’ Tom cleared his throat. ‘We’ll get back home.’ He stood and held out his hand to Mike. ‘I’ll never be able to thank you enough for what you’ve done for us.’
‘Glad to be of help.’
Mike Byrne’s huge hand closed over his, and Tom could visualise the bones crunching as the man shook. His fingers were tingling and it took all his strength not to flex them, when he finally let go.
Tom was glad when they were safely back in their own home, but not Sheila, who looked around her as though expecting the ‘things’ from the night before to jump out on her. Her nerves were so on edge, she almost screamed when the doorbell rang. Tom answered it and came back followed by the doctor.
‘Well, well, young lady,’ he beamed, ‘feeling better are we?’
He reached down to feel for her pulse, and she drew back.
‘Still a bit jumpy, eh? Well, it’s to be expected,’ he sat on the sofa beside her and, using his briefcase as a desk, began to write out a prescription. ‘Just a few sedatives to help calm your wife down; if you need me, my number’s on the top,’ he threw the prescription pad back into his case and snapped the locks. ‘Keep those scratches clean,’ he advised Sheila as Tom led him from the room.
She lay back against the sofa and tried not to listen to the whispered conversation between the two men.
Tom came back, smiling.
‘The doctor says that salt baths are the best thing for you.’
She remained silent and he sat beside her, reaching for her hand.
‘It’s going to be all right, you know, darling. They’ll catch whoever it was, and Mike is calling a locksmith and alarm company as we speak. We’ll make this place safe as Fort Knox. What do you say?’
‘Would “go to hell” be plain enough?’
‘Come on, sweetheart. Don’t be like that,’ he said, trying unsuccessfully to lace his fingers between her limp ones.
‘I know what you were saying to that doctor. “Sheila’s always been a bit nervy”,’ she mimicked his voice.
‘Listen, darling, I know what happened last night was awful.’
‘Awful! Now that’s a nice word for it.’
‘What do you want me to say, Sheila?’ He jumped up and paced the room. ‘How do you think I feel? I leave home for one night and my wife is attacked and almost raped while I was gone. Don’t you think I want to kill him?’
‘You think I imagined it.’
‘Christ, Sheila. I know you didn’t imagine it. I can see that.’
‘I mean about the damned demons – or whatever they were.’
‘I’m not going to argue with you now. You’re far too upset and need these,’ he waved the prescription. ‘It will take me an hour to get to the pharmacy and back. Will you be all right, while I’m gone?’
She nodded, not looking up, and only moved when the front door slammed. She wanted to throw it open, to follow him. Tell him she was sorry. Sorry that she’d been attacked, sorry for not understanding. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Instead she leant back against the door and allowed herself to slide to the floor, sobbing. Crying for her loss of innocence, because she would never again feel safe within this house, this dream home, and for the loss of her parents and the empty years that followed. For the need for psychiatric care, but most of all, the stigma that was attached to this; never feeling wholly trusted after that. Not by the few friends she had and now not even by her husband. She forgot in her grief to be afraid, until a gentle tapping startled her. She sat for a moment, frozen.
‘Sheila, are you there?’
Oh, God, it was that woman from next door. Ruth, wasn’t it? Tapping tapping, ever rapping, like Poe’s Raven. She struggled to her feet and opened the door.
‘I just called around to see if you were all right?’
‘Come in.’
‘Well, just for a moment,’ said Ruth, dodging as if expecting to be hit. ‘Mike called the home security company and they’ve promised to be here sometime this morning.’
Sheila looked at the woman before her. At her dark-circled, red-rimmed eyes and tight smile. Hands clasped tightly together as if she feared they would fly away. Such a small woman, she thought, to have such a big, angry husband. With this the tears started again, and she found the arms that went around her were surprisingly strong.
‘There, there now, dear.’
Sheila allowed herself to be led into the kitchen and sat listening to the kettle being filled and the clink of cups.
‘Sweet tea.’ She took the cup from Ruth. ‘Best thing for shock. Better than any of those new pills they pump into you.’
‘Thank you.’
They sat in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.
‘What did you see? What did you really see?’
‘You believe me?’ Sheila was incredulous.
‘Well, I’m not sure. I’ve seen some things that I can’t explain.’
‘I’m not sure now either,’ admitted Sheila with relief. ‘I know I had taken two sleeping pills, and that I was panicked, hysterical, but I couldn’t be that wrong. Could I?’
‘You said demons?’
‘Yes, like … um …’ she searched for the right words. ‘D’you remember the video Thriller? Where Michael Jackson danced with all these zombies, corpses?’
‘Sorry, my dear,’ the woman shook her head.
‘No, not your thing, I suppose.’
Silence descended again, until finally Sheila asked.
‘What if I imagined it?’
‘That’s possible.’
‘Yes, but what if I didn’t?’
‘Then God help us all.’
‘Amen.’
Outside a car door slammed and they both turned towards the sound. If it was Tom, he was taking his time. Ruth go
t up and started to clear away the cups. A key turned in the front door, and Tom came into the kitchen clutching a white paper bag.
‘Hello, Ruth,’ he greeted the visitor. ‘The pharmacist said to take one right away, Sheila.’
Without being asked, Ruth filled a glass with water and handed it to her. Tom shook a pill onto her upturned palm and they both watched as she placed it in her mouth and swallowed.
‘Better now, darling?’ he brushed Sheila’s hand, afraid of rejection.
‘Getting there,’ she grasped his extended fingers and pulled them back to her.
The doorbell sounded again and Tom went to answer it. Sheila had to admit she felt better. It was probably the effects of the pill, but terror was gradually being replaced by a warm, fuzzy feeling. Tom returned to say the locksmith had arrived and was setting to work. Ruth excused herself, promising to call back the next day.
‘Oh, before you go,’ Tom said, ‘I met one of our new neighbours, Joe Mahoney from number 27. His wife gave birth early this morning, a baby boy; he’s a month premature, but doing well. That’s got to be a good omen, right?’
The women glanced at each other and nodded, but the news didn’t bring about the usual exclamations of pleasure.
‘You’ll get little rest today,’ Ruth looked worried.
‘I’ll be fine. They can work around me.’
‘See you tomorrow. You’ll be all right?’
Sheila nodded, but turning towards her asked again, ‘What if I’m right?’
Ruth crossed herself – the question was unanswerable.
In the graveyard Elizabeth and Timmy sat hidden by the grass. The children ran and played about them, and paid little heed to their whispering. Black Jack sat on the branch of a tree, idly swinging one leg as he watched the movement in the houses. Strange, he felt weakest during this time, invisible. His strength returned as the sun went down. Now and then he glanced across towards the grass to Elizabeth and the boy. He’d find a way to outsmart them. Leaning back against the trunk, he turned his attention back to the houses and the things he desired therein. Soon, it would be his time, the need burning inside would be satisfied. He smiled, closed his eyes and waited for the night.
TWENTY-THREE
Jenny kicked off her bedcovers. It was hot and her throat hurt. She sat for a while, blinking and rubbing her eyes. It was almost dark outside. Her time spent in the hospital waiting room had disorientated her. She was waking when she should be going to sleep. Sliding onto the floor, she was surprised when the room rocked, and she scrambled back onto the bed. She thought perhaps her toes had fallen asleep and wiggled them. They were fine. She was about to make a second attempt to stand, when her door was slowly opened and Joe stuck his head round.
‘Hello, sleepyhead.’
‘My head hurts.’ She scratched so viciously at her scalp, that he was forced to pull her hand away.
‘I imagine it does hurt if you’re going at it like that.’
‘No, I mean inside. It hurts inside, and I’m too hot.’
He laid the flat of his hand against her forehead and frowned. She did feel hot.
‘What does your mother usually give you when you’re like this?’
When she named the medicine, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her downstairs.
The house felt cold, and he made a mental note to turn on the heating. He should have done so earlier, as they were well into autumn. Icy draughts flowed from beneath the doors and he shivered. So did Jenny when he placed the feverish child on the cold marble work surface. It felt like a block of ice on her bottom, and she suddenly needed to pee.
‘Quick, let me down.’
He swung her onto the floor and watched as she hurried towards the downstairs cloakroom, hands clasped tightly between her legs. She was back in moments.
‘Did you wash your hands?’
She gave him one of her looks. He found the medicine she required, and was reading the side of the box as she climbed up on a stool beside him.
‘Two spoons.’
‘What?’
‘You have to give me two of the white spoons,’ she directed, taking the box and pulling out a small, white, plastic spoon.
‘Oh, good, well done,’ Joe said, relieved not to have the worry of measuring the dose.
She sat waiting, mouth open, as he tilted the bottleneck towards the spoon. The liquid was thick, and once moving, fell from the bottle in a torrent, over the side of the ridiculously small spoon.
‘Shit,’ he exclaimed, throwing down the bottle and placing a hand under the spoon in a vain effort to stem the flow. ‘Quick!’ He thrust it towards the waiting mouth.
The bloody stuff was everywhere, stuck between his fingers, so that when he opened them they resembled crimson webs, on his shoes, on the floor, sliding down the side of the stool. It had a life of its own.
‘Will I take the next spoon by myself?’ Jenny smiled at him.
‘If you would, please, Miss Know-all,’ he grinned. Rinsing and drying the spoon, he handed it back to her.
Jenny poured with professional ease, and he shook his head in awe as the liquid flowed neatly onto the curve. She swallowed without losing a drop and handed the spoon back to him, raising her eyebrows a number of times.
‘Yes, yes, I know.’
‘Then say it.’
‘You are the greatest, the most powerful living being on this planet. Now get dressed. We have to visit your mother.’
She climbed from the stool and went upstairs. He had a list of things to do before Helen came home with the baby. He had thought that she would spend at least a week in the hospital, but she had insisted on coming home the next day; not being a first-time mother her doctor allowed it and there seemed to be no problem with the baby, despite the fact that it was a month premature. Come to think of it, none of the doctors or nurses had remarked on this and it was only Helen who told him that this was the case. Anyway, he wouldn’t dwell on it now, there was too much to do. Jenny returned dressed and holding a hairbrush.
‘You have to tie up my hair,’ she climbed onto the stool, handing him the brush and a velvet tie. After numerous attempts to gather her abundant tresses together, he gave up. ‘Let’s just leave it hang down, straight.’
Jenny shrugged, taking the brush from him. Her mother didn’t like it that way. She said it reminded her of rats’ tails, but that was Joe’s problem. Her mother would have to shout at him over it. She still felt too hot, and struggled as he made her put on her coat.
‘Come on, Jen. Be good and I’ll take you for a meal after the hospital.’
‘A real grown-up place?’
‘Would you settle for a Chinese?’
‘Cool!’
He steered her out the door, turning the key twice so the deadbolt fell into place. She ran ahead of him and was struggling with the safety belt when he reached the car. Placing the bag of goods for Helen on the back seat, he got in beside her. She had managed to lock the belt into place and was sitting hands in lap.
‘Ready, Miss Jenny?’
‘Ready.’
She couldn’t see over the dashboard, and instead watched the streetlights as he backed out of the driveway. She usually liked going backwards. If she closed her eyes it felt like falling. But tonight it made her tummy feel sickly. It was not as bad when they started moving forward, and she pulled a lock of hair into her mouth, sucking on it. Her head felt so itchy, she scratched it again with both hands.
‘You okay, Jen?’
‘Fine, I think I’m hungry.’
‘Will you be all right until after we visit your mother?’ he asked. ‘Don’t tell her that I haven’t given you anything to eat, okay?’
‘I won’t.’
Joe reached across and patted her hand. Sometimes she seemed so much older and wiser than he was. They drove the rest of the way in comfortable silence, as Jenny wondered what the small bumpy things were that she could feel in her hair.
****
The hap
less Brutus had finally been allowed back indoors. He sat shaking in his basket, more from fear, than from his injuries. His master had not fed him that day as punishment for his cowardice. Ruth sat staring at the television screen feigning interest in the war documentary her husband was watching. She had no stomach for such things, and prayed for the victims and their families. He would accuse her of sulking or not enjoying his company, if she tried to retire too early. She wanted this day to end, to get away from his endless nagging and complaining. You would think it was her fault that Sheila had been attacked. The insults had started over dinner.
‘Of course, that Sheila is a fine-looking woman,’ he’d remarked, leering across the table at her. She had continued picking at her food, knowing better than to answer.
‘You’ll have no worries in that way. Not unless the attacker is blind or desperate.’ Nothing was omitted.
He sneered at her flat chest, her sagging stomach; even the dryness of her skin didn’t escape his attention. Through it all she remained still, trying not to cry. No wonder he needed his collection, he’d said. This so-called collection was no more than a stack of smelly, dog-eared, porn magazines that he kept under his bed. She was forced to view them each time she vacuumed, pouting, lip-glossed girls thrusting their breasts and other parts up at her as she worked. When the programme was over, he flicked from channel to channel. There were some things she would have liked to watch, but dare not ask, as he would only ridicule her taste. It had been great when he been working or away. She loved the morning shows and the smart self-assured women she saw, speaking of equality and rights. She had forfeited any rights the day she married Mike. She longed to have her own car like Helen Mahoney, and nice clothes and the freedom to enjoy them.
‘Better let the dog out.’ He rose, clicked off the television and walked into the kitchen.
Ruth sat staring at the blank screen. Tonight, for some reason, she felt worse than usual. More depressed, desperate. She heard him swearing at the dog, shouting at him to go out. Walking over to the door, she peeped through. Brutus was cringing inside the patio door and every hair on his body was standing on end. He whimpered and growled at whatever it was he saw in the darkness. Ruth brought her hands to her chest in terror. He was out there, in the dark, whatever it was that attacked Sheila was back.
Paupers Graveyard Page 21
