Paupers Graveyard

by Gemma Mawdsley

  ‘Get the fuck out.’

  She cried out as Mike kicked the dog, lifting it off its feet and propelling it into the darkness. Its howl of pain and terror echoed around the kitchen and she found, to her surprise, that she was crying. Even though Mike had slammed the patio door shut, she could still hear the creature howling.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he demanded.

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘I asked you a question?’

  ‘It’s the dog.’

  ‘Speak up. What about the dog?’

  She wanted to tell him how she pitied the helpless animal. To beg him to let it come in, but before she could say anything, he roared.

  ‘Oh, I get it. The dog might upset the neighbours with his howling. Well, fuck the neighbours, and fuck you.’

  The fist that smashed into her face sent her flying. She fell onto the floor and stayed there waiting for what was to come next. It was the increase in howling from outside that saved her.

  ‘Right, that’s it!’ Mike stormed towards the kitchen. ‘I’ll finish that fucking dog off for good this time.’ He stopped in the doorway and looked down at her. ‘I’ll deal with you when I get back.’

  Ruth sat up, feeling her face. Her mouth was filled with the coppery taste of blood. She climbed to her feet, using the couch as support, and looked in the mirror that hung over the fireplace. Her bottom lip was already swollen and badly cut. The blood had run down her chin and stained the collar of her dress. She hoped it would wash out.

  She had very few clothes and couldn’t afford to lose this dress. She had no thoughts of Mike’s attack on her or the consequences when he returned. Her mouth felt raw, meaty against her tongue. Mike was crashing about in the kitchen looking for something to beat the dog with. Perhaps, when he was finished with the animal, his bloodlust would be sated, and he’d forget about her. God help me, Ruth prayed. Give me the strength to endure what happens next.

  Elizabeth watched the blood that trickled down the woman’s chin, and shook her head in disbelief. Even here, in this new century, women still suffered at the hands of men. She had thought that things would be different, but that was not the case. The women in the other houses were not like this one. They moved with a sense of purpose, and she knew by the way they held themselves, that they would not allow this to happen to them. Perhaps it was only women like Ruth, who relied on a man for support, who were beaten. Not much had changed.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Mike had found an old hurley belonging to his son. Nothing was ever thrown away in the Byrne household. He tore open the patio doors and stalked outside towards the howling. The light from the kitchen lit the garden half way. From then on it was in shadow. He forgot, in his haste, to turn on the outside light and had to stop and allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The dog was somewhere at the bottom of the garden. He could just make out its shape over by the tree. His grip tightened on the hurley. That dog had never been any good. He’d get a new one, a better breed. Might just as well do the same thing with the wife, she was as useless as the dog. He smiled at his own joke. Suddenly the howling stopped.

  ‘Where are you, boy? Come on now. Good dog. I’m not going to hurt you. Just beat you to death,’ he mumbled beneath his breath.

  ‘He’s over here.’

  The voice from the dark made him jump.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he spluttered. ‘Come out, show yourself.’

  ‘Why don’t you come and find me?’

  ‘By Christ, I’ll find you all right, and give you the dog’s dose. I’ll teach you to trespass on other people’s property.’

  Black Jack was leaning against the tree. The dog was hiding on the other side of it, unsure of which of the men he was most afraid of. Jack liked the animal, it was prepared to strike at the most vulnerable of targets. It had no sense of loyalty. A rope hung from one of the branches and formed a small loop on the ground. Mike was almost in front of him, but he was still unable to see him. Black Jack watched as he turned this way and that, searching for the owner of the voice, all the while willing him closer, closer.

  Mike’s right foot landed inside the snare. He had no time to react as the noose tightened and his feet shot from under him. He yelled as the world turned upside down, and his head, a couple of feet from the ground, bounced painfully off the trunk. Blood rushed to his head, pounded in his ears. He felt nauseous as the grass spun beneath him, and he brought his hands down to steady himself. The tips of his fingers barely touched the ground. Sweat matted his hair to his head.

  ‘You were saying?’

  Mike tried to turn towards the voice, but the movement caused him to rock.

  ‘Just what do you think you’re doing?’ he gasped. There was no way he was giving in to this thug. ‘Ruth,’ he called towards the open doorway. ‘Ruth, come out here.’

  ‘I don’t think she can hear you. Call louder.’

  ‘When I get down from here you’re dead!’ His blood chilled at the reply.

  ‘I’m already dead.’

  ‘Bastard, rotten, stinking coward. It’s easy to be brave when I’m tied up like this. Let me down and fight man to man.’

  ‘Oh, I have no intention of harming you in any way,’ the voice said. ‘Let’s just say I’m lengthening the odds, for someone who is not as strong as I am.’

  The man was obviously a lunatic.

  ‘Ruth!’ Mike shouted, now that he had recovered his breath. ‘Ruth!’ Something brushed by him, something solid that he was unable to see. The stench, Christ, it was rotten, putrid. He could hear the dog growling, a low warning growl and then the voice.

  ‘He’s been a bad master. It’s time for revenge. Come now.’

  The thing brushed by him again, and moments later he was amazed to see Brutus standing in front of him. The dog looked different, its eyes vicious.

  ‘Get Ruth!’ he commanded. The dog refused to move. ‘Go on, get her, I said.’

  Brutus growled, a deep threatening sound that echoed in the quiet of the garden.

  ‘Don’t you growl at me.’ Mike looked around for the hurley. It lay nearby and he ran the fingers of one hand across the grass towards it. Making contact, he inched it towards him until he could get a proper grip. The fingers on the other hand kept him from swinging too much. The hurley was almost in his grasp.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he yelled as teeth sank into his flesh. The dog’s incisors scraped bone as they buried themselves deeper in his skin.

  His voice seemed to enrage the animal further, and he shook and tossed the hand as if killing a rabbit.

  ‘Ru-u-u-th!’ Mike screamed.

  Next door, Tom Ryan shook his head in wonder. That poor woman, how did she put up with all that shouting? It was hard to see anything, but he thought he could make out the dog running backwards and forwards in the back garden. What a time of night to start playing with a dog. He pulled the curtains closed against the noise, hoping it wouldn’t wake Sheila. She had slept fitfully through the day. Now, finally, with the aid of a sedative, she was sound asleep in bed.

  ‘Stupid man,’ he muttered, closing the kitchen door.

  Ruth had washed her face and put on her nightclothes. The stained dress was steeping in the hope of dislodging the blood. Her body ached from the fall, so she turned on the water heater and set about collecting the few things she would need for her bath, when she heard her name being screamed from outside. She walked slowly down the stairs. It was best to get it over with, whatever it was. There was no sign of Mike and she stood uncertainly for a moment. The dog was snarling, as she flicked on the outside light. The garden lit up and she had to shield her eyes from the sudden glare.

  ‘Ruth, you stupid bitch, help me!’

  She looked towards the voice and gasped. Her husband was hanging upside down from a tree. She almost laughed, until she saw what was standing beside him. It was a man, no, something that had once been a man. His eyes blazed red in the harsh, white light as he stared at her. His hands were folded before
him, his stance arrogant. Brutus had stopped his attack, and he too was staring at her.

  ‘Will you stop standing there with your mouth open, woman, and get me down!’

  She turned towards her husband and noticed the blood. His hand was covered in it, and the grass beneath him splattered scarlet. A movement behind the tree made her look away, and she watched in wonder as a child, or something resembling a child, leapt up onto the branch holding the rope. It seemed to be trying to cut through it, trying to release her husband. The man-thing followed her gaze, and growled in frustration.

  He jumped up and tore the boy away, flinging him through the bushes. Ruth watched it all thinking, this isn’t happening. It’s a nightmare. I’ll wake up soon and be safe in bed.

  ‘Will you hurry up?’

  She turned again towards her husband’s voice.

  ‘Are you listening to me? Hurry up! Get a knife, cut me down.’

  Brutus growled.

  ‘So help me, Ruth, if you don’t move I’ll beat the living daylights out of you when I’m free! Get a sharp knife and get it now!’

  Ruth was turning to walk towards the house when the thing spoke. She watched it as it scooped up the blood-spattered hurley.

  ‘Come near,’ the thing waved the stick at her, ‘and you will share in his fate.’

  She didn’t bother to answer. Instead, she went inside and closed the patio door. The last thing she saw as she drew the curtains was the dog and the man-thing turning back towards her husband.

  Mike Byrne screamed just once. He was unable to do more as the dog sunk his teeth into his face, tearing his lips and tongue away with one bite. He tried to call out through the white of his exposed teeth, bleeding gums and frothing blood, but all he could manage was a low moan. The wind had suddenly whipped up. Its shrieks and moans mingled with his. The disembodied voice spurred the dog onwards. He felt his ear being ripped from the side of his head. The teeth sank into his forehead and pulled. His scalp peeled backwards, and he felt each single hair as it was torn from its roots. The pain was absolute. He was now more dead than alive and groaned almost with pleasure as the teeth sunk into his neck, locating the main artery. He heard the yelp of surprise as blood spurted into the animal’s face. It released him, shaking its head and splattering Mike’s clothes with his own blood. Warm blood coursed down his neck and lodged in the cavity that had once been his ear. He hung like an animal on a butcher hook as it quickly drained from him. His last thought was of his wife. She had balls after all. He would have smiled, if he’d had any lips.

  ****

  Ruth walked back upstairs and pulled the plug out of the bath, allowing it to drain. She shivered, imagining how nice the warm water would have felt on her chilled skin. He was probably dead now. Dead, gone forever; she giggled hysterically at the thought. Would he go to heaven? Despite being a total bastard he probably would. He had been murdered after all. By that man-thing, the dog and even she had played her part in his death. He’d be there to greet her on the day of judgment, there was no doubt about it.

  Her footsteps, though muffled by the carpet, sounded thunderous as she descended the stairs. The silence of the house buzzed in her ears, and her hands shook as she reached out for the curtains on the patio door. Mike was still hanging from the tree, though motionless now, his face a red mask. She didn’t dare step outside, in case the thing was lurking somewhere. It was only fitting that she cut him down, but it would probably be wiser to wait until first light. Taking the sharpest knife she could find, she sat at the kitchen table and waited for the dawn.

  As the hours ticked by, she thought about the endless years of torment that had been her life. Her nerves had become much more frayed since the move, but she had put that down to the unfamiliarity of her new surroundings. Holding her hands out in front of her, she gazed at the thin, gnarled fingers that seemed to vibrate to the pounding of her heart. A dark shadow slunk past the patio door and she drew the knife closer to her chest, finding comfort in the cold steel.

  ‘Go away,’ she screamed at the darkness outside, but the shape returned, drawn by the sound of her voice.

  The noise of its clawing on the glass made her moan in terror, and it wasn’t until the familiar whine of the dog reached her that she realised what it was – Brutus. Her knees shook when she stood up. Flicking the switch on the outside light, she waited for the bulb to blink on. The urgent scratching of the dog’s nails had left red tracks on her clean glass. Her stomach turned at the sight of her husband’s blood and her eyes strayed to the dog, whose face and chest was covered in blood. The hairs on its chin stood out in dark, dried tufts and its footprints lined the patio slabs, daubing the white granite with crimson blotches. The dog whined again, begging to be admitted.

  ‘Go away!’ Ruth screamed, flicking off the light and pulling the curtains closed. It was too much, she could not bear any more suffering. Holding the knife close she climbed the stairs. Once on the landing, she opened the hotpress and turned on the emersion. Now that there was no one to berate her for wasting money, she could do as she pleased. As she waited for the water to heat, she went into the back bedroom, the one she had designated as a guest-room for her grandchildren. While they would never come to stay, terrified of their grandfather, she had always hoped that someday …

  The garden below her was empty, except for the figure that still swung from the tree. Opening the window an inch or so, she looked out into the night. The only sound that marred the silence was the creaking of the rope as it moved in the breeze. She looked towards the bushes at the bottom of the garden and her heart began to pound once again at the sight of the dark shapes that moved behind the trees. A sudden yelp from the dog made her slam the window shut. Had the thing returned? She wondered about this as she walked into the bathroom. Turning on the taps she allowed the bath to fill, testing the water with shaking fingers. Laying the knife on the side of the bath, she climbed in.

  The warmth soothed her and she closed her eyes. Her mind was filled with images that refused to be ignored. Some were from the past, the nightmare of her childhood at the hands of a drunken father and her own stupid decision to marry Mike and allow the terror to continue. Once, when Mike had phoned her from Bosnia to say that he was coming home, she had attempted suicide. It had been a rather half-hearted attempt and her stomach had rebelled at the pills she had swallowed. The aftermath was nothing more than a slight feeling of nausea and light-headedness. Throughout her marriage she had consulted numerous doctors on the condition of her nerves. The only results were prescriptions for various tranquillisers, none of which worked. But it didn’t take an expert to tell her what was really wrong and the cause of her nervousness had finally been removed.

  Lord I’m tired, she thought, brushing a strand of greying hair from her forehead. But it was not just an end-of-day tiredness, or the effects of the pills she had taken to deaden the pain of Mike’s beating. This was a mind-numbing weariness that only death would relieve.

  Her religion had taught that suicides go to hell. She could live on happily without Mike, except for one thing, a fear that consumed her. What if she were to have an accident? She could be just out shopping or even crossing the street and get knocked down and die. Then she would surely go to heaven and be back once again in the clutches of her husband. No, she could not bear the thought. She would rather run the risk of eternal damnation than meet him again. Could the devil be any worse than Mike?

  She winced as she traced the blade along the dark vein on her left wrist, watching the blood pump from it in time to her heartbeat. Black, then red, it gushed between her fingers, making the knife difficult to hold. Plunging her wrist beneath the water, she washed away the blood from her fingers. She would be quicker this time and so she sliced through the vein on her right hand, rather clumsily, but with the same results. Throwing the knife onto the floor, she lay back in the warm, bloody water and waited for death. She felt light-headed and wasn’t sure if that was from loss of blood or the sudden feeling o
f total freedom. She could feel her heart slowing, taking longer between beats. She muttered a prayer, but it was no act of contrition. For a moment, just as her eyes closed, she thought she heard the faint beating of wings. A dark angel was coming for her. She smiled and slid into the blackness beneath the crimson water.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The next day was like any other in a modern suburban housing estate. The morning began with the usual banging of car doors and shouts of children, hurrying for their rides to school. The air was crisp and cold, but not as cold as the undiscovered bodies of Mike and Ruth Byrne.

  At number 25 Sheila Ryan was struggling awake. The two days since the attack were a blur. Tom left for work hours before, in the hope that an early start would mean he could finish earlier and be home before dark. Sheila shivered; despite the central heating, the room felt chilly. She went downstairs in her dressing gown and slippers. She walked to the sitting-room and switched on the log-effect gas fire, which glowed instantly to life and then stood in front of it, relishing the heat. Sheila wondered if Tom would remember to ring the school and make her excuses. It didn’t look too good to be ringing in sick, when she had been there so short a time.

  Sipping coffee, she realised she felt safer and better now that the alarm and new locks had been fitted. Tom was right. Perhaps, in her drug-induced slumber, she had imagined that her attacker was a monster, a demon of some sort. She really would have to gather her wits.

  ‘This is the twenty-first century,’ she reminded herself, ‘and I’m living in a new house, not some creaky, old Victorian mansion filled with family ghosts. What I have imagined is the stuff of nightmares, or the imagination of some thrill-a-minute horror writer.’

  It was time for action. She would shower, do some grocery shopping, and they could enjoy a leisurely dinner together when Tom got home. He would be relieved to find her looking well … or as well as cosmetics would allow. She could feel the hollows beneath her eyes and knew that they would be dark. She had not yet drawn back the kitchen curtains, wanting to keep the heat from escaping. Now, with a feeling of renewal, she pulled them back, allowing the watery sun to flood the room. It was just like any other day. The trees were still green, the sky was blue and there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary.