Escapees and Fevered Minds

by David Owain Hughes

  Sam opened the back door, but before getting in, she had checked to see if anyone was lurking and ready to do her harm. Maybe Crystal.

  Why would someone help me escape?

  Was it Crystal?

  Did she feel bad?

  Well, if it is her, then the bitch has made a fatal error in letting me out. I told her I’d kill her.

  “In, please,” the driver had said.

  Sam got in, closed the door and tried to relax. If it wasn’t Crystal, then who? Who cares, I’m out!

  Taped to a shelf holding decanters and glasses was a second letter. This one had “Sam” written across it.

  She had ripped the envelope apart.

  My lovely Sam,

  If you are reading this, then you have made it to the outside untroubled, and are sat in the limo provided. The driver has been instructed to take you to Hob’s, which is a café on an old road close to Hirwaun. Once there, the limo will leave you.

  You’ll then need to go inside and ask for Hob. He is the owner. He will be expecting you and will provide you with everything you need: food, clothes, money and a bus ticket which will see you to Porthcawl. He will also give you a third and final letter. When we do meet, I can promise you that it will be more than worth your while.

  One other thing, do help yourself to a Scotch or rum provided in the crystalware.

  Warmest,

  Wadsworth

  After she had finished the letter, the limo pulled off as though the driver had been waiting for her to read it. She poured herself a drink, sat back, and let her thoughts wash over her. Who is this Wadsworth fella? she thought. Was it someone she knew? Someone from her past? They’d kept her on some pretty strong meds at the hospital, which meant she’d forgotten a lot of things.

  Thirty minutes later, she reached her destination.

  And now, looking out the car’s window at Hob’s, she felt a chill cut a pathway down her back. No lights appeared to be on inside the place, which was understandable. It was gone three A.M.

  The car park was deserted save for one other vehicle, which she supposed belonged to the restaurateur.

  Anyone could be watching from behind those darkened windows, she thought. I could be walking into a trap. But why would they drag me all the way out here, to a café, just to off me? Hell, the limo driver could have taken me somewhere, then beat, raped and murdered me. No, there was more to this letter game, and she wanted to know what.

  Sam got out of the car and limped over to the front door of the café. Behind her, the limo drove away, slowly, but she paid it no attention and knocked lightly on the café’s door.

  She winced at the loud echo sounds in which it created.

  A drone of a voice came from within, causing Sam to gasp and jump back.

  “It’s open.”

  The voice sounded hideous. Sly and mean, even.

  She pulled the door open at a steady pace, expecting the worst. She felt so weak. As she lamely entered Hob’s, the place lit up and the voice spoke again.

  “You must be Samantha Saunders? My first of three visitors this evening,” the fat man said from his place behind the counter.

  “Three?” Sam asked, more to herself.

  “That’s right. I got two more of you to come.” He stepped from behind the counter and ushered her to a seat. “Take a load off,” he said, placing a plate in front of her. It had a piece of gammon on it, complete with fried egg, slice of pineapple and chunky chips. “Get you something to drink?”

  “Er…erm…” Sam felt confused by it all. “Who are you. Are you Hob?”

  “Yes, I’m Hob. I’m here to help get you to Porthcawl.”

  “What? Why? Why Porthcawl?”

  “Calm yourself, love,” he said, taking her emaciated right hand and patting it. “It’s all here in this letter I have for you. Now eat your meal before it gets cold.”

  “But…”

  “Eat up, and read that letter of yours.”

  “I’ll have…a beer if you’ve got one, Hob. Hell, bring me a jug of the stuff!”

  “Wahahaha,” Hob bellowed, slapping his knee. “Hell, consider it done, lovely.”

  She eyed him for a moment, then furiously tore into her gammon, stuffing the chips in along with sections of meat until her mouth couldn’t fit any more. Her throat struggled to cope with the amount it was being asked to swallow.

  Before she opened the envelope to the next letter, Hob placed a sweating jug of ice-cold lager down on the table in front of her. A chilled pint glass was also plonked on the table. Beads of water ran off the jug and soaked through the tablecloth.

  “Enjoy. I’ll leave you in peace to finish your meal and read your letter. Once you’re ready, we’ll get you scrubbed and cleaned, then into a fresh set of clothes.”

  She said nothing, just eyed him as he walked back into what she assumed was the kitchen.

  As Sam slowly chewed and rammed more food into her mouth, she looked about her, taking in the American themed restaurant/bar, which had a pool table and a jukebox. Had she the energy and coin, she would have fed the jukebox some money. Instead, she opened her final letter.

  Dearest Sam,

  I hope my loyal pet Hob is looking after you? You can confide in me when I see you if he hasn’t. He’s just a pawn that can be easily removed! I’ll be waiting for you at 379 Eagle Moss Av, Porthcawl. A party has been arranged, with some very special guests. One of which will be your sister, Crystal.

  Hob will provide you with evening wear, which I personally picked out for you, along with some clothes to, umm, ‘kick around in’, shall we say. Also, Hob should provide you with a bus ticket and some, as aforementioned. Come to Porthcawl tonight. I shall be waiting for you, my love.

  Warmest,

  Wadsworth

  “Crystal,” Sam uttered, then crushed the letter into a ball.

  EARLIER THAT WEEK…

  Strange things are constantly happening in or around this café, Hob thought as he held the letter open in front of him.

  People went missing – staff and customers alike. It had been going on for months. The police said a serial killer was on the loose in the area. That may be true to a point, Hob thought, but most have gone missing due to Bella and me.

  But we’re not responsible for all the disappearances around here, uh-uh. And I most certainly don’t kill my staff members, he thought. We mainly kill solo customers who come in and ask for “The Works”, and they are normally single or bored married men.

  The way Hob and his wife saw it, they were doing the single men a favour by curing them of their loneliness, and the married men’s wives a favour by doing away with their debauched and adulterous husbands.

  Everyone’s a winner, right?

  Not only were the men no longer lonely and the wives being made fools of, but Hob had also saved his café, which had been floundering due to money issues. How? Because he served the dead men to his punters. It cut out the cost of buying expensive meats from wholesalers, which in return kept Hob’s open for business in these hard times. Everything was running fine.

  Or so it had seemed.

  Many months had passed since Hob and Bella had started their meat operation in the bowels of their property. The police stopped by every so often to check in on the unsuspecting couple, to inform them of more missing persons and to see if they were okay.

  After all, the place was situated out on an old road, with barely any traffic passing through these days. Just loyal customers (mainly truckers and bikers) who knew of its existence.

  So all seemed to be running smooth. Then, just this morning, a letter arrives. Unmarked. No stamp. It had been hand delivered.

  Hob had found it hanging out of the letterbox like a limp tongue from a mouth. He’d spotted it as soon as he’d flipped the lights on at four A.M. No post ever came that early, and it sure as hell hadn’t been there last night at locking up time.

  So, from between two and now, the letter had appeared. He’d pulled it from the pos
t slot, which snapped back into place after the offending article had been removed.

  Hob had flipped it over and found two words scribed on the chalk-white envelope.

  “I KNOW!”

  His bladder almost released, but he had managed to pinch it just in time. He could feel a tiny wet patch at the front of his pants. He’d known exactly what the words were referring to. They looked filthy. Dirty, somehow. Like they didn’t belong, but did.

  They’d caught in his brain and throat.

  He was almost too scared to peel the envelope’s flap open, let alone take the letter out from inside, but he had. He’d sat on a stool by the counter to read.

  Dear Hob,

  I know about your filthy secret.

  I’ve known all along, since the day you started your murderous spree to save your failing business.

  How could you drag your lovely Bella into such a diseased idea? Were you too scared to take a fall all by yourself, should the police finally find out what you’ve been up to? Were you not man enough to take charge alone? Bella probably now commands the whole venture and looks after you, you sniffling excuse of a man.

  I’m not interested in your inadequacies as a man or a human. All I am interested in is your cooperation and loyalty, and now that I most definitely have your full attention, I am going to explain what it is I expect from you. In return for your help, you will have my silence about your secret.

  Hob put the letter down. He was shaking. Shaking badly. He needed a caffeine fix. The percolator had clicked on via its timer and was now boiled and ready. Hob shifted over to it. It was more of a dazed shamble than a walk. His knees felt weak, as though he had just taken a two-minute pounding at the hands of Vladimir Klitchko.

  Taking a mug from the rack, he proceeded to fill it with the mud-like liquid. He added four sugars – his norm. Taking a hearty swallow, he let things start to register. There wasn’t a panic as such. The authorities hadn’t been informed. His and Bella’s dirty activities were still their secret, but now this evil fucker was trying to destroy them and everything they had worked hard for.

  He needed to calm down before continuing to read the rest of his letter. “Cheeky fucker,” Hob said aloud. “Who the fuck does this prick think he is? Getting off on calling me a coward. I’ll bash his fucking brains out.” With that, he went to the other side of the counter, unhooked the steel bat suspended there, and pulled it up close to him. Old Rosie was engraved in the bloodstained steel.

  “Old Rosie’s no—”

  The jukebox kicked in, which was also on a timer.

  I lead a life of law-breaking

  Filthy acts, completed dirt cheap

  Filthy acts, completed dirt cheap

  Filthy acts, completed dirt cheap

  Filthy acts and they're completed dirt cheap

  Filthy acts and they're completed dirt cheap

  So you're havin' trouble with your life

  You got a busted heart

  He's double dealing your best friend

  That's when the tears begin to drop

  Hob turned, swinging the bat as he went, and smacked his half-full mug off the counter. It sailed through the air and obliterated against the wall next to the jukebox.

  His intense panting quickly turned to uncontrolled bouts of laughter as he lowered his bat and cautiously looked about the café. There was nobody there. The car park was empty. Dawn was beginning to break.

  He looked at the jukebox, which was aglow with a murky green colour that seemed freaky to him.

  Sighing, he put the bat down on the countertop. He then picked up a damp rag and went to the wall to mop it clean. He also picked up the shards of disintegrated mug and placed them in the bin.

  Finished with the clean-up, he poured himself another coffee and sat back at the counter, making sure Old Rosie was close by. He continued to read.

  Firstly, let me explain: My name is Wadsworth. Who or what I am is of no concern to you. Neither is my real name – Wadsworth is an alias. Secondly, I am holding a ‘social gathering’ for VIPs. Three of these VIPs will be visiting you.

  Whether you know it or not, an asylum by the name of Castell Hirwaun is situated not too far from your establishment, and is home to some very colourful individuals. And that is where the three VIPs will be coming from next week – they’ll be visiting you for some good old-fashioned hospitality, before making their way to my home in Porthcawl.

  Now, I know you may have some concerns about letting the mad into your home, but they will do you no harm. Just feed, water and bathe them. They’ll be on their way before you know it. Later this week, I shall send you a package with clothes, money and bus tickets for the three individuals. I wish for you to present the articles to my guests as they arrive. There will also be letters for each of them.

  Once you have done this task for me, I will no longer require your help. You will not hear from me again, and you will be able to rest assured that your secret will die with me. But only if you do as instructed, Hob.

  Yours sincerely,

  Wadsworth

  A few days later, as promised, Hob received a parcel via a Royal Mail courier, which he had to sign for.

  He’d managed to hide the letter from Bella, but not the parcel. She’d demanded to know what was going on, and had the parcel anything to do with the way he’d been acting the last couple of days?

  Hob had caved to his wife, spilling his guts to her the moment they’d closed for the night. She’d been steely throughout what he had to tell her. Bella was not fazed or shaken by it, not like he had been. She held him as he cried. Soothed him as he shook uncontrollably in her arms.

  Bella had always been the perfect woman. He’d known that, from the first moment he’d met her. He knew they were meant to be. And he knew she would always be the strong one.

  “We’ll just do as he wants,” Bella coolly told him. “He’s not threatening violence or bribery. We’ll be fine, you’ll see, Hob.”

  Inside the parcel, packed neatly, were five sets of clothing. One was a spangled black dinner dress with plunging neckline, accompanied by sexy lingerie, an expensive women’s watch and a string of beads. There was a tag attached to the dress. It read: “For Samantha.”

  Next, he pulled out a pair of faded blue jeans, along with a black T-shirt that had a bottle on it. Within the bottle, pink fluid sloshed. Written above the bottle was the word “Poison.” These were also “For Samantha”, along with underwear but minus accessories.

  Followed by those clothes was yet another pair of jeans, these bigger, along with a plain jumper. It had the colour of charcoal. The tag on this read “For Norm”; so too did the dapper male dinner suit that followed. There was also a belt and an expensive men’s watch accompanying the gear.

  Last in line, and definitely the most bizarre, was a big, black Father Christmas costume. No suit, no jeans, no T-shirt. Just this. On the tag was “For Klaws.”

  If the situation hadn’t have been so fucking crazy, Hob probably would have bellowed with laughter. But it slightly scared him. What type of nut would want a black Santa suit? More disturbing was the thought that the nut was heading his way.

  Putting all the clothes to one side, he continued to unpack the satanic parcel. There were three bus tickets and three bundles of cash – one each for the ‘VIPs’, – along with three letters. Each envelope was scribed with a name: Samantha, Klaws or Norm.

  Poking his head out from behind the kitchen door, he looked at Sam. Hob couldn’t help but wish one of the men had been first. Somehow, he felt the other two were going to be the most dangerous. But, having said that, Samantha seems placid enough, he thought. That had helped Hob ease his fears somewhat regarding the two men.

  I’m glad I managed to persuade Bella to stay out of the way, Hob thought. I don’t want her getting hurt if things should turn ugly.

  Noting Samantha had finished her food, Hob went over to her. Her plate gleamed from where she had licked it clean. Her jug of beer sat empty.r />
  “Everything okay with the food?” he asked.

  “Lovely, thanks,” she replied, belching.

  Hob was shocked at how polite, tame, and ‘normal’ she was. She sure didn’t look or act like someone that was crazy. I wonder what she did to get herself locked up in that God-awful place?

  She was pretty, too. A bit thin, but pretty. He supposed she hadn’t been eating much in that asylum, either through her own choice or on account of them starving her. He doubted it was the first of the two, after seeing how she had crammed food into her mouth.

  “Erm, would you like to get cleaned up? I have a private bathroom out back. I’ve placed your clothes and money from Wadsworth in there.”

  “Who are you, and what part do you have to play in this?” she asked, suddenly turning on him.

  He looked stunned. “I…I…I’m not in on any of this, if that’s what you think. I had a letter too! A letter telling me about you coming here this evening, and that I was to expect three of you. That I—”

  “Who are the other two?” she demanded to know.

  “It’s another two from the asylum. That’s all I know. I swear!”

  “Let me see your letter!”

  Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Fear. That’s what it was, and it was nestling into the pit of his stomach. It was warm and stabbing, twisting his guts into knots.

  “I threw it away last night,” he quickly said, hoping his lie would go undetected.

  “Hmm,” she said. “Where’s this bathroom?”

  “This way.” He sighed, relieved that she had dropped the matter so fast. Smiling, he led her to the bathroom, which was fitted with a shower, sink and toilet.