by Julia Hughes
Once again, Wren Prenderson had everyone running round in circles and pissing out straight. His hands gripped the steering wheel again, as he remembered the light in Wren’s eyes as he promised to “tidy up.” And he wouldn’t drive his cousin to hospital either. When it suited him, Wren would wilfully disregard every law in the country.
‘Oh god, what have I done?’ He tried to swallow against a mouth sandpaper dry, knowing he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.
******
As soon as Crombie, Lizzie and Rhyllann left, Wren hurried up the stairs to check on Alfie, knowing Crombie would be back soon. There wouldn’t be much time, but there should be enough.
In Rhyllann’s bedroom, it seemed the Lampton boy had stirred a couple of times, but hadn’t regained consciousness. Wren wanted to hit him over the head again, but he didn’t have the time, in any case it might upset Alfie all over again. He’d burrowed himself in the towels making a nest for himself, and Wren hated to disturb him, but this was necessary.
Using two of Rhyllann’s belts, he knelt beside the animal. Keeping his movements unhurried and crooning all the time, he crossed them under and around Alfie’s belly and front legs to create a makeshift harness. He ran a hand under the electrical tape, reassuring himself it wasn’t too tight, knuckled Alfie’s head and promised to be back soon. He had business to take care of first.
Shouldering Rhyllann’s empty holdall, Wren entered the lounge. An old style free standing safe stood in one corner, its black paint blistering with age. The lock was still good and strong, and the four inch steel door so heavy Wren had to use both hands to open it.
Plonking the holdall on the floor, he transferred everything from the safe, sweeping his hands around the cavernous interior to make certain nothing remained. He left the holdall, now weighing a ton, by the front door and hurried back up the stairs for Alfie. Pushing the door wide open he whistled, then called as though calling a reluctant dog to heel.
‘Come on Alfie, get a wriggle on.’
From the kitchen, the house phone rang. With a thrill of pleasure Wren thought it could only be one person, leaving the door open for Alfie to follow or not as the mood took him, Wren raced downstairs, picking the handset up on the sixth ring.
‘Hello?’ The phone was dead. There wasn’t even a dialling tone. Wren looked up sharply at a slight click followed by an insistent hissing. In the corner of the kitchen, his gloved hand still resting on the cooker’s controls, stood a man in black. He was tall, and he was skinny, and Wren had met him before in nightmares. It was the boogy man Gran warned him and Rhyllann about. A balaclava obscured the top half of his face, against the pallor of his chin, his lips seemed thick and obscenely red, as though he made a habit of biting them. Still holding the phone in his hand, Wren backed away, stumbling into the corridor. One of the banister spindles rolled beneath his foot, and before he could regain his balance, his legs flew out in front of him, and he landed on his backside with a woomph. Still neither of them spoke. Wren knew that if he tried to speak, all that would come out would be a gibber. Grinning and showing a set of perfect teeth, achingly white against the cherry red lips, the stranger grabbed both his ankles, and dragged him back into the kitchen, now reeking of gas. Wren’s throat closed up against the fumes, he clutched the phone so tightly he felt the plastic housing snap, a shard dug spitefully into his palm. He stared desperately into the stranger’s eyes, the same dull black as the woolly balaclava surrounding them.
Suddenly the stranger broke eye contact, his perfectly round eyes bulged. Momentarily his grip tightened on Wren’s ankles, then he was stumbling backwards, his lower lip quivering with fear.
Wren looked up just in time to see Alfie launch himself through the gap in the banisters. He ducked as the alligator’s thick set body flew unerringly through the air, angling towards the doorframe to land against Wren’s attacker with a wallop. The man staggered back against the sink unit and Wren swore he heard an unholy crack and hoped it was the bastard’s spine. Raising his snout, Alfie’s nostrils flared as he sniffed at the thickening sickly smell. Performing an ungainly ‘U’ turn on the man’s body, he waddled past Wren, towards the front door. Breathing heavily, Wren staggered to his feet and followed without looking back.
Think It's All Over?
Five hundred yards from the house, the Passat juddered. Crombie glanced at the fuel gauge, mildly alarmed. A split second later a thunderclap boomed deafeningly loud and violent and displaced air thrust Crombie back into his seat. The Passat juddered again as the air swept back and Crombie watched as flames erupted from the cousins’ house, even while he stamped on the brake and clutch. An inferno raged and the interior of the Passat grew unbearably hot, the windscreen creaked ominously. Without taking his eyes from the flames, leaping thirty, forty feet - impossibly high, Crombie selected reverse and backed off, swinging round to park in the nearest warehouse car park. For once the door opened without protest, Crombie sprung hurriedly from the car and dashed into the street to stare hopelessly at the devastating fire rocketing three stories high, casting dancing shadows against the warehouses opposite.
Mere seconds had passed, yet it seemed he had been staring back down the street forever, eyes transfixed. Again and again Crombie moaned, ‘Oh my god, ohmy god, oh mygod.’ He began running towards the burning building, then stopped, wringing his hands, his lungs struggling with heavy dry breaths, unable to take his face away from the flames until another explosion boomed out, making him duck and he retreated back to the Passat, swiping at his eyes, filled with gritty smoke.
The flames bright orange tinged with blue grew higher and higher, seeming to defy gravity as they reached for the skies, and now the whole terrace rolled with smoke, magically bursting into multi-coloured flames; there were several smaller explosions and Crombie saw the little green Stag had caught fire.
‘Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.’ He began chanting again, feeling vaguely he should call the fire brigade. As if conjured up by his mind, from far away, he heard the first of the sirens as fire engines approached. To his surprise seconds later the engines pulled up, hesitated then rolled a couple of hundred yards away from the inferno. Crombie’s hearing could pick up a crackling now, like a radio tuning in but louder than any static he’d ever heard, he wondered if it had been present all the time, his ears felt curiously waterlogged, and he cupped his palm against them, trying to create a vacuum, only succeeding in making his eardrums ache.
The flames seemed to be retreating, Crombie wrenched his gaze away to watch firefighters struggling with hoses. Glancing back to the cousins’ house he noticed every now and then the darkened brickwork showed through the flames. Crombie followed one flame which seemed especially possessed, sucking in his breath as it jumped across the alley, to be followed seconds later by a ball of fire which rolled along the garage rooftops stopping against the outside wall of the chip shop.
Crombie shouted, and wanted to run, to alert the firefighters of this new danger, but his legs wouldn’t work for some reason. With baited breath he watched the fireball burn out against the wall, hoping it would exhaust itself before setting fire to Maudie’s. The ball shrunk into itself, now it was only the size of a football, and just as Crombie thought it was going to be alright, another explosion sharper and more business like filled the air, sucking it away from Crombie’s lungs and flares flew up in bright blues and greens from the fats stored in Maudie’s fish and chip shop.
‘Whoa! Look at Mouldy’s fish and chip shop go!’
Crombie’s blood turned to water, and he turned slowly, certain he was hallucinating.
Barely two yards away, wearing a green Kermit the Frog t-shirt Wren stood clutching Rhyllann’s holdall in one hand, holding a length of rope in the other. Harnessed to the other end of the rope, Alfie gave Crombie his customary put-upon stare, and lowered his body to the ground with a sigh.
‘Gas explosion. Lucky no-one was caught in that!’ Wren raised his eyebrows at Crombie, jerking his head tow
ards the car he said
‘Shouldn’t we be going? If we leave now, we can make Weymouth for breakfast.’
Crombie gaped at Wren, bruised and battered, his trainers caked in mud, but somehow triumphant. Wren smiled shyly as if to say “impossible, but here I am.” Furious suddenly at all the chaos Wren had single handedly created, Crombie said sharply.
‘Wren Prenderson, I’m arresting you ...’ He faltered. Swinging his head back down towards the devastating scene almost certainly engineered by Wren, he watched as firefighters stood about watching the last of the flames dying away. A crowd of sightsee-ers were keeping well back, and finally the police arrived, blue lights flashing importantly.
‘Give me a hand Crumblie.’ Wren had the boot open, and after a brief hesitation, Crombie turned to help load Alfie into the Passat. Wren satisfied himself that Alfie was comfortable, and slipped into the passenger’s seat, waiting for Crombie to buckle up next to him. Before Crombie started the engine, Wren scrabbled around in Rhyllann’s holdall, producing three smartphones. He lined them up on the dashboard. Comprehension dawned on Crombie. Lamptons’ smartphones. All Lamptons’ contacts. He could even access their computers. Wren smiled, reading his mind.
‘How d’you fancy being King of London?’ Settling back in the passenger’s seat, Wren closed his eyes.
By the time Crombie got on to the M3 motorway, deserted at this time in the morning, he decided he liked that idea very much.
Days Later and Miles Away.
Carrie sat on the jeep's bonnet, hugging her knees and watching the sun set over Table Mountain. She should be feeling a sense of awe and wonder as the sun grew huge, turning ferrous red and seeming to melt into the earth. Exotic unfamiliar birdsong only served to make her sick with longing for home. Shivering with misery, she slipped from the bonnet and climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine and headed back for the homestead.
This last week her days had been packed with new experiences, some of which would live in her mind forever. Chief amongst those memories was Nefertiti lumbering towards a herd of elephants, her trunk raised as she trumpeted a greeting that echoed for miles around. And the look on Killer's face, the grin that washed away the tiredness and sorrow as he clutched Carrie's hand while they watched the herd's matriarch welcoming their new family member.
'You should have seen her Wren.' She whispered. Suddenly blinded with tears, she pulled over, buried her head in her hands and wept until she felt empty.
True darkness fell and a myriad of stars shone down, but Carrie wouldn't look at them. If Wren were here ...'But he isn't so get used to it.' She said out loud, selecting first gear and with only a couple of kangaroo jumps, was soon cruising along the dirt track, anxious not to cause her hosts to worry. Because Wren always worried if she were ten minutes late home, he never said anything, but the look of relief followed by joy in his face spoke for him. Sniffling to herself, Carrie finally realised that even though he never said it out loud, Wren loved her. And now it was too late, she'd thrown it all away, and she'd better learn to live without him.
'Man up Carrie.' She told herself fiercely. Then she turned into the drive leading to the homestead, and her heart leapt.
A slim blond figure hurtled towards her, waving joyfully. Carrie's elation was swiftly dashed when she realised it was Lizzie of all people. Laughing at her surprised face, Lizzie thrust an envelope into her hands.
'Oh Carrie, you missed it all, all the fun and excitement! And Rhyllann got shot and Wren nearly killed this really creepy guy, and Dad's in so much trouble, he tore up half of Wormwood Scrubs!'
Unable to make any sense of this, Carrie concentrated on opening the envelope. With Lizzie still babbling about cricket bats, exploding fanlights, guns and how brave Rhyllann had been throwing himself in front of a bullet, and an unexplained gas explosion finishing the job Wren had started, Carrie frowned as she drew out the solitary piece of paper: An art deco sun carelessly drawn on a sheet of A4, crumpled and greased stained. Huffing impatiently, Lizzie snatched it from her and turned it over.
'Dad asked me to give you that. God knows what it says, I can't read a word of the scribble.'
But Carrie could, and she smiled as she traced over Wren's handwriting.
*****The End*****
Especial thanks to Stephen Spencer who was kind enough to be first reader. Any zingyness this story contains can be credited to his excellent suggestions.
The Bridle Path: A romance for grown ups who still enjoy fairy tales is the latest addition to the stable. You know where to find me don't you? Julia Hughes.
