Elise frowned, worried. “What wasn’t Grandpa’s fault, Matthew?”
“The fire. He thinks he didn’t look after me.”
Elise shook her head. “The fire was no one’s fault, darling. A fluke, that’s all. Your grandfather would never intentionally let you get hurt.”
Matthew nodded. “I know, but he thinks it was.”
“He does?” Mark drew closer, leant over his son. “Can you remember the fire, son? Can you remember anything?” He exchanged glances with his wife, fearful of the answer.
Matthew shook his head. “No, nothing. I was coughing, then it was dark.” His face brightened as he did, indeed, remember something. “I remember Grandpa, he’s been with me.”
“He has?” Eager to soothe the child, and close this chapter, his parents played along. They had no wish to lose him again if he was stressed, they just wanted to forget – and move on.
“All the time,” Matthew continued. “He helped me with my puzzle while we waited.”
“Waited?”
“For you to come home from the party.”
Elise felt Mark’s hand tighten on her shoulder. In the months since the party, while they’d buried her father and watched their son as he lay comatose, she’d blamed herself again and again for leaving them; for being out of the house when disaster struck. For leaving them alone. Had her father somehow managed to stay with Matthew, through all this? Had he stayed by his side?
Matthew giggled, and Elise fought to stay calm. “What’s funny, sweetheart?”
Matthew’s smile was warm, his delight genuine. “Grandpa. He says thank you for not blaming him, now he can go – find peace.” Matthew’s face fell. “He’s leaving.”
Mark cleared his throat, amazed at Matthew’s words. “He needs to go to Heaven, son. He needs to rest.”
“He died?”
Matthew’s voice shook, but then the smile returned as his grandfather spoke. “Your place is here, Matthew, with your parents. I can leave you now you’re back with them; it’s where you belong.”
“But where will you go, Grandpa? When will I see you again?”
“I’m going home, son. And I’ll always be watching you, never fear.”
The old man started to fade, and Matthew’s face fell. He buried his face against his mother’s chest, feeling her wrap her arms around him. His grandfather smiled, and nodded, and pointed out of the window, at the snow. “Go home, Matthew. It’s Christmas, and your parents have everything ready, just waiting for you.”
Matthew sniffed back a tear as his grandfather faded, and looked up at his parents. “It’s Christmas?”
Elise nodded happily. “Yes, it is, Matthew. Tomorrow…” She looked at the clock on the wall, “no, today, in fact.”
Matthew grinned, then, and waved at what seemed, to everyone else, to be thin air. “Bye, Grandpa. Bye…and Happy Christmas!”
Cat and Mouse
She wondered afterwards why she hadn’t seen him until it was too late; until he was right there, in her face. If she had seen him, seen the knife, she could have run. She could have screamed. She could have done something.
She shivered, a movement that made her moan at the pain it invoked. He’d tied her wrists to the bed too tight, her hands were already numb. She wished she could say the same of her wrists. Where was he?
The house was quiet, and she couldn’t make out any unfamiliar sounds, try as she might. She turned her head to look at the clock. 11a.m. Damn. He had four and a half hours before she was expected at school to pick up Tim. He could do anything he liked to her in that time. He hadn’t undressed her. At the moment, she didn’t know whether that was a good or a bad thing. She heard the toilet flush, and lay still, her eyes closed. Footsteps came closer to the bed and then stopped. She willed herself to stay still. Christ, her head hurt. What had he hit her with?
She felt his breath against her face, quick and shallow. But he didn’t touch her. When the breathing went away she risked opening her eyes slightly, certain he would be moving away. She gasped when he giggled delightedly, his ice blue eyes no more than an inch away from hers.
“I see you, mouse.” He whispered the words, breath hot against her face, and then he kissed her. Hard. She felt as if she were going to gag, his tongue forced as far into her mouth as he could manage. She tasted Listerine, and tried to breathe, felt his teeth grating against hers. She would not kiss him back.
“Don’t you want to play, mouse? Never mind, you will.” He moved away, and she waited, sure there was more. Sure enough, he was back in an instant, teeth bared in a snarl. “We’re going to have such fun!”
He grabbed her foot and forced her trainer off, then grabbed the other foot and repeated the action. She hadn’t been wearing socks. She tried to kick him off, but he held her firmly and kissed and sucked each of her toes in turn. She felt sick. Even though she hated what he was doing to her, she had to admit the intensity of it was incredible. He started to bite her feet, a little too hard, and she shook her head, tried to pull away.
“No? Okay.” He straddled her, stroked her face. “We can skip that part. Whatever you want.”
“None of this is what I want.”
“Ssshh. Of course you do, you’re just mad at me. That’s all right, though. That works.” He kissed her eyes, her face, then kissed her on the lips once more, gently this time.
She lay quiet. She didn’t think he would really hurt her. She just had to stay calm.
That was when he brought out the knife. Her eyes widened as he held it in front of her face, and she opened her mouth to scream. He clamped his hand over her mouth, his skin like ice, and proceeded to cut away her shirt and bra, exposing her upper body to the cold air. She whimpered as the point of the knife nicked the skin between her breasts, but she wouldn’t scream. He pulled the remnants of fabric out from under her and threw them away, then took his hand away. A tear trickled down his cheek.
“I’m sorry, babe.” Then his lips were there, licking at the scratch, tasting it, sucking it dry. He moved from there to her breasts, kneading one while he licked and sucked at the other. In spite of herself, Lucy felt herself getting wet. Her nipples were stiff and erect, and he was hungry for them. He raised his head to stare at her, grinning broadly. “I knew you’d want to play.”
She forced a smile, not wanting him to see how angry she was. “My hands hurt. You tied them too tight.” She tried to put just the right amount of wheedling in her voice, and smirked as he rushed to loosen them.
“I couldn’t find what you did with the handcuffs. Never mind, that should do it.”
She didn’t interrupt him again; just lay there and watched as he cut her jeans off. She wanted to see if Tom actually had the balls to carry this off. She didn’t start to join in, though. This was obviously some sick little fantasy he had decided to act on; but it was so out of character she couldn’t believe he’d actually be able to go through with it.
She almost laughed at what he did next. Ever methodical, he stood up and undressed, folding each item neatly and laying it on the chair by the window. He had always been obsessive about keeping in shape, and she felt the familiar warmth start to flood through her as she stared at him. Smiling, he came towards the bed once more, and forcing them apart, knelt between her legs.
“You’re going to love this, sweetheart. You’re going to be begging for more.”
She said nothing, just smiled at him. Let him play his little game. She had a feeling that he was stalling, but that didn’t matter. His head dipped between her legs and she gasped as his tongue expertly went to work, gave herself up to the waves of sensation.
Inevitably, he tired of his efforts, and she opened her eyes to see him kneeling before her, desperately trying to revive his sagging erection.
“What’s the matter, lover? Something not working for you?”
Shaking his head, he reached back and untied her wrists. “It’s no use. I thought it might spice things up, for you, if we tried it like this, but
…”
Pulling herself upright, she pushed him back on the bed and straddled him. She slapped him around the face, hard. “But Little Tom needed some help?” She grinned at him, feeling his erection stiffen against her buttocks. Raising herself, she guided him into her and sat back down, holding him still. She traced a line down his chest with her fingernail.
“What have I told you before, Tom?”
“You’re the mistress.” She felt him swell even more, and slapped him again, began to rock. She scratched his chest, hard, and smiled as he bucked.
“What?”
“You’re the mistress. You’re the cat, not the mouse.”
She smiled, and leant in to kiss him. “That’s better.”
Listen…
Children walk hand in hand with danger.
That’s the first thing you have to understand. What adults see as fraught with peril – a cup of coffee or a just-boiled kettle left carelessly on a kitchen counter’s edge, the panes of a glass door just at the right height to break into a million splinters when you run into them, running along the top of a brick wall in the garden that overlooks a rockery several feet below – children see as exciting, with no thought of the mishaps that may occur. Perhaps this is what keeps them safe, this lack of fear, lack of care. Perhaps too much caution is what causes danger to become actual harm, tempted into being by fear itself.
There was certainly no thought of danger as the children scampered for seats in the front row that Saturday morning, sunlight beaming through the windows of the children’s section of the library onto the head of the Storyteller. Brian ran faster than just about any of the kids there. He’d been waiting for this all week, ever since he’d seen the poster for today’s event last Saturday when his mom dropped him off at the library for the morning, as she always did on the way to her waitressing shift. He loved stories, made his mom read to him every night, even though she said that he was too old now. He was nine. Brian didn’t see why that was too old, just because he could read them himself. He didn’t stop enjoying listening just because he was nine, any more than he’d stopped enjoying playing ball with his dad on a Sunday when he came over. What difference did being nine make? He reached his favourite spot, in the centre of the group, a few rows back from the front. Far enough back not to stand out, far enough forward to be able to see and hear clearly. Perfect.
The Storyteller looked, to them, like the oldest man in the world, his hair all shiny and backlit by the sun so it looked as if there was a halo around his head. He was leaning against the librarian’s desk, arms folded, a tiny smile etched on to his face like he was everyone’s favourite grandfather. He looked down at the eager faces, pink with excitement, and the smile stretched, just a tiny bit. The room hushed slowly, as latecomers straggled in and sat behind their peers, begging them to budge up, “Please, we can’t see!” The Storyteller was a wise man, used to the ways of children, and he waited patiently for them to settle.
Finally, there was quiet. The air in the room seemed to still, as if waiting for the magic to begin, exhaled on the mist of the Storyteller’s breath. And so he began. He leaned forward, rested his hands on his knees, and looked at each child in turn – until they were squirming with excitement, desperate to hear what he had to tell.
“Listen,” he said. “Can you hear something?” All the children strained to catch what the Storyteller was bringing to their attention. They couldn’t hear a thing. Even the man and woman standing by the door at the back, loathe to leave their daughter till they were sure she was happy to be left, held their breath. The air was laden with anticipation. The Storyteller grinned, and held his hands aloft as if they encompassed the whole world in their span. “Exactly,” he said. “In the beginning there was nothing, nothing at all.”
He could say anything from this point on, and they’d lap it up. He could see it in the awe on their faces; hear it in the shallowness of their breathing, as if they were afraid of not hearing properly should they breathe too loud. This was his time; this was what he lived for. So he relaxed and began to enjoy himself, secure in the knowledge of their capture.
“Then came the wind,” he said, and the children instinctively moved closer together as the room seemed to fill with whispers borne on the breeze, the air as full of sound as it had been of silence only moments before. Some of these whispers seemed to soothe, some caused disquiet, and more than one child glanced over his or her shoulder quickly, as if fearful of what they might find there. One little boy stood out. He sat straight, head high, and looked around slower than the rest, aware that things might not be quite what they seemed. He wasn’t scared, not yet, just careful – he wanted to see where all this was going. The Storyteller saw him, and nodded to himself. There was one here more awake than the others. That was to the good, he thought. That made things interesting. “The wind was full of the noise of animals, and of men, of howling and screaming and roaring louder than you could ever imagine,” he continued, “and there was such turmoil in the air it darkened as if night itself were coming – does anyone know why?”
One little girl timidly put her hand up a little, then snatched it back down again. But it was too late, he’d seen her. “Do you know why, honey?”
“Is…is it because they didn’t have anywhere to rest?” Her hands were kneading each other in her lap, now, the knuckles white. What if she were wrong? A dim voice in the back of her mind not unlike her mother’s whispered, “There might be consequences.” She looked behind her for her parents but, thinking her happy, they’d departed till this was over.
Again he flashed his teeth, but you couldn’t really call what he did a smile. There was no kindness in it, no joy. “That’s right, honey. It’s because the land wasn’t there yet, or the water. Just the wind.”
“But how…?”
“Ssh, and I’ll tell you.” The little boy who’d dared voice his question sank back, frightened though he didn’t know why. Not yet. He looked at the floor, unwilling to say any more, or risk a peek. The air sounded like there were things in it… “The wind was full of possibility, you see. That’s what could be heard…as if it were the breath of God himself, willing everything into being.” He looked around at his audience, his face a little stern. “Do you see how that could be?”
The children nodded. Almost as one. Yessir, they could, that nod said. We can see anything you want us to, just don’t get mad. One little boy, the more awake little boy – Brian – didn’t see, but he wasn’t stupid enough to say so. Looking around, he saw that neither were the others. All the children knew that danger was here, but most of them still thought it was only in their head. If he was to make a mistake, Brian thought, it wouldn’t be that one. The wind sighed again, and a boy to his left flinched. He rubbed at his neck absentmindedly, and Brian saw that his hand came away a little bloody. This wind had teeth. He turned his gaze back to the Storyteller, lest he realise that Brian saw. And worse, that he was beginning to realise what it was that Brian could see.
“That’s right, children. The wind was the sound of God’s Creation, and it filled the void in a second.”
“Filled it with what?” This from a moppet in the front row, all honey coloured curls and dimples, spellbound by his story and unaware of what was going on all around her. This question met with the Storyteller’s approval, and he leaned closer to her, his face a mask of kindliness and good humour.
“Why, with us, honey. With people, and with the land for them to live on, and the beasts of the air, water and earth for people to eat. God made us, and it was all good.” The children nodded sagely, realising that this was starting to sound a lot more familiar now God was part of the equation. Hadn’t their moms and dads and Sunday School teachers taught them that God made the world in seven days? They were back on home ground now, and all thoughts of danger – of things not being right – receded.
“Truth to tell, children,” he went on, “not everything was good. How could it be? For everything good there’s something bad, w
e all know that, don’t we?” Again the children nodded, images of apples and Eve and the devil dressed up as a snake running through their minds. Brian’s mind, though, swam deeper waters.
“You know the stories your parents protect you from?” Smaller nods now, glances to the right and to the left, seeking reassurance where it could not possibly be found. “Sure you do,” he said. His voice seemed rougher now, harder edged, though his words still seemed to reassure. “You know, the tales about vampires, and werewolves, and ghosts…” The Storyteller smiled, and this time there was humour there, Brian saw. This time he was delighted, and what made him so happy was the fear on the children’s faces, the sudden dawning of the notion that now they were in uncharted territory, a land so far from what they knew they might never find their way back, and they were scared. Brian could see some of the smaller kids looking to the door, hope that their mom or their dad had come back for them written across their faces for all to see – because then it would be over, then they could go home. The story would become the stuff of nightmares, and in time it would fade – but not if the Storyteller could help it.
The Storyteller stood, and started to prowl. “Where do you think all those stories come from? Can anyone tell me?” No one spoke, and Brian saw that the Storyteller really didn’t want anyone to interrupt. He was getting into the swing of it now, he was on a roll – he reminded Brian of a preacher he had seen on TV, asking people did they want to be ‘saved’, and to ‘praise Jesus’. A ‘holy-roller’, his mom had called him – but only after calling him something else that Brian had got into trouble for asking her to explain. “They are around because they’re true, kids, just like we’re around – they’re the opposite of God’s creation, and they seek to destroy us.”
“No!” This was from a little boy at the back, and when Brian turned he saw that the boy’s face was wet with tears. As he stood to run to the door for his mom everyone saw the wet patch on his pants. They started to laugh, nervously at first, then louder and louder till they were almost hysterical – and Brian realised that was out of fear too. The laughter allowed them to let the fear out, in this shrill cacophony of noise that sounded so much like screaming that Brian couldn’t see any humour in it – didn’t find it funny at all. The little boy stood by the closed door; his back pressed tight against it, and knuckled his face dry. “I want my mommy,” he whispered. “I want to go home.”
In Times Of Want Page 4
