Compulsion

by Shaun Hutson

  A young woman with a small child that was constantly pulling at her sleeve despite her protestations. She finally silenced it with a handful of sweets.

  A middle-aged woman, who was fluffing up her recently permed hair.

  Carl Thompson sat at the back of the bus, one foot on the seat. He was puffing away on a cigarette, blowing smoke at the NO SMOKING sign.

  Tina Craven sat in the seat in front, picking at one chewed fingernail.

  The bus began to slow down as it approached another stop, where two other people waited. Both women. Both in their thirties. The first of them was already reaching into her handbag for her purse.

  As the vehicle slid to a halt, Thompson nudged Tina in the back and nodded in the direction of the exit.

  She got to her feet and wandered down the aisle, closely followed by Thompson.

  The bus doors opened with a hiss and the first of the women stepped on.

  Donald Tanner was about to smile a polite greeting when Tina suddenly bundled into the woman.

  The impact knocked her down the two steps. She shouted in panic as she toppled backwards, slamming into her friend.

  Tina pushed forward past her.

  Thompson grabbed for the handbag, but missed.

  Some loose change from her purse spilled across the floor of the bus.

  The driver rose in his seat, trying to help the woman, who had fallen back onto the pavement.

  Her handbag dropped inside the bus.

  Donald Tanner snatched it up and held it to his chest.

  Thompson spun round and glared at the older man, his eyes full of fury.

  “Come on!” Tina shrieked, already running up the road, narrowly avoiding a wild swing from the second woman.

  Thompson held Donald Tanner’s gaze for a second longer, then sped off up the street behind her.

  The bus driver was helping the first woman to her feet. She seemed more angry than hurt.

  The man who’d been reading the folded paper had already begun to gather up the spilled change. Tanner held out her handbag as if he was presenting her with some hard-won trophy.

  Thank you,” she said, gripping his arm.

  He smiled triumphantly.

  The bus driver clambered back on board and patted him on the shoulder.

  “Well done, mate,” said the man gathering up the change.

  Tanner beamed.

  A right bloody hero.

  “You sure you’re all right, love?” the driver asked the woman.

  She nodded.

  “Bloody kids,” she rasped.

  The doors hissed, then clamped shut.

  The bus moved off.

  Home at last.

  Donald Tanner turned and waved as the bus driver sounded his hooter and raised his hand.

  The bus had dropped him right outside the driveway of Shelby House.

  He’d be glad to get inside.

  That was a bit too much excitement for one day.

  He wondered if he should mention it to the others. Jack Fuller would be proud of him.

  No. Keep it to yourself.

  He began the trek down the tree-lined drive.

  “Fucking old bastard,” hissed Carl Thompson as he watched. From the corner of the street he saw Tanner disappear into the driveway.

  “Let’s go,” Tina protested.

  Thompson pushed past her and jogged across the street, slowing his pace as he reached the end of the driveway.

  He saw Tanner halfway down the drive, his back to him.

  Tina joined him.

  “What are you doing?” she wanted to know.

  “Thinking,” Thompson hissed without looking at her. He hawked loudly, then spat after the disappearing figure of Donald Tanner.

  As he passed the sign that read SHELBY HOUSE RESIDENTIAL HOME he spat on that too.

  “Old cunts,” he rasped.

  “Just forget about it, Carl,” Tina urged. Thompson said nothing.

  THE DRIVE FROM his house to work took Gordon Faulkner less than twenty minutes; especially in the evenings.

  He guided the Corsa along the roads that led to Shelby House, occasionally glancing to his left and right at the uniform rows of houses that flanked the thoroughfares.

  Lights burned in the windows of most.

  Sometimes he would see shapes moving against the glowing backdrops or curtains being drawn to shut out the darkness.

  He wondered what was going on within the modest dwellings.

  The nightly ritual of watching TV?

  Kids doing their homework?

  Dinners being eaten?

  The day’s work being discussed and dissected?

  The normal, boring monotony of day-to-day living, basically.

  He eased the volume on the cassette player down slightly and turned the car into the leafy avenue, surprised at how many of the street lights weren’t working.

  The shadows were thick here and he flicked the Corsa’s headlights to full beam.

  They picked out the sign ahead: SHELBY HOUSE RESIDENTIAL HOME.

  Beside it were two kids.

  Both boys.

  Both in their early teens he guessed, but in the darkness it was difficult to tell.

  He slowed down at the junction, then drove across and on towards the gravel drive that would lead him up to Shelby House.

  The two boys both turned to face the oncoming Corsa.

  As their faces were illuminated in the headlights’ glare, Faulkner could see they were younger than he’d initially thought.

  Ten. Eleven, maybe.

  Both were on bikes.

  One was resting against the blue sign.

  Faulkner could see that he was using the tip of a screwdriver to scratch into the blue paint.

  As he drew level with them he wound down his window.

  “Excuse me,” he called.

  “Would you mind not doing that, please?”

  Liam Harper ignored him and continued to gouge the paintwork.

  “I said, would you stop that,” Faulkner repeated, his tone more forceful.

  “Why?” Harper grunted, without looking at him.

  “Just pack it in, you’re damaging private property.”

  Harper hacked even more venomously at the sign.

  Faulkner pushed open his door and prepared to clamber out of the car.

  Harper stepped away from the sign.

  “I’ve finished now.” He grinned.

  Faulkner saw what was scrawled across the bottom of the sign.

  “That’s criminal damage,” Faulkner snarled.

  “You could be reported for that.”

  “So report me,” Harper sneered.

  Faulkner glanced at the words gouged into the sign, then at the grinning youth.

  Behind him he heard movement.

  Terry Mackenzie rode his bike alongside the Corsa, allowing the handlebars to scrape against the paintwork.

  “Get away from here,” Faulkner said angrily.

  “Or what?”

  The voice came from the darkness around the entrance to the driveway.

  Carl Thompson stepped into view.

  Beside him was Graham Brown.

  To his right, Tina Craven and Donna Freeman.

  Both the girls were smoking.

  “This is private property,” Faulkner told him.

  “You shouldn’t be hanging around here.”

  “We’re not doing anything,” Thompson said.

  “Just move, will you?” Faulkner persisted.

  “And what if we don’t want to move?” Tina asked.

  “Then I’ll call the police.”

  “And tell them what?” Thompson demanded.

  “That we were standing here? We’ll be gone by the time they get here.

  If they even bother coming.”

  Faulkner slid back behind the steering wheel.

  Brown hawked loudly and spat. The glob of mucus hit the windscreen of the Corsa and Faulkner jumped out of the vehicle once more.r />
  “You dirty little bastard!” he snapped, taking a step towards Brown.

  The boy didn’t move.

  Faulkner hesitated, aware that the other youngsters were now all around him.

  “It’s a nice place for the old people to live,” Thompson told him quietly.

  “We walked up the drive and had a look.”

  “You had no right to do that. Keep away from here.”

  “We were just looking,” Thompson said.

  “You can’t stop us doing that.”

  “You shouldn’t be on private property.”

  “Fuck off,” Tina hissed.

  “You can’t stop us.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “Go on, then,” Brown said challengingly.

  Faulkner looked at each of them in turn, then slowly clambered back into the driving seat again.

  “I don’t want to see you around here again,” he called.

  They parted to allow him through.

  He guided the Corsa slowly along the tree-lined drive, tyres crunching on the gravel.

  He flicked on the windscreen wipers and they brushed away the phlegm.

  Faulkner shook his head disgustedly.

  Up ahead, he could see the lights inside Shelby House.

  Something struck his rear window with tremendous force.

  He spun round to see a crack in the glass.

  As he hauled himself from the vehicle yet again he saw the stone that had been hurled at the Corsa.

  It was as big as his fist.

  Right, that’s it. No matter how many of the little bastards there are

  .. .

  Faulkner ran to the end of the drive, his heart hammering against his ribs. His breath came in short, angry gasps.

  There was no sign of the youths.

  They’d vanished, as if swallowed by the darkness.

  RONNI SAT AT the table in the staff room watching Gordon Faulkner.

  “You’ll have to take Barbara’s dog out for a walk before it gets too late, Gordon,” she said.

  “You know Barbara likes to get in bed early.”

  Faulkner nodded. He was standing gazing out of the window into the darkness, hands dug deep into his pockets.

  “George Errington was complaining about feeling dizzy earlier on,” she continued.

  “I rang the doctor and told him. He said to give him an extra twenty milligrams of Prazosin before he goes to bed, just to stabilize his blood pressure. He said there was nothing to worry about though.”

  Again Faulkner nodded, but didn’t turn. He was scanning the grounds, the spotlights on the exterior of Shelby House forming pools of brilliant white where they pierced the gloom.

  Nothing moving out there.

  “Alison will be in about six tomorrow morning,” Ronni added.

  “And, by the way, we’re expecting a visit from the Queen around ten. I’m leaving here to become a lap dancer and Alison has set up her own brothel. We’re using Shelby House until we can find somewhere else.”

  Faulkner finally turned and looked at her, his face expressionless.

  Ronni smiled.

  “You were miles away,” she told him.

  “Sorry,” he said, returning to his vigil.

  “Something wrong?”

  He shook his head.

  “You don’t want to talk about it?”

  “There’s nothing wrong, Ronni.”

  “You’ve done nothing but stare out of that window since you arrived.”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  Tell her about what happened in the driveway.

  He drew in a weary breath.

  Tell her what? Half a dozen kids got mouthy outside. Big deal.

  Ronni got to her feet and reached for her coat, eyes still fixed on her companion.

  Faulkner returned her gaze, smiling reassuringly.

  At least tell her about the sign. She’s going to spot it tomorrow anyway.

  “I’d better take Barbara’s little rat for a walk,” he said, thinking that he could take some paint out at the same time and do his best to cover up the damage to the sign.

  “She’s a lovely little thing.” Ronni chuckled.

  “See you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t work too hard.”

  He heard the staff room door close behind her. Heard her footsteps echoing away along the corridor.

  From where he was standing he could see her heading for her car.

  He pressed his face to the glass and cupped his hands around his eyes, squinting once again, into the blackness.

  The overhanging branches of trees rustled in the wind like skeletal fingers. Some of the longer ones scraped against the roof of Ronni’s car as she climbed in.

  Faulkner remained where he was until she started the engine and pulled away.

  He was momentarily illuminated in her headlights as she turned the Fiesta and headed towards the drive.

  She raised a hand.

  He waved back.

  Outside, the trees shook again.

  The wind was growing stronger.

  THEY ATE IN SILENCE; only the dull drone of the television in the corner of the room offered a counterpoint to the hush.

  Ronni balanced her plate on a tray she’d rested across her knees.

  Andy had pulled the coffee table towards him and was hunched over his food like a vulture over carrion.

  “You could have had yours when you got in,” Ronni said, nodding in the direction of his meal.

  “I thought I’d wait for you,” he told her, pushing a forkful of potato into his mouth.

  She tried to think of some kind of Smalltalk. Something to fill the void.

  Smalltalk? With your own husband?

  “Did you see about your car?” she said finally.

  He nodded.

  “It’s going to need a new wing,” Andy told her.

  “The little bastards did a real fucking job on it.”

  Ronni sighed.

  “I should have gone for that one,” Andy muttered.

  “Which one?”

  “The tall one. The oldest. The one with all the rabbit.”

  “They were kids, Andy. What were you going to do? Beat him up?”

  “It might not have been a bad idea.”

  “There were six of them.”

  “Kids, Ronni, that’s all. They were hardly the fucking Wild Bunch, were they?”

  COMPULSION

  “They could have had knives.”

  He shrugged.

  “Your dad’s right,” he murmured.

  “It has all changed.”

  “What?”

  “Life. Kids. Everything.”

  “Things do change, Andy.”

  Like falling out of love with the person you married.

  She looked at him for a moment, then returned to her food.

  “When was the last time you agreed with my dad about something?” she asked.

  “I’ve always got on all right with him. Your mum too, when she was alive.”

  Ronni nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “He still misses her, doesn’t he?” Andy said softly.

  “He was talking about her the other day when we were round there.”

  “He talks about her every day. I sometimes wonder if he’ll ever get over it.”

  “What about you, Ronni? Do you think about her?”

  “Of course I do. She always used to understand what I was trying to say. If I had a problem she’d know without me even opening my mouth.”

  “Have you got a problem now?”

  Ronni glanced across at him.

  Did he know what she was thinking?

  “What makes you ask?”

  “I’m your husband. You’re supposed to tell me, aren’t you? I thought that was what marriage was all about.”

  She managed her most convincing fake smile.

  “Is it work? Your dad?” he persisted.

  “There’s nothing, Andy.”

&nb
sp; Tell him the truth. At least be honest with him. Now’s your chance.

  “You’d tell me if there was?”

  “Of course I would,” she lied.

  Tell him about the suitcase on top of the wardrobe with some of your clothes in.

  She was aware that his gaze was still upon her. She took a last bite of her food, then got to her feet, carrying the tray towards the kitchen.

  Andy put out a hand and touched her arm.

  She paused and looked down at him.

  “I love you,” he said quietly.

  She smiled back.

  “I know,” she told him.

  She slipped away from him into the kitchen.

  The luminous green hands of the alarm clock showed 12.06 a.m.

  Ronni felt Andy move next to her, heard his low breathing.

  Then she felt his hand brush her thigh.

  His fingers traced a pattern over the smooth skin, then moved higher, sliding beneath her long, baggy T-shirt.

  He gently outlined the curve of her pelvis, his hand gliding across her belly, then downwards to the warmth between her legs.

  Ronni parted them slightly, felt him move closer to her.

  She felt his warm breath on her neck and shoulder.

  He kissed her cheek.

  “It’s late,” she whispered, without turning over.

  Too late.

  She heard him sigh and felt him withdraw his hand reluctantly.

  “Sorry,” he murmured almost apologetically.

  She closed her eyes, but sleep was a long time coming.

  JANICE HOLLAND KNEW she was going to cry. She gripped her husband’s hand and rested her head on his shoulder.

  Ronni nibbled at her sandwich and watched them, struck by the sheer joy on their faces at being together.

  Envious.7 Harry was grinning, as usual. He pulled Janice more tightly to him as they danced, the music swelling from the speakers.

  Colin Glazer presided over the turntable with all the care of a surgeon at an operation. He cleaned the vinyl with a cloth and blew on the stylus before playing each disc. Like the other residents of Shelby House he watched as the Hollands danced.

  Ronni smiled as the couple moved with a lightness and grace that belied their years.

  The staff had moved the chairs in the day room away from the centre to leave a space and it was within that area that Harry and Janice now waltzed slowly to the strains of Bunny Berrigan.

  Donald Tanner clicked his fingers rhythmically as he listened to the music.

  Beside him, George Errington looked on with a slight smile on his face.

  Barbara Eustace and Helen Kennedy were over by the table set up in a corner of the room. They were also watching the Hollands dance, but Helen couldn’t resist an occasional sly look at the cake she had made to celebrate their anniversary. She was justifiably pleased with her efforts. Every now and then she nudged Ronni and nodded towards it.