No, there was none of that. All that existed in the mind of Helen Dooley was a soft secure blanket of nothingness.
Now, the senses were slowly reawakening, stealthily creeping through her veins, preparing to mount a confusing cocktail of terror and pain that few could imagine. It was the pounding pulse of the cranium against the skull that first alerted Helen Dooley to her own existence. Her head hung low in the fashion of Jesus Christ, chin firmly pressed against her collarbone. The headache steadily got worse but other feelings were coming to the fore, uncomfortable feelings. The senses rapidly spread and pain flushed through her body in one foul swoop. Her eyes danced a tango beneath closed lids, searching for an answer to her condition. None came. Her mouth screamed in a pitch that had no voice. Her tongue slid easily through large gaps, where her once perfect teeth accentuated a perfect smile. There was the agonizing sensation that her arms had torn free from their sockets and pulled away above her head. There was no feeling in her hands, but that was little comfort. Her wrists felt as if they had caught fire and were now melting stumps strapped and welded together in place of hands. There were stinging sensations, too, deep cuts across her forehead, chest, abdomen, and thighs. She felt cold, wet, and sticky. Her legs reached for the ground, naked toes scraped the earth and lost contact, then found it again. The pain in her shoulders and wrists intensified. The toes scraped again.
Then there was sound. Her hearing picked up something beneath her that only her subconscious would remember, shuffling the dirt and moving into position. A firm squeeze on her midriff and her abdomen silently cried for help. A warming sensation followed, spreading down, between and around her legs. Another sensation of warmth ensued, intermittent patches of warm air that brushed along her inner thigh. And now groans, growls, and snarls of sorts, like some kind of animal, a dog perhaps.
Licking; it was licking around her waist, giving more pain. The licking moved, taking its time, down around the thighs, close to her vaginal area. A big dog. The growls continued. Then further pain, concentrated around the inner thigh, sharp and piercing.
The dog was biting her, eating her.
The pulling and tugging to the skin created further strain to the upper body. Her arms felt as if they would detach from her torso. Any moment now, and she would come crashing down into the dirt, leaving her arms to dangle freely from where they hung.
Surely, this was just a dream. How could this be happening to her with the brightest of futures ahead?
Her eyes tried to open, to wake up and glimpse some meaning that might just save her corroding mind and stop it from going into hibernation. They stayed shut, glued together by a sticky wetness that covered her face, the effort required to open them far too great. An overdose of neurons vehemently passed through her nervous system. Each neuron hit the brain at a million miles an hour, one after the other with the force of tiny jackhammers, sending a barrage of signals throughout her body that could no longer cope with the onslaught. The brain could only register so much, the damage too great.
The girl once known as Helen Dooley began to slip away.
Then the barking started.
17:
“Old Mother Crawford tossed her poor dog a ball.”
Ralf and Kitty Crawford turned off the side road, drove under the height-restricted barrier and parked the white Fiat Cinquecento in the parking bay of Brushy Park. They were an elderly couple who only lived a short distance away from the park. Ralph was seventy-four, four years older than his wife. The years had been kind to them both and they were active for their age.
Every morning they took their black-and-white Cocker Spaniel to the park for a thirty-minute walk, regardless of the weather. Only the snow could prevent them venturing out but thankfully winters were mild in Farnham.
They’d bought the dog from a cat-and-dogs’ home eight years ago on the condition that Ralph would be the one to name it this time. It did not matter to him what type of dog it was, but the name was important.
His wife and their two daughters, Rebecca and Sandra, had named their last dog Lucky. Ralph, the only male in the Crawford household, did not have a say in the matter. He was also the one who inadvertently became the most attached to the little animal, taking Lucky for most of the walks and sneaked her treats of chocolate and biscuits out of his mouth when Kitty wasn’t looking. He often left the downstairs doors open more times than Kitty cared to remember so that Lucky crept up the stairs and sleep on their bed. However, he’d hated the name Lucky.
Kitty had agreed to his terms now that the girls had moved out, but she too had to be happy with the name. Ralph had only had one name in mind regardless of whether it was a male or female dog and had already formed an argument in his mind should his wife reject it. Anything was better than Lucky.
The name he had chosen had just one syllable, Oy, and to his pleasant surprise Kitty had liked it but he still felt the desire to explain his reasons for choosing it. The name Oy was sharp and concise, he had told her, a resourceful name to shout when other dogs approached or when it went too far off the lead. It was better, Ralph thought, than shouting out a generic name such as Fido or Lucky, which was downright embarrassing. The name was also a great source of amusement for anyone who took the time to show an interest in Oy. Ralph could shout the name all day long and it would make him smile every time. The name never failed to turn the heads within earshot.
Ralph and Kitty had been married for fifty years, for the most part happily. They met through mutual friends in their late teens, dated for a few months before becoming lovers, and married by the end of their first year together. It was only in later years that both considered themselves soul mates. They were happiest in old age. All the worries of youth and middle age dissipated as the years progressed.
Kitty fumbled in the passenger seat, looking for the second of two tennis balls, which had rolled under the seat. It took approximately ten minutes of throwing the ball before Oy tore through the rubber and it no longer rolled along the ground. Hence, two balls were necessary to see them through the walk, the second used sparingly.
Ralph removed the keys from the ignition and slowly manoeuvred out of the car, closed the front door and removed Oy’s leash from his coat pocket. Oy bounced around in the back, turning in tight circles, periodically hitting the back window with his snout, adding more smears to the glass.
“Easy, Oy,” Ralph said with a smile when he saw Oy’s excitement. “Stay still so I can get the lead on you. That’s a good boy.”
Kitty too was out of the car and stooped over, running her hand underneath the passenger seat.
“Got ya,” she said and slowly straightened up, her face flushed when she closed the passenger door. “Don’t forget to lock the car, dear.”
“Will you give me a chance; I’m still trying to get the lead on,” Ralph said irritably. “The little bugger won’t stay still. Oy, behave.”
Kitty dismissed her husband’s tone as she made her way around the front of the car and closer to the path. “Don’t worry so much, dear, he’ll be fine. He just wants to get to the path, same as he does every morning.” Kitty shook her head to insinuate a waste of time as she watched Ralph still fumble with Oy. She looked up to the sky. “Glad to see the weather has improved this morning.”
Oy jumped out the back and immediately scampered for the path. The lead pressed against the bumper of the car with Oy stuck beside the back wheel still trying to push forward. Ralph managed to close the boot with one hand while his other arm tugged.
“Will you relax, Oy? We’re almost done.” Ralph managed to lock the car at the front door and walk toward the path with his wife. Oy continued to scramble in front. Ralph pulled on the lead half a dozen times, trying to get Oy to heel. It was a hopeless task and Oy pressed relentlessly forward. A little farther down the trail and he’d let him off the lead.
“Oh, hang on a second, I
forgot my cap,” Ralph said as he put his free hand up to his forehead. He was forgetting the small things a lot lately.
“I have it here.” Kitty smirked. “You would forget your head if it was not screwed on. What would you do without me?” Her elbow nudged his side. “I know you far too well, Mr. Crawford, better than you know yourself.”
“Yes, honey, very good,” he said with a sarcastic smile, and moderately snapped the cap from his wife’s hand and put it on his head. She could be so annoying sometimes without realising it, but she was right. What would he do without her? Not something he liked to think about nor would he ever admit to her that she was his backbone . . . but he knew she knew.
Ralph bent down and undid the leash from Oy’s collar. Oy turned his attention to Kitty, who was holding one of the tennis balls above her head, pretending to throw it. Oy turned and scampered a couple of yards until he realised the ball was still in Kitty’s hand and turned back toward her with his tongue hanging out in anticipation. This time she tossed the ball, which only managed a few feet before Oy had gobbled it up in his mouth and scurried down the path.
The morning was damp but fine, the air fresh and wholesome as if the rain of the last few days had managed to purify it. The aroma of wild flowers growing along the riverbank and the garlic beyond the wall added to their sense of well-being and reminded them why they enjoyed the early morning walks so much. The path was quiet and peaceful at this time of morning, except for the odd unseen car passing along the main road, thanks to the cloaking trees along the riverbank. Other dog-walkers and athletes tended to mobilise on the return leg of their walk, which curbed Oy’s freedom to roam.
They approached the bridge that led out to the main road, watched Oy as he sniffed around the metal railings and left his scent before moving down the path. They chatted periodically about what they would do for the rest of the day and discussed what they would have for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. For the most part, they strolled hand-in-hand and enjoyed the tranquillity of nature in silence. Oy remained yards ahead, still with the chewed ball in his mouth. He meandered between the perimeter of the wall and the verge of the riverbank, sniffing the ground as he went.
“Oy,” Ralph called out as he watched the Cocker Spaniel disappear around the bend in the path. “Oy,” Ralph said again, elevating a sterner voice. He watched the bend for a moment, doubtful that Oy would reappear.
“Oh, he’s a little brat,” Kitty said in amusement. They both quickened their pace in case they needed to get him back on the lead. Oy had a habit of chasing joggers, and worse, bikes. He liked to run close to the back wheel and snap at the rotating pedal, less to the amusement of the cyclists who made their feelings clear to anyone in earshot.
“Look at that, that’s just disgusting,” Kitty said, pointing at the faeces and empty bottle of cider in the middle of the path. “Is that human? It looks human. Kids these days! What are they like?”
“How could you possibly know that?” Ralph asked as he glanced at the mess and then dismissed it. “Don’t answer that, I really don’t want to know.”
Ralph called out to Oy as they rounded the bend, expecting to see him farther up the path, sniffing the long grass at the verge of the bank, but he was nowhere to be seen. Ralph called with more urgency. Kitty joined him this time.
“He must be prowling along the bank,” Kitty said, waiting for him to reappear.
“Oh, God, please don’t tell me he’s gone in there,” Ralph said half-heartedly, looking at the small, rustic gate that was ajar. “The park gates don’t usually open until eight-thirty and I don’t recall this one ever being open.” Ralph scratched his head as if trying to figure out a mathematical problem. “They had problems with this entrance in the past. Unless they have suddenly changed the rules . . . but I don’t think so.”
“No, they haven’t.” Kitty pointed down to just inside the gate. She had spotted the chain tight in against the pillar of the wall and the broken padlock beside it.
“Bloody teenagers are at it again. Oy, get back here at once,” he shouted between two hands that mimicked a megaphone. The thoughts of having to search for Oy in among the trees played heavily on his mind. “He could be anywhere by now.” He shook his head in dismay.
“Come on, then. Let’s go find the little blighter,” Kitty said with calming influence as only Kitty could. “It won’t take us that long.”
“Well, I can tell you this much, when I get my hands back on him, he’s not getting off the lead for at least another month. He knew perfectly well I was calling him back before he went around the bend.”
“Rather you than me, my dear. Good luck trying to walk him for a month on that lead. You’ll need a new arm afterward.” Kitty looked up at him, smiled, and held his hand.
“Mmmh, you have a good point there. Arms aren’t cheap these days, are they?”
They were both smiling now.
Then the barking started.
It was close by, twenty yards through the trees, away from the walking trails.
“You see, I told you this wouldn’t take too long. He’s probably just caught sight of a squirrel and chased it up a tree. He won’t move until we get there. Come on, let’s go get him.” They made their way through the gate and into the wooded area of Brushy Park.
Unnoticed a few feet ahead a chewed-up tennis ball snuggled beside bloodstained teeth that rested in a tarnished patch of the path.
18:
“Along came a wolf.”
Eamon deprived Helen of her innocence inside the gate, couldn’t wait. He owed that to his little man—he’d made the promise—and then carried her to the clearing where he stripped her of her clothes and strung her up on the branch all nice and clean. Now it was all about him and his introduction onto the world’s stage.
What will they name me?
Adrenalin flowed like a torrent throughout his body and his mouth salivated. He grunted and growled from the back of his throat and nose. Sound and spittle poured out through the latex mask. The sound he generated was similar to snoring but more intense and prolonged. It had taken plenty of playful practice to perfect the sound of a werewolf based on Michael Jackson’s Thriller video and he played the part beautifully.
Strategic cuts with the scalpel to Helen Dooley’s forehead and lower parts of her body gave way to beads of blood that seeped the span of each incision. The beads, under watchful eyes behind black lenses, bloated up and permeated to form thin rivulets that trickled down and dripped off naked toes. He caressed the tiny rivers and soon a fine coating of blood covered the entire front side of her body. Her long strands of light brown hair were a darker shade, wet and matted. Helen Dooley resembled a raggedy red doll, no longer a beautiful, fit young athlete, but still magnificent.
Smearing her blood reminded him of finger-painting at school; it was fun. He’d loved doing things with his hands for as long as he could remember but it was never as magical as this and he had the backside of her to look forward to, to use the scalpel again.
He was deep in character, a hungry wolf standing alongside its prey. The sense of excitement was palpable. The raggedy red doll was nothing more than a helpless furry mouse dangling from the rod of a cat’s totem scratch post. The growling and snarling intensified, reverberating inside the mask as he contemplated what to do next, decisions, decisions.
He hunched below the suspended, twitching body of the raggedy red doll and steadied it with both hands. He paused, savouring every second until compulsion took hold of his tongue. He licked frantically at the smeared bloodied body. Greedily, he squeezed her midriff and lapped at the darker shade of spill that emanated from the gaping wound. His mouth filled with her blood, the adrenalin still pumping. He felt strong and hard as rock, getting stronger with every passing minute. It was everything he imagined it would be, and so much more than that. The licking of the mirror in his en
suite bathroom paled in comparison. There was so much to explore here. This time the blood was real and tasted oh so good. Spoilt for choice, it was hard to know where to move to next.
The groans and whimpering above him went unnoticed.
He continued down her thigh, in-between her legs, licking and sipping the blood as if making love. The thigh was relaxed but firm, softer than the leg of lamb. He opened his mouth and bit into the skin, the decisive moment.
The teeth remained sturdy throughout the course of action and cut through the skin and muscle like a raw vegetable. With diminutive gyration of the teeth, a piece of flesh tore away into his mouth. He savoured the chunk of meat, manipulating it between his tongue and the roof of his mouth before swallowing it.
He took another bite.
The raggedy red doll stopped its twitching.
He didn’t hear the barking dog until it was almost upon him. The small fearless animal took him by surprise. He needed another half hour to finish playing God. What a bloody nuisance.
19:
“Hello, Dolly.”
Ralph and Kitty were close, almost there now.
Oy was still barking.
Just a few more trees to get through and they would have Oy back on the lead.
The barking suddenly stopped, replaced by a distinctive series of yelps. Then it went quiet.
“What was that?” Kitty asked, alarmed at the sudden change of pitch.
The Ice Scream Man Page 11
