Albatross

by Ross Turner

  The man forced him back against the wall, and in the light of the hallway Deacon laid eyes upon him properly for the first time.

  His black hair was long and greasy and unkempt, falling almost down to his shoulders and partly in front of his eyes. Though he looked thin and weak, his grasp was strong and firm, driven by something more than just mere muscle.

  But most prominent of all were his eyes.

  Through his matted black hair his eyes were dark and fierce and crazed, maddened by something that Deacon did not recognise: some senseless emotion that he had never felt.

  A low growl, like that of an animal, emanated from the back of the man’s throat, and he was focused, committed, to whatever it was he was trying to do. Deacon didn’t know exactly what that was, but he knew that it involved Jen, and somehow Clare too, and either way, he didn’t want to find out.

  Driving him away, Deacon exploded forwards and hurled the man back into the living room, practically throwing him over the furniture, sending him smashing into the low, glass topped coffee table.

  He hit the floor hard and with a loud grunt, but in barely a moment he was back on his feet, unfazed, and surging towards Deacon yet again.

  He prepared himself, and once more as the man from the shadows tried to fight his way past to get to Jen, Deacon proved to be the stronger of the two.

  Three times the man tried to get past, and in turn, three times Deacon repelled him, each time inflicting further injury.

  It was only at that point, nursing bruised and battered limbs, when the man realised that this young fellow, whoever he was, keeping him from Jenny, would not yield.

  The time had come to divert from the plan.

  Usually, that was not preferred.

  And besides, he had been saving this knife especially for Jenny, as seemed only appropriate.

  But, he supposed, sometimes exceptions have to be made, as he drew the long, thick handled blade from beneath his black shirt, brandishing it before Jenny’s protector menacingly.

  Deacon’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the knife, knowing now they were in serious trouble.

  By this point though, things had gone too far, and he had little other choice than to stand and fight; to defend Jen against this madman.

  There was little time to think, for he dove forwards towards Deacon in barely the space of two racing heartbeats, driving his weight behind the lunging blade.

  Jen screamed, trying to throw herself forward, but Dyra forced her back, seeing that it was already too late.

  Clare looked on with tears standing heavily in her eyes.

  The blade plummeted towards Deacon’s chest, and triumph surged through the evil man’s veins, tasting success, knowing that Jen would soon follow.

  But Deacon was too quick for it to be that easy.

  He had suffered the knife before, and knew its workings.

  At the very last second, inches from death, he darted swiftly to one side, avoiding the blade by less than an inch.

  Grabbing the man’s wrist and arm, Deacon wrenched his hand under and practically jumped on the back of his shoulder, driving the man down into the floor face first, and very hard. The sheer impact caused the knife to loose from his grasp, and it scattered across the floor nervously.

  His head was driven so hard into the floor that the man fell silent almost immediately, and his body went limp and weak.

  Nonetheless, Deacon took no chances, having barely escaped with his life, and kicked the knife away into the depths of the kitchen.

  Pressing constantly with his whole bodyweight, he kept pressure upon his attacker, not once releasing his wrist and arm, pinning him forcefully to the ground.

  “Deacon…” Jen breathed, stepping slowly down towards him, relief flushing through her body.

  “No!” Deacon instructed, and Jen froze, though his voice was not harsh. “Stay there.” He told her. “Just in case…”

  Clare hadn’t moved during the whole thing, and she glanced up at Jen guiltily.

  However, Jen didn’t say or do anything in response, and suddenly, startling them all terribly, another loud knock at the door sounded.

  None of them moved at first, their eyes transfixed on the sound.

  But within a few moments, hearing a noise again coming from the back of the house, a concerned voice echoed through the darkness.

  “Hello!?” It called. “Is everyone okay!?”

  “We’re in here!” Deacon shouted back, and within seconds two police officers came racing in.

  “We saw the windows…” The first replied immediately, taking in the whole situation in much the way as Deacon always did, sweeping his eyes over everything at once. “And we saw the back door…” He continued, focusing in on Deacon holding the man to the floor, and the knife in the corner of the kitchen.

  His hand went instinctively to his baton, though he didn’t rack it, and only looked on for a moment, seeming to understand that Deacon wasn’t the threat here.

  A silent understanding passed between them and, all at once, it seemed that everything would be alright again.

  Well, almost everything…

  Decisions

  What followed was a whirlwind of officers arriving and departing. Deacon, Jen and Dyra were whisked through into another room, while the unconscious man from the shadows was taken away and out of sight.

  His awareness returned to him however, part way through the process of being removed, and he proceeded promptly to scream and shout once more after Jen, writhing and squirming beneath the heavy hands of the police.

  His apparent insanity hastened his removal, and after barely a few minutes of the police arriving, though most certainly not soon enough, Deacon, Jen and Dyra were left alone in the living room with the remaining officers.

  As the man shrieked and bawled, struggling desperately as the officers practically dragged him away, Clare couldn’t help but watch closely, a look in her eyes totally unreadable.

  “Jen…” Officer Mahoney started, sat opposite her in the living room. His huge, thick body seemed to perch on one settee, across from the young girl who looked so afraid, though his voice was gentle and understanding.

  She looked up at him through fearful, confused eyes.

  He smiled comfortingly.

  “Don’t worry.” He assured her. “We’ve got him.”

  Jen only nodded, unable to speak.

  The officer looked to Dyra and Deacon then. Dyra smiled, and Deacon could tell she knew Mahoney quite well.

  He held out his hand.

  “Deacon Ash.” He introduced himself, shaking Mahoney’s hand firmly. “I’m Jen’s partner.”

  “Jim Mahoney.” The officer replied, though a fleeting thought seemed to cross his face. “Pleasure.”

  “Can I assist at all…?” Deacon posed.

  “Don’t worry.” Mahoney assured him. “We’ve been after this one for quite some time…”

  He sounded as if he was going to say more, but a quick warning look from Dyra quieted him, and he changed tact slightly.

  “Deacon Ash?” He questioned then. “As in the artist?”

  “Yes…” Deacon replied.

  “Blimey!” He exclaimed. “My wife loves your work!”

  “Thank you.” Deacon laughed nervously, but the compliment did little to lighten the mood, and fresh tension hung heavily in the air.

  Mahoney beckoned Dyra with a slight motion of his eyes, and she slipped in front of Deacon almost even guiltily, for she knew he was desperate to know what they were keeping from him.

  Suddenly, darting through with panicked but professional haste, Mandy appeared in the doorway to the living room. Her jet black hair that was usually tied in a ponytail hung loosely about her shoulders and flicked in the air as she came practically flying around the corner.

  In barely a moment her dark eyes took in the whole scene before her.

  It seemed to be an ability that everyone but Jen possessed.

  Mandy saw Dyra with Mahoney.
She saw Jen sat alone on the settee, head in her hands, body trembling. And she saw a handsome young man, whom she had never before met, looking very confused and torn between Jen and Dyra.

  Nudging her glasses more securely back onto her nose, Mandy straightened herself and smoothed her black pencil skirt. Clutching her black portfolio case to her chest, she approached Jen slowly.

  But the handsome young man held out his hand openly.

  “Can I help?” He asked her, and his voice was hardy and velvety all at once.

  “My name is Mandy.” She introduced herself, holding out her hand professionally.

  “Deacon. Jen’s partner.” The young man replied, taking her hand firmly and gently all at once. “Family friend?” He asked then, glancing for a second down at Jen.

  She seemed not to have heard Mandy enter.

  “Not exactly…” Mandy replied carefully, letting go of Deacon’s hand slowly. He looked confused and waited for an explanation.

  “I’m a cognitive psychiatrist.” Mandy started to explain. “I specialise in trauma.”

  “Trauma?” Deacon questioned, for her explanation had not really shed any light at all, and suddenly Mandy understood why.

  “I see…” She replied tentatively, looking very concerned as she did so, glancing down at Jen. “I think I need to speak to Jen.”

  “She’s…” Deacon began, knowing that Jen likely was too fragile at the moment, but Mandy cut him off firmly.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have a choice.” She stated. “I thought things were improving.”

  “Improving?” Deacon questioned.

  Mandy only shook her head.

  “But now I think I was wrong.”

  And before Deacon could utter another breath, Mandy sat herself down beside Jen. When she saw who it was, looking up briefly, Jen’s eyes widened and she glanced up to Deacon guiltily.

  But he didn’t say a word.

  Instead, he left them to it, knowing that either way Mandy would not let him interfere.

  He was very confused.

  He had no idea what was going on.

  In fact, he even felt a little betrayed, for though he had sensed there were things Jen and Dyra were keeping from him, he had never imagined they would lead to something like this.

  Deacon stepped back out into the hallway and opened the thick, wooden front door to Keepers Cottage, passing through in an instant and once again out into the cold air of the night.

  Glancing for a second through the lighted living room window, he could see Dyra talking hurriedly with Mahoney, and Jen shaking as she responded to Mandy’s many questions.

  By the very word Mandy looked to be growing increasingly worried, and after barely a few moments, Deacon couldn’t bear to watch any longer.

  His eyes found their way up to the sky, stretching out cold and black and endless above him with a million and more questions still unanswered.

  That was exactly how he felt at that moment.

  He sighed deeply, and his breath steamed out in warm, white billows above him.

  This, whatever it was, was getting out of hand.

  But the trouble was, he had fallen for Jen.

  There was no question about that.

  He couldn’t just walk away now.

  “Deacon…” A quiet, timid voice sounded from behind him then.

  He turned to look, only to find Jen illuminated in the light of the doorway, yearning after him with heavy eyes, and an infinitely heavier heart.

  “Jen…” He replied, not knowing what else to say. His voice was hushed to barely a whisper, but it carried through the darkness like an albatross soaring endlessly over the ocean.

  “They…I…” She started, struggling with exactly what she wanted to say.

  Deacon didn’t interrupt.

  The time for that was passed.

  “I have to…” Jen tried again. “I’m sorry…I have to tell you the truth…” She finally managed.

  Though she was trying not to be seen, her efforts were relatively futile, and Deacon could clearly see Mandy glancing worriedly out of the window.

  She had tried to make Jen see sense, or at least see reality.

  This had gone on long enough.

  “Okay…” Deacon replied, still unsure what else he could really say.

  “The police want to talk to me…” Jen continued. “Please, will you come with me?”

  All of a sudden, Deacon understood what Jen was trying to say.

  She was admitting there were things she hadn’t told him.

  She was asking if he would stay with her if she told him the truth.

  She was asking for forgiveness.

  Whatever it was, Deacon considered, that Jen had been hiding, he could tell she had been keeping it locked up inside for a long time now. He knew what she was trying to do was very hard for her.

  “Of course I will…” He replied, his voice calm and collected as ever.

  He had already made his decision, even before she’d asked him the question.

  Nonetheless, the relief that surged through Jen in that moment was overwhelmingly obvious.

  Following Jen back in, taking her hand as he did so, and interlocking his fingers smoothly with hers, Deacon pulled the door quietly to behind him, keeping what was left of the heat inside.

  “Jen…” Officer Mahoney said then, stepping through from the kitchen and walking over to her and Deacon. “How are you feeling?” He asked.

  “I’m okay.” Jen replied, actually quite assuredly. For one of the first times in almost as long as she could remember, she spoke those words with some semblance of truth.

  And actually, Deacon noted, surprisingly, she did look a lot better.

  “Good.” Mahoney replied gladly. “I’ve spoken to your mother about what’s happened.” He explained, and Jen nodded. “I will need your two’s accounts…” He went on, and Jen and Deacon both nodded again in agreement.

  “That’s fine.” Jen confirmed.

  “We won’t do it all now.” Mahoney assured them. “We have a pretty good idea already. There’s just one thing I need for now…” He pressed, though quite gently, glancing briefly at Deacon as he spoke.

  Both of them caught on to his meaning, but this time Jen was quick to intervene.

  “That’s fine.” She asserted, reaching up with her free hand to clutch Deacon’s arm, signifying with that single gesture much more than she could have done with all her words.

  “Okay…” Mahoney agreed, though admittedly a little warily. “Was it definitely him?” He asked Jen, looking her dead in the eyes as he spoke.

  “Yes.” She replied in an instant.

  “You’re sure?” He asked, but Jen did not budge.

  “Definitely.” She confirmed. “I’m sure.”

  “Very well then…” Mahoney concluded, making a quick note in a small, black notebook. “Thank you. In that case, I’ll leave you two to it…” His voice trailed off slightly, but his eyes betrayed the fact that clearly he was not envious of what Jen now had to do.

  He smiled somewhat half-heartedly and bade them goodnight.

  Deacon, however, following that final remark, was much more nervous than he had been before.

  When Jen turned to him and beckoned him to follow her upstairs, he swallowed hard as they slowly ascended the rickety staircase, up and into yet more darkness.

  Truth

  It was a cold night, true, but atop the rooftop of Keepers Cottage, on sea view side, the air had a harsh, biting chill to it that seemed to set the precedent of the evening quite accurately.

  Dragging her quilt up and out of the window with them, Jen and Deacon settled upon the rooftop, tucking the blanket around each other and cocooning themselves together in a nest of safety and warmth.

  At first they did not speak.

  Jen leant back against Deacon’s chest, feeling his heat and his strong heartbeat protecting her from the suffocating cold all around. He draped his arms over her front and she clung to
his hands as if she were afraid to ever let him go.

  Sat like this, after the madness of the evening, it wasn’t long before tears rolled openly down Jen’s face, warming her cheeks in wet streaks as they went.

  Hushing her gently, Deacon managed to quiet her swelling sadness, but he didn’t want to push her too much, for he knew there was still much more to come.

  Behind the house trees rustled and swayed in the blackness as the wind picked up slightly and whipped about their cocoon. Jen sunk deeper into Deacon and he pulled her ever closer, enveloping her securely, as he always did.

  “I’ve got a problem…” Jen suddenly confessed, her voice slicing through the night like a sharpened blade.

  “Can I help?” Deacon asked after a moment.

  “You’re the only one who’s made any difference at all.” Jen told him, but her words only confused Deacon further.

  “I don’t understand.” He admittedly honestly. “I haven’t done anything.”

  But Jen shook her head.

  “You have.” She replied adamantly. “You’re the only one who has.”

  “What about your mother and your sister?” Deacon asked then.

  Even as he spoke he felt Jen’s body tense slightly, but he pressed on.

  “I’ve known you barely a month…” He continued. “If this has been going on a while, whatever it is, haven’t they been able to help?”

  “They can’t.” Jen replied immediately, but Deacon refused to accept that as gospel.

  “They must be able to do something? If not Dyra, then what about Clare?” He suggested. “I can see how much you love her, even just in the pictures downstairs. I know how close you two are…”

  But Jen cut him off.

  “Were…”

  “What?” Deacon asked, confused again.

  “How close we were…” Jen finished, sighing deeply and regretfully.

  Now Deacon thought he was beginning to understand.

  “So, this problem…” He started. “It’s with Clare…”

  Jen didn’t reply, and so Deacon took that silence as a profound yes.