Dark Winter: Trilogy

by Hennessy, John

  “Aye, and I never see you at the Dying Swan,” said Jeannie.

  “Been teetotal off the hard stuff twenty years now, and staying that way. A social drinker these days. Still, need that hobby though.”

  “So what’s yours?”

  Curie placed a colourful suit down on the counter. “The best kinds of hobbies are the ones that pay. I thought I’d try this. Besides, the school pay is alright, but nothing to sing about. You could say that I’m going into the entertainment business.”

  “It’s a clown outfit, Mr Curie. Not running away to join the circus, I hope? The school needs a good caretaker.”

  “Not running,” said Curie, his smile getting wider. “In fact, I’m staying. The clown suit is to help me do after-school parties. A bit of fun for the children. Parents will lap it up. There’s good money in it too.”

  “I don’t know, Mr Curie, clowns scare the bejesus out of me.”

  Curie laughed as if Jeannie had said the funniest thing in the world.

  “When I wear this suit, trust me – everyone will wear a smile.”

  “I’m sure they will. That’s £89.99, Mr Curie.”

  “Money well spent, I’d say. It’s worth it, to give something back to the community, for the kids, you know? I don’t suppose I’ll make anything at first, but when they see my act, they’ll want to see more. That’s when I’ll leave. You’ve got to exit the stage, just as they’re wanting more.”

  Curie gave the money to Jeannie, and looked around absent mindedly.

  “Anything else?”

  “Er, yeah, though I don’t think you sell it here.”

  “What are you after?”

  “A tyre pump. Damned rear tyre went flat soon as I pulled up here. Don’t know where I can get one on the cheap. The Dawsons always hamstring people with their prices. After I purchase this suit, I can’t afford the prices over the road. You wouldn’t happen to have one in your car would you?”

  “Well, yes I do, as it happens. But the manager’s out, and I’m not supposed to leave the place unattended.”

  “Of course,” said Curie. “The manager would be mad at you, and you don’t want to give anyone a reason to be mad at you. As for me, I should be alright. Just sometimes when I go home, there’s some boys from the school waiting to jump me. That’s why I always drive. It’s not safe for me to walk.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  “It’s gotten worse, since the trial. Sorry,” said Curie, his wide grin disappeared. “It’s hard for me to talk about it. Thank you for your assistance.”

  “No, thank you, Mr Curie. There may be some in Gorswood that blame you for what happened, but I’m convinced they caught the right man. That silly little girl, Beth O’Neill, should never have blamed you! A man who does such a hard job at the school! What she accused you of, was unforgivable.”

  Curie inhaled deeply, then looked at Jeannie, who must have been in her late fifties. She had streaks of blonde amongst her white hair. Her skin had been dulled by too many dark winters.

  “There’s no winners in a trial like that, and in my heart, I know that girl is a very troubled young woman.” Curie paused before adding, “I forgive her.”

  “You are better than me then, Mr Curie. I heard they took her to Saint Margaret’s. I don’t wish to condemn anyone, but maybe that’s the best place for her.”

  “I just hope she recovers. It’s not the same. Little Bethany is missed at the school.”

  “Mr Curie, you’re too good for this world.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Curie smiled, and his huge grin returned. “Well, I’ve kept you long enough.”

  Jeannie Marsh looked around. The shop was virtually empty, and she was due to close up soon anyway. What would she have to go back to? An empty house? It was nice to talk to someone anyway, and Don Curie was as fine an upstanding member of the community as you could find.

  “I…I don’t think it would be so bad if I just went to my car and got the tyre pump for you.”

  “Oh?” said Curie, his eyebrow raised in delight. “Well, when you put it like that, I’d be most grateful.”

  Jeannie had no problem giving Don Curie the tyre pump, and soon enough, the tyre was full of air again. Curie, of course, had let the tyre down deliberately. There had to be a valid reason to get the woman to come to his vehicle. Sensing her relaxed state of mind, he asked her the question, just as he had rehearsed in the past.

  Jeannie had nothing to do, so thought nothing of going for drink at the Dying Swan. She closed up for the night and linked arms with the owner of the newest clown suit in Gorswood.

  ***

  “Mr Curie,” said Jeannie.

  “It’s Don. It’s so much better if you call me Don.”

  “Well. It’s a long time since I’ve been on a date. Don.”

  “Just so you know, it’s not a date. We’re just…..chatting.”

  “Sounds like the kind of date I usually have.” Even so, Jeannie felt much more relaxed. “But you were married, weren’t you? Once before?”

  “That’s right,” said Curie. “About twenty years ago.” About the same length of time he’d been off ‘the hard stuff.’

  “What happened to your wife?”

  Curie sighed a well-rehearsed sigh. Sometimes, he would practise such mannerisms for hours in front of a mirror. “She died.”

  Jeannie barely muffled a gasp. “I didn’t know that. So what happened? How did she die?”

  “I bashed her head in with a claw hammer.”

  Jeannie sat stone-faced for a moment, then burst out laughing. Curie joined in with the hilarity.

  “Oh Don, you’re going to kill me!” Jeannie could not stop laughing, but eventually, she reasserted herself. “Of course you didn’t do that!”

  “No. Of course not,” said Curie, before adding a pause. “I used an axe.”

  More laughter followed. “Don! Do stop, will you?”

  This was one of the best evenings Jeannie Marsh had spent in a long time.

  “Clearly, I’m not going to get the truth out of you.”

  “Well, that’s just what they said at the trial.”

  Yes, the alcohol was having an effect, but more than that, Jeannie was having a good time. Keeping a wide beam on her face, in her head, she recounted the trial summary. Don Curie was not a killer. The trial had ruled in his favour, and Michael Dean took the fall instead. With his tousled, thinning hair, beady eyes and gaunt appearance, he might be a bit eccentric, but what of it? Jeannie decided she was going to have a good night with Don Curie. It had been a long time.

  Too long, thought Jeannie.

  Soon, they were walking through the Forest. Curie wrapped an arm around Jeannie’s shoulder.

  “Don’t be frightened,” he said. “I know these woods better than anybody.”

  “I’m not scared, Don,” said Jeannie, “but I wouldn’t like to go through the woods on my own. They say the woods are haunted.”

  “They say a lot, don’t They?” chortled Don.

  “Don’t They just,” said Jeannie.

  As they walked, any light that had been above them began to disperse, and Jeannie found herself huddling up closer to Curie. The air was cold, but chills not of this Earth brushed by Jeannie’s cheeks, turning them an even darker shade of red. Her teeth began to chatter. She complained to Curie about the cold, and do we have far to go, to which he answered always in the same, blank manner.

  “Not far to go now, Jeannie.”

  A few more shapes brushed past Jeannie, then some more. She squinted her eyes to almost a full close, and gripped Curie’s arm to the point that even he had to mention that there was a good chance his blood would stop flowing. Every few minutes, which seemed like hours to Jeannie, Curie would say the same thing about it not being far to go.

  With the wood cabin in the distance, Jeannie opened her eyes with a start as Curie came to a full stop. Curie stood bolt upright, and seemed to be sniffing the cold night air.


  “What is it?” asked Jeannie, afraid what Curie might say in reply.

  “The old graveyard. It’s not far from here Jeannie, did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t know that. I don’t really go anywhere near cemeteries.”

  “You really should,” said Curie, his nose still probing the air. “I like graveyards. In fact, I like the scent of graveyards. It’s clean. Purifying. As we’re making our way there one day, we best make peace with that, don’t you think so?”

  “I suppose so,” said Jeannie, weak from the chill that was surrounding her. She didn’t like the look of the wood-cabin, but accepted that she would have to go in. Curie didn’t seem to be in any kind of hurry.

  “It’s the scent of the soil, when they dig it out for graves. That’s so fresh. I mean, you wouldn’t mind a stay in the hole then. It’s not like you have a choice anyway. I mean, once you’re in there,” Curie extended a finger towards the graves. “ You’re on your own.”

  Jeannie really didn’t want to think about it, never mind talk about it. “Could we just go inside, Don? Please?”

  “Ah…well, they are always keen to get down to it. Kind of keen aren’t you?”

  “Who is keen? What in the world are you talking about, Don?”

  Don Curie liked the sound of his own voice, but he particularly liked how his silence affected those around him, to the point that they couldn’t take it anymore, and just had to speak out loud, for fear that they were going crazy.

  Curie cranked the door open, and in normal circumstances, Jeannie would have normally ran a mile from a place like that but she had trusted Curie, and now she would have to trust that he would see her home safely. There was no other way, except go and face the woods themselves, and that was not going to be possible. All of a sudden, hailstones hammered from the sky, and Curie ushered her inside. He breathed heavily as the door was buffeted by the strong winds and hail, but soon, he had the door secure.

  “There we go,” he said happily. “Why don’t I find us something to drink?”

  Jeannie nodded through chattering teeth and shaky hands. Curie was being the perfect gentleman. He had done nothing to make her feel that she was in danger. He had found the place after all. God knows how, thought Jeannie. It was like the woods stretched outwards forever, although Birmingham was a big city, but Gorswood itself wasn’t that big a town, so the forest could not be either. All the same, something about the whole setup wasn’t right. It was then that she saw them.

  Moose heads, she counted eight in all, three on the east wall, three on the west wall, and two directly in front of her. Also, there was a strange altar-like table, with long belts that she had seen before, in one of those late-night serial killer programmes. It’s where those murderers often ended up, at least on the other side of the pond. In England, perhaps some people who deserved to die, didn’t, whilst others were cut short in their prime. Such were the laws and rules of the country that she lived in. But killers don’t have rules, do they? They break the rules. They break-

  “Game.”

  Curie had broken her train of thought. Jeannie reasoned that it was a good thing. “Pardon me?”

  “Game. I seen you looking at them moose heads. I shot some of them for gaming, others sometimes got caught in my traps. That can’t be helped. You can’t have animals trashing the place. Any scent of food and they’d get in here. Fortunately, I am good at setting traps, and most times the traps can crush their neck, killing ‘em cold. Can’t have them thrashing about, see. Oh yes, I’m good at setting traps.”

  Jeannie purposely evaded further glances in the direction of the moose heads, and although she wanted to ask about the strange looking altar, she thought better of it. All her beliefs about Don Curie not being a murderer were being sorely tested now. Her only wish was to escape the cursed wood-cabin. Upon getting back safe to her home, she would chastise herself if she ever found her wanting for someone. Sometimes a life alone has its benefits, because a life with the wrong person can be nothing short of a living hell.

  The kind of hell Don Curie liked to create. Jeannie wished she could get out of the place, but….he’d chase her, wouldn’t he? Who would care that she left the Dying Swan earlier that evening, arm-in-arm with Don Curie, for all to see? Who would believe that she felt nothing but abject terror now, as the walls of the cabin surrounded her and appeared to be closing in on her, making her feeling even more trapped?

  Oh yes, I’m good at setting traps.

  You could escape from traps though, right? She wasn’t a dumb animal, sticking its snout where it had no business. Jeannie was an intelligent woman. Sure, over the course of her life, she had made mistakes, but who hadn’t? She would just have to make her apologies and be on her way. They had come through West Gorswood, for that’s where the Dying Swan stood. This area had to be East Gorswood. She was reminded of a tongue twister the girls used to say at school. Which way was the wicked witch from? You would have to say it three times in quick succession. Was it West, or East? If it was East, and if demons did indeed habit the Forest, could she really see herself getting back home? What would they do to her if she found herself in one of their traps?

  Most times the traps would crush their necks, killing ‘em cold.

  It could not be any worse than the ones Don Curie had just described, with a pleasurable tone Jeannie found most unnerving. The hail seemed to have stopped, and whilst it was cold, and snow was hard on the ground, Jeannie wore a thick faux fur coat and warm boots. The Dying Swan was three, maybe four miles away. It was hard to tell for sure, because the bad weather always made a journey seem far worse than it actually was.

  She could just take her leave. He wouldn’t try to stop her, surely? Jeannie had always thought Don Curie to be a gentleman. School kids like Toril Withers calling him the Wood Cutter. The Axe Man. Diabhal.

  No. He was none of those things. As for Toril Withers, both she and her mother were known for meddling in dark craft. Okay, so Tori-Suzanne Withers hadn’t actually killed anybody, but neither had Don Curie. He’d been found innocent. He’d understand. He would let Jeannie go on her way. Jeannie was certain he would not try to stop her.

  Can’t have them thrashing about, see.

  “Well Don, this has been a most….interesting evening. I never knew that about moose heads, or traps!”

  Jeannie stood up, but Don Curie gestured her to sit down, and helped her with her coat.

  “You won’t be needing this,” he said cheerfully. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  “But I-”

  Curie placed a finger – a dirty finger that tasted like oil and clay to her lips. “No buts. You. Stay. I haven’t finished what I was telling you.”

  Curie said this in a cheery, disarming manner that usually would work on Jeannie, but everything he said and did, in this place, unnerved her greatly. Jeannie slumped back in her seat. She was going nowhere, for now.

  A loud thud made her jump out of the seat and Curie caught her in his arms. The fright made her dig her nails into his arms, and with a hiss, he pushed her back into the chair.

  “It’s the package I bought. The clown outfit. That’s what you knocked over.”

  He could have said that just fell over, it was an accident, no problem Jeannie, but he didn’t. In Curie’s world, Jeannie knocked his package over.

  “I suppose I ought to try it on,” said Curie. “You won’t give me a refund if it’s damaged, I suppose. Bloody jobsworths. You’re not one of those, are you Jeannie?”

  “No,” said Jeannie, the word barely escaping her mouth. The taste of….whatever was on Curie’s fingers was still there.

  “That’s good. That’s real good, Jeannie. Anyway, as I was saying, you can’t have them thrashing about in the traps. So, you know what I did? I bought a bow and arrow set from Dawson’s Hardware store, you know the one. Why doesn’t Dawson retire? Hell, why doesn’t the greedy old bastard just die? You ever notice that Jeannie, how the bad ones just go on living? Anyway. The
bow. I used it one time on a deer that got trapped. The trap had come down on its back, and the squeals of the beast were like the most sorrowful song that had ever reached your ears. Anyway, I shot one of those arrows into its skull. Damn thing wouldn’t die. The squeals got louder. So I kicked it in the face. That quietened it down some. I went to bed and thought no more about it.”

  He sure likes the sound of his own voice, thought Jeannie, who drew small crumbs of comfort from the belief that while he talked, he would have no designs on hurting her. Part of her wanted to believe that he would not hurt her, but still….the way he looked at her when she got up, as if to say So Where In The Hell Do You Think You’re Going?, that awful repugnant smell on his fingers, that surely she would have noticed before….the annoyance he could not hide when the clown suit fell on the floor.