by Sam Millar
Damn! The ink was barely fading, resisting all his efforts. He could still make out the tiny newspaper blurbs in the palm of his hand.
An insistent tapping sound from the outside window caught both Grazier’s and Harris’ attention, simultaneously.
“Can’t they read the ‘Closed for Lunch’ sign? They must think we’re robots,” said Harris, easing from the chair.
Grazier moved quickly to intercept him.
“It’s okay, Joe. You go back to your reading. I’ll see who it is.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Harris slipped back into his chair and returned to his newspaper.
Peeping through a side curtain, Grazier could see a young man, his face badly scarred with acne. The young man peered back, and then winked.
Reluctantly opening the door, slightly, Jeremiah hissed, “What are you doing here, in broad daylight? You were instructed to always come at night. What if someone saw you, informed the police?”
“Keep your knickers on, grandda. Just doing my job. I’m away for a couple of weeks. Your missus ordered this, yesterday. You don’t want her not getting her medicine, do you?” His outstretched hand contained a small brown package.
An angry blood-rush pounded Jeremiah’s skull. A vision entered his head, of scissors embedded in the sneering young man’s mouth.
“You don’t look too good, grandda. Perhaps you haven’t been taking your medicine, lately?”
“Don’t ever come to the shop at this time again,” warned Jeremiah.
“Whatever you say, grandda. Just make sure you tell your missus that. See what she says. We all know who wears the trousers in your house.” The sneer became thinner, sharper.
Speedily, Grazier took the package, squirreling it away immediately in his overcoat hanging near the entrance to the shop.
“For heaven’s sake, Jeremiah. Anyone would think that was a bomb you’re hiding,” laughed Harris, climbing back into the comfort of the chair. “One of these days, I’m going to open that wee mystery package, Jeremiah, uncover your secret.”
Without answering, Grazier stared icily at Harris. The stare was disconcerting, even to Harris.
“Joke,” said Harris, quickly. “It was a joke. What’s wrong with you, this weather, Jeremiah?”
For a few seconds more, Grazier continued staring before speaking. “I don’t like jokes. You more than anyone should know that.”
He went back to cleaning his hands.
Chapter Three
“Something dead was in each of us, and what was dead was hope.”
Oscar Wilde, ‘The Ballad of Reading Gaol’
EASING THROUGH THE back door of the house, Adrian made his way to the scullery. The place stank of stale smoke and decaying potatoes. Unwashed pots formed a metallic pyramid in the sink. A block of butter, touched by heat, had turned to mush.
Leaving the scullery, he turned directly left, stopping outside the large studio. Normally out of bounds for Adrian, the studio was used by his father for all the paintings he worked on, mostly of naked women—models, his father called them. Initially embarrassed and slightly uncomfortable, Adrian soon succumbed to the smiling females’ charm and beauty—especially the ones who remembered his name, as they passed him in the hallway or side entrance to the house.
The red “Do Not Enter. Painting in Progress” sign was on, but pressing his ear to the door, Adrian could detect no sound.
“Dad?” Adrian’s eyes squinted as they tried to focus in the darkness. “Dad? Are you in here?”
The curtains remained closed from this morning, and the light from the faded afternoon dripped through, bleaching the colours from everything in the room. Only when his eyes adjusted to the dullness did Adrian notice the lump centred on the carpet.
“Dad …?” Quickly pulling the curtains open, Adrian allowed the remainder of the evening to enter.
Amidst the detritus of dirty clothing looming suspiciously in corners, old newspapers—crinkled and beige from being left in the sun—carpeted the floor. Tiny mountains of clay took up a good three-quarters of sought-after space, while incomplete busts and torsos mobbed the remainder of the floor, haphazardly, as if an axe-murderer had recently paid a visit. A gang of meat hooks dangled ghoulishly from the ceiling like medieval torture devices, their question-mark shadows touching framed pictures of nudes.
The hum of paint was overpowering, yet Adrian could distinguish two other smells far stronger—more menacing—than the paint: stale booze and fresh gun oil.
His father’s body was stiff, but there was breathing. He’s out cold, that’s all, thought Adrian, relieved.
With effort, Adrian bent, attempting to pull the body from the floor, but the deadweight was too much.
“Dad? You’ve got to get up. C’mon!” There was annoyance in his voice. He tried again; and once again he failed to move the basking bulk. Defeated, he stood over the body. “If Mum could see you now, she’d be so ashamed. You’ve got to get up!”
Seconds later, the body moaned. “What … is it … what do … what do you want?” His father’s voice was hoarse, uncertain.
“C’mon, Dad. Up to bed,” said Adrian, pulling at his father’s arm. “It’s me, Adrian.”
“Adrian?” There was bewilderment in the question, followed by revelation. “Oh! Adrian! Good old Adrian … let’s have a drink to good old Adrian.” The skin of his father’s face was crisscrossed with carpet creases and red blotches. The face was all sharp angles and lines and, at first glance, one might have mistaken the lines for sternness.
Slowly, he moved, pushing himself up, guided by his son’s pull.
“C’mon, Dad. I’ll help you up the stairs.”
For the first time, Adrian noticed the cherished framed photo of his mother resting on the ground, black lightning jagged across the glass, splitting her smiling face in two.
“You’ve busted Mum’s picture,” accused Adrian as he tried to suppress the bubble of anger forming in his stomach. He wanted to say drunken bastard, but something held his lips tight.
Swooning slightly, his father slowly steadied.
“You’re a good son. The best son Jack Calvert could ever want,” he said, patting Adrian on the cheek.
“I know. The best in the world. Now, let’s be having you, Dad. You’ll feel a lot better in the morning.”
“A whiskey. I need a whiskey, Adrian. That’ll make me feel a lot better—a whole lot better. Get me a bottle from the cupboard, will you? Just to dampen my thirst. The last few I had have all died on me.” Jack winked.
“Later. Not now …” Not ever, he wanted to say.
Jack allowed his bodyweight to plop itself on to the old battered sofa. Closing his eyes for a few seconds, he gradually opened them before speaking. “For heaven’s sake, Adrian, would you cheer up? It’s Friday night. Everyone loves Friday.” Then, as if a great revelation had finally revealed itself, Jack said: “Oh, now I get it. I forgot to give you your pocket money, didn’t I? Get my wallet, and we’ll quickly sort that out.”
“Do you believe in ghosts, Dad?” asked Adrian, staring directly into his father’s eyes.
Momentarily, Jack looked taken aback. Then his eyes tightened, filling with suspicion.
“I … that’s a strange question. Why? Why … do you ask?”
“I think I saw Mum, out at the lake.”
Silence suffocated the room. Adrian’s words seemed to catch Jack in the throat, sobering him even further.
“Don’t talk like that. Understand?” Jack’s face reddened. “There are no ghosts. Mum is dead—something we both have to come to terms with.”
“I saw her. She isn’t dead,” whispered Adrian, undeterred by his father’s words. “She wouldn’t do that to us. She wouldn’t die, leave us all alone.”
“Mum didn’t do anything, Adrian. It was the drunken driver who did it. Remember? Not Mum; not you.” Jack leaned towards Adrian. “When did you … when did you think you saw Mum?”
Remembering that he shouldn�
�t have been in the woods that morning, Adrian carefully sidestepped the question, but accidentally revealed more about himself than he had intended. “I’m glad the drunk died, Dad. Know that? I hope he’s in hell, burning. I hate him. I hope he’s suffering.”
Jack’s face turned ashen. “It’s okay to hate, son; but not forever. It only poisons, destroys. You wouldn’t want Mum to see you like this. Would you?”
Releasing the tense air pocketed in his lungs, Adrian tried to sound calm, forgiving.
“No, I suppose not. I know that I shouldn’t be talking like some stupid kid, but I can’t help that. It’s hurting me, Mum not being here.”
Easing himself from the sofa, Jack gently touched Adrian’s head. “You know, all the big things hurt, the things you remember. If it doesn’t hurt, it’s not important. Do you understand?”
Reluctantly, Adrian nodded.
Standing shakily, Jack manoeuvred towards the door. “We’ll talk later, son. Okay? But for now, I’m going to take your advice and go to bed.”
Less than a minute later, Adrian heard his father’s body collapse on the bed above, heard the protestations from the metal springs.
Despite his efforts to ignore his hunger, Adrian’s stomach rumbled loudly. He thought about going to the fridge to grab a bite, but something drew his eyes to the side of the old sofa. An object, black and lumpy. He knew what it was, even before he retrieved it: his father’s revolver.
Something wasn’t right. His father was strict when it came to guns, instilling in Adrian a healthy respect for them: take care of guns, and they’ll take care of you.
The smell of oil on the freshly cleaned gun settled inside Adrian’s nose and on the back of his throat in a clinging layer. He could taste it. He could also tell that the gun had been fired recently, could smell the burnt powder mingling with the oil.
Cautiously, holding the weapon away from his face, Adrian touched the release button, allowing the bulbous gun’s stomach to reveal its gut, exposing the chambers.
Shocked at what the chamber held, Adrian tilted the gun, and a family of bullets fell harmlessly into the meat of his palm. “What are you playing at, Dad? A loaded weapon …?” Unpleasant thoughts entered his head, thoughts of his father doing something dark, something sinister; but these were quickly erased when he noticed the rip in the old armchair stationed beside the portable TV.
The rip—thumb-wide and finger-deep—left Adrian in no doubt of a slug housed inside the armchair.
Deciding that it was better to err on the side of caution, Adrian thought he should hide the gun. His father would need it, once he got himself back on track. Later. Certainly not now.
Climbing the stairs, he stopped outside his father’s bedroom. Snores were buzzing rhythmically.
A few seconds later, he entered his own room and selected a wooden box from beneath his bed. Opening it, he deposited the gun along with the feather and bone before collapsing unceremoniously on to the bed, mentally exhausted.
His belly rumbled again, and he thought about journeying back down the stairs, grabbing a snack. Instead, he remembered the sweet, thrust into his hand by the ignorant old barber, and quickly unwrapped it before popping it in his mouth, loving the rush of sugar it sent through his body.
The winter wind was squeezing into the leaks of the old house, making him shudder as he pulled a blanket up to his chin. He felt his eyelids becoming heavier and heavier, knowing he could sleep forever, given the chance.
Eventually, he did sleep, but nightmares came rushing at him like pursuing ghosts—nightmares of all things dark and wicked: of dead mothers and dead crows; of dead bones …
Chapter Four
“O to be a dragon, a symbol of the power of Heaven – of silkworm size or immense; at times invisible. Felicitous phenomenon!”
Marianne Moore, O To Be a Dragon
ARRIVING HOME FROM work, Jeremiah fixed the key inside the lock, clicking himself into the darkness of the back kitchen. An attempted pot of stew had hardened on the stove, and the greasy aroma rushed to greet his hairy nostrils. It wasn’t appetising, but Jeremiah hoped the contents would be filling.
Leaving the kitchen, a few minutes later, he went straight to the large living room, clutching the package given to him earlier that day by Harris. Glancing nervously about, he quickly placed the package behind the bookshelf, making sure that the line of books fitted back evenly.
After washing his hands, he made his way out of the house, on to the vast parcel of land.
“Judith?” he called into the darkness, knowing his wife was probably in one of the many huge sheds castled on their land. Walking down the serpentine path, he headed for the wooden buildings, passing the three scarecrows stationed together in the neglected apple-tree yard.
Some of the sheds were Aladdin’s caves of discovery, filled with diverse collections of items accrued over the years; others were deserted, mere empty husks and skeleton frames of leprosy wood.
“Judith?” He opened the door of a shed, the one lodging old household utensils. Nothing. Not a sound. Then he remembered: Friday. She’d be in the clothing shed, sorting out the second-hand stuff for tomorrow’s market at Smithfield. Two or more traders would call tomorrow, inspecting the goods, bartering for the best deal possible—bartering with things other than money.
The clothing shed stood head and shoulders above the cluster of other sheds, towering like a chaperone in the midst of children. But even during the day there was something unwelcoming about it.
Turning the handle of the door until it gave way, Jeremiah stepped into the large, wooden structure, dull nightlight following directly behind him.
“Judith?” he called, edging forward, cautiously. A faded orange glow emanated from a single, naked light bulb suspended from the rafters. How his wife could see in such dreadful light was beyond him. But that was how she preferred things: semi-darkness. Even the light in the house was toned down to mere shadows—shadows to help accommodate her needs. A childhood ailment was all she was willing to say, when he first met her. It had taken years for her to confide in him, reveal the real truth.
“Jud—”
“Yessssss? What is it?” hissed a harsh, annoyed voice, lurking somewhere in the semi-darkness.
“I just got in, a few minutes ago. Do … would you like me to put some coffee on? I brought some buns in from McKenna’s Bakery.”
Nothing, only a soft whispery squeal coming from the back of the shed.
“Right, then,” said Jeremiah. “I’ll heat the water. See you shortly?”
He left, knowing there would be no reply.
The coffee had practically turned to varnish by the time Jeremiah heard the back door creak open then shut. He could hear Judith move about restlessly, searching for something, slamming cupboards, making the cups rattle in their shelves. He knew what she was seeking, but hoped she wouldn’t find it.
Less than a minute later, she appeared at the parlour door, her pale face illuminated like a ghost from the light’s fading haze.
She wore a dove-grey apron over a flowery gypsy dress. The apron was speckled with large blotches the colour of parched clay, and smaller ones gleaming with new wetness. The clothes draped around her as if her bones were cradled in the very fabric, her frame emaciated with flesh barely drawing substance. Her age was half that of her husband.
“Where have you hidden it?” she asked, her voice controlled but with a hint of menace. Her eyes seemed to look at him from some point far beyond her body. Sweat beads, tiny as lice eggs, camped on her forehead.
Limiting the expressiveness of his face, Jeremiah hoped to make his response sound casual, eager to forestall any arguments.
“Hidden what?”
“Do-not-play-fucking-games,” she hissed, each impatient and deliberate word emerging from her tight mouth. “Where-is-my-fucking-magic-powderrrrrr!”
Swallowing the spittle caged in his throat, Jeremiah responded. “You’ve used it all up. A month’s supply devoured w
ithin a week. You’re trying to kill yourself with all this depression and—”
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up with the fucking preaching! I’ve hardly used any! Now, where the fuck is it? Where?” She was sweating excessively now, and pressed a fist tight against her stomach as if hoping to fend off the inevitable stomach cramps starting to ferment.
Jeremiah had witnessed the telltale signs, many times, yet it always shocked him, always frightened him until he knew not what to do.
Judith’s voice rose in halting queries, while Jeremiah’s voice—calm but urgent—flowed insistently over and around her sharp, demanding questions.
“You can’t go on like this, Judith. You’ve got to get help.” He remained seated, resisting the urge to rise. She would perceive any movement from him as a threat, and act accordingly.
“Help me? Help you, if you don’t tell me where you’ve fucking hidden it—now!” she demanded, giving him a withering look.
“You’re not going to have your way, Judith. Not this time. I’ve always surrendered to—”
She squeezed her head between her hands, tight, like in a vice. “Your whingeing voice is like acid, going through me like diafuckingrrhoea.” Her hands came abruptly down, disappearing beneath the apron, moving with purpose before reappearing, clutching something between her fingers. It was a cut-throat razor, identical to the ones in the barber’s shop, held in stock by a mother-of-pearl handle.
“Put that away … please … please put it away …” said Jeremiah, frightened, his voice barely a whisper.
Ignoring her husband, Judith drew the razor lightly over the ball of her thumb, whetting the blade, her trance-like eyes staring at him with the unblinking intensity of a cobra preparing to strike.
