by Simon Parker
After the extravagant wake at the hotel, Eleanor approached her step-mother. They had never really got on, but for this occasion, she would at least temporarily act like she cared.
“Look, Janet,” Eleanor said, “I know we’ve never really … well, you know what I mean, but I want you to know that I really feel for you right now. Dad would’ve been so proud of the way you’re handling it at the moment.” She paused when Janet stroked her face, a gesture she had never made before. Eleanor left it a moment, feeling a little uncomfortable, before saying, “I’ve er… decided I need to get away for a while. You know, to be alone with my feelings and stuff.”
Janet extended her bottom lip in a faked expression of disappointment, smiled and said she understood. She was actually quite pleased. It was working out well. The little bitch would be out of the way for a while. That would make things a whole lot easier.
Once Eleanor had packed a bag and left Rouchenest, Janet felt she could relax a little. She poured herself a large single malt from the Waterford crystal decanter on the oak sideboard and slumped into the soft cream folds of the enormous leather sofa.
The police had asked her so many questions over the last two weeks and she was tired of their meddling. They didn’t have a clue as to what had really happened. Ben’s Aston Martin DB7 had been found on a bridge in Essex, abandoned with the motor still running. A couple of days later they found his body fifty miles downstream from the bridge.
Janet shuddered as she recalled the visit she had been forced to make to identify the body. She had almost vomited. The sight was burned into her memory, the body partially covered by a sheet, but the face and hands uncovered and ravaged by decay. The overpowering odour of rotting flesh had burned her nostrils, even over the stench of disinfectant. It was a smell she would never forget.
Ben had been almost unrecognisable. There were horrific gashes across his face. Parasites and scavengers had ripped away his eyes, lips and part of his nose. If not for his gold Rolex, the one she’d had engraved for their wedding day as a gift for him, she might not have recognized him at all. The police had let her take it home as a sentimental keepsake. It felt surreal to her, holding what was left of the famous Ben Rouche, the great performer, the outstanding business mind, and the mediocre husband.
Eleanor drummed the steering wheel of her electric blue Lotus Elise as she sat waiting in the car park at Stansted Airport. The door swung open and a raggedy man collapsed into her passenger seat. She turned her nose up at his appearance and his smell, expressed her disgust with a grunt, and then threw her arms around the man, hugging and kissing him before speeding off to her retreat cottage on the Suffolk coast.
At 3pm the next day, Janet Rouche-Dinman had a meeting with the family solicitor for the reading of the last will and testament. She knew it would be just a formality, but she still felt a little apprehensive. She needed to get through this before the rest of her plans could fall into place.
Mr. Ravenscroft greeted her and asked the whereabouts of Eleanor. He was a little agitated, but seemed placated with the news that Eleanor had taken a trip and that her demeanour was no worse than to be expected at such a time.
The reading of the will held few surprises for Janet. She pretty much got control of the whole shebang on the condition that it all passed to Eleanor on Janet’s demise. That was a bit of a downer, but she’d work around that later.
Then Ravenscroft took out another folder and looked for all the world as if he were about to cry. Janet buckled her brow with a bemused frown.
“What is it, Mr. Ravenscroft?”
“Unfortunately, Ms. Rouche-Dinman,” the solicitor stammered, “things are not all as they should be with the estate you have just inherited.”
“What exactly do you mean?” she asked in a surprisingly timid voice.
“Well there have been some major anomalies in your husband’s accounting of late.” Ravenscroft paused again, gazing down at the paper he held before him. “The mansion was re-mortgaged last year to fund a new project of your husband’s.”
Janet sighed with relief. Ravenscroft raised his eyebrows, as if confused by her reaction.
“But that’ll all be covered by his insurance, won’t it?” she enquired calmly. Ravenscroft’s eyebrows now knitted, closer to his eyes. Janet wondered if they obscured his vision as he glanced back to the paperwork on his desk.
“I’m afraid, Ms. Rouche-Dinman, that all the insurances together barely scratch the surface of the debts your husband has run up over the last two years.” He continued to explain the massive losses Cocker-Rouche had made in the last twelve months and the vast inconsistencies in the account books. Janet merely sat open-mouthed, stunned into passivity by the news. Eventually she found her voice again.
“So exactly how much is left?” she asked, her usual confidence and exuberance gone. Ravenscroft explained the situation again fully, and when she gave him a puzzled look, explained once more. Tax fraud, embezzlement and insolvency. The words blurred through her dazed and confused mind. The room began to spin. The last words she heard linked her husband’s financial state to the possibility that his death had in fact been a suicide. Then she fainted.
At 2am the following morning, torchlight flickered around the grave of Benjamin James Rouche, 1969-2012, as two figures began to dig, their spades working furiously in the dim glimmer of the torches. Terrifying shadows cast by the marble monuments and statues crowded in, like an audience waiting for something to happen in the fresh grave. It was a full hour before the first spade struck the polished oak casket. Another half hour passed before the filthy, sweating grave robbers had the coffin open and congratulated each other on their success. Eleanor took off her mud-covered jacket and gave her father a big hug. She ached in every muscle, but the sight of the huge bags of cash within the coffin had made her heart leap.
It had taken two years of planning, filtering off the cash a bit at a time, but they’d pulled it off. They had over twenty million in used notes in here, easily enough to set them up for the rest of their quiet, unobtrusive lives somewhere in a little outback. Eleanor stared at the holdalls of cash she’d stashed in the casket the night before the funeral while it was at the house. It had been worth the wait, worth knowing her father was wearing stinking, threadbare clothing, worth putting up with his shaggy, smelly beard. Even worth killing for. She shuddered briefly as she remembered the poor old tramp they had found sleeping under a bridge. His resemblance to her father had earned him his death. They had cut him up bad, then dumped him in the river wearing nothing but her father’s Rolex. Her stomach turned as she remembered the stench when they threw the limp corpse over the bridge, the splash when he hit the water of the river.
Ben grasped his hip flask after they had loaded the cash holdalls into the Lotus. He took a swig and passed it to his daughter.
“Join me in a toast?” he asked. Eleanor smiled, thoughts of their fresh start away from the press and away from that bitch Janet, in her mind. She raised the flask in the air.
“To our dear departed friend in the river. Thank you for your sacrifice.”
Out of the Frying Pan
It had been a frustrating day in so many ways, I felt swamped. Whatever could possibly go wrong, had. I was recovering from an operation. My blood pressure was up and I hadn’t slept well in days. The pain killers weren’t killing the pain, the bank had bounced yet another payment and charged me another twenty quid for the privilege, and my phone had been cut off. When you’re self-employed, off work meant out of money.
I wasn’t sure what I’d do to get out of this slump but I had a few ideas. I knew from past experience that somehow I’d get through, so although things seemed pretty dire for the time being, I was still upbeat about life in general.
That night I sat by the fire, reading & sipping a fine single malt I’d been given for Christmas last year. I loved to read. It helped me clear my mind of my troubles and let me escape into … well, into someone else’s misery, as it turned out
. I was reading my favourite horror writer’s latest offering in which a couple were experiencing a hideous ordeal at the hands of some as yet unknown creature. Just as the husband was in some emotional torture over a life and death choice in the story, the biggest log on the fire split with a loud crack and showered glittering sparks onto the hearth rug.
I nearly jumped out of my skin and spilled my whiskey all over my book and myself. Not like me to be so spooked. Must’ve been a good story, I guess. I levered myself up from the chair, carrying my now soggy book with me, afraid to lose my page. I winced at the stabbing pain that shot through my op scar. With my bare foot, I patted the embers that were still glowing on the rug. It was a crazy thing to do, but strangely, I felt no pain at all, not even a little heat that would normally have been expected.
I knelt down carefully to make sure the embers were properly out before I turned in for the night. I didn’t want to risk a fire starting. That’s when I noticed a bright white jet of flame shooting out of the side of the split log, like there was some gas escaping from it. It died down quickly, but although the flame was smaller, it still burned brilliant white against the yellows, oranges and blacks around it. It was mesmerizing.
I don’t know how long I sat there transfixed by this little oddity, but suddenly felt a tingling ache in my legs and guessed it must’ve been twenty minutes or so. I shifted position so my legs were more comfortable, but I felt reluctant to leave the bright flame. It felt like I’d be abandoning a friend. Strange thing to say, but that’s the only way I can think of to describe the subliminal feeling.
It didn’t spit or sputter any more. The beautiful flame just danced and swayed gently to its own beat, keeping my attention glued to its form. I began to make sense of the movements, like it was talking to me. It seems crazy now even to me, but I understood exactly what it was saying.
I didn’t get a sense of evil like you might expect from fire, but it didn’t feel exactly good either. It just was. It existed in perfect balance, sentient and calm, and in a strange kind of synergy with me, like we were cloned cells. I felt calm too, the initial excitement subdued. I felt the most comfortable, at peace even, that I’d felt for a long time.
My worldly troubles simply melted away. My dancing brother (‘brother’ only because I got an indescribable sense of masculinity from it) let me know that all was well with the world. It spoke comforting words to me, of family and friends, of more of my brothers and sisters all over the world. It told me we are all one, not separate entities, that God is not an external being but the spark within every one of us, and there should be no judgement. The feeling of euphoria was overwhelming. I began to cry, tears of warm joy spilling down my cheeks.
He told me it was almost time for him to go, that his work was nearly finished. I’m not sure how, whether I used my mouth or just my mind, but I pleaded, “No, don’t leave me.” He danced in silence for a moment and then said, “Come with me. Brave soul, you are my kin.”
I had no idea where we would go or how we would get there, but I stood to go with him. I turned to replace my book on the table, knowing instinctively that I wouldn’t need it, but I stopped, arrested by the tableau in front of me.
The room was perfect, the side table with the small reading lamp on it intact. But in the depths of the unscathed chair sat the charred remains of my body. Where my feet met the floor boards, normal flesh. The rest, from the ankles up, just ashes. My book dropped to the floor. Then my brother was beside me, wrapping me in his flaming arms. No pain, no fear, just comforting thoughts, cool and calm.
“Time to go,” he said.
Lonely Nights
The small, modern grandmother clock chimed eight times and Kathy woke with a start. She must have dozed off after her evening meal. She rubbed her eyes and stared at the clock in disbelief, the gold hands stretching across the black face.
Confused and dazed, she said, “Eight o’clock?” She grunted and stretched, pushing the last remnants of sleep away. “He said he’d be home by six tonight!”
Keith worked hard as a limo driver, but he was rarely later than he said he would be, at least not without letting Kathy know.
A frown darkened her smooth brow, narrowing her emerald eyes as she pondered possible reasons for his tardiness. Maybe the limo had broken down? No, he would have called. Maybe he’d had an accident? No, his boss would have called. Maybe she’d read the clock wrong in her sleepy haze?
She scrutinized the clock face again, her eyes focusing properly this time. The golden hands screamed out, mockingly, that he was two hours late. Where the hell was he? Her mind raced uncontrollably as she scrambled to find a logical answer that would comfort her. Suddenly it hit her like she’d run into a wall. He must be with another woman!
Yes, it all fitted now. The lying little bastard! He’d had a couple of unexpected late nights recently, but at least he’d rung her those times, told her he was stuck out on some last minute job and he’d be home in a couple of hours. So what was different this time? Maybe he was too busy!
“I bet he’s been seeing her when he’s told me he’s working late,” she muttered. “That would explain why his hours are up but his takings are down!” She gritted her teeth, shoving herself off the sofa. “I can’t believe it! What a conniving little prick! I’ll kill him!”
She was furious at the thought of her husband lying to her, but her next thought brought a rage she’d never imagined. He’s probably laughing with HER about how stupid and gullible his wife was being, believing such pathetic excuses.
Hot tears burned her bottom lids, threatening a tsunami to devastate her cheeks. How could he treat her like this? She’d given him the best years of her life, kept his house clean, cooked for him, and even bloody washed his smelly clothes! This was how he repaid her? Dumped for some cheap slapper he’d probably picked up as a fare somewhere on a hen night or something. Betrayal carved a home in her heart. Her breathing quickened and her vision blurred as the tears spilled forth.
“Bastard!” she screamed out loud, slamming Keith’s favourite mug across the kitchen to shatter into a cloud of shrapnel. Her fury at his lechery and adultery brought her to
boiling point and burnt her energy out quickly. She collapsed in a blubbering heap on the living room floor, wailing like a stuck pig, her life, her marriage and her nerves in tatters.
Outside Terminal One at Heathrow Airport, Keith was getting frantic. His passenger was some big shot from the city and he was late for his flight. Traffic moved at a snail’s pace around the one-way system. The sweat trickled from Keith’s temple, threatening to run into the corners of his eyes as he pulled onto the drop off point outside the terminal. He spotted two words that he always thought were inappropriate if you had a fear of flying TERMINAL and DEPARTURES and knew he had arrived at the right place. It was easy to get lost here. He shuddered as he got out and rushed round to the back of the limo to retrieve the luggage for the irate businessman. Almost an hour late for check in, his passenger stormed away without leaving a tip. Bloody typical.
Blame me, not the traffic, he thought as he frowned at the man’s back. If it was that important to you, mate, maybe you should’ve booked the limo a little earlier! He shrugged and glanced at his watch.
“Jesus!” he exclaimed as he realised the hour. “She’ll be frantic with worry about me by now.”
His heart warmed at the thought of his Kathy, the stress of his drive dropping away as he envisioned his beautiful wife waiting at home for him. After nearly twenty years, his love for her was as still fresh, strong and vibrant as when they had first met. He enjoyed nothing better than spoiling her and showering her with gifts whenever he could, but the slack in trade meant extra hours at reduced rates trying to get the customer base back up and keep up with his ever-increasing bills. He hated being away from Kathy, but he knew it was temporary, until work picked up again in the summer months.
He pressed the send button on his mobile phone and it automatically recalled his home numb
er. Within seconds he heard the ringing tone, relieved he would be putting his darling’s mind at rest any moment now.
“Hello?”
“Hi sweetheart,” he chirped, elated at hearing her beautiful voice for the first time in hours. “Sorry I’m a bit late ringing, honey. I got stuck on a long airport run and couldn’t ring with a grumpy passenger on board. I’ll be home in a couple of hours or so depending on traffic, okay?” There was silence on the line for a moment or two before Kathy spoke.
“Yeah, er, yeah. Okay, babe. I’ll have the kettle on. Er, you drive carefully sugar, okay?”
“OK honey, will do, see you later. Love ya.”
“Yeah, love you too.”
A smile broke over Keith’s face as he shut the phone off.
Kathy put the phone down and smirked to herself. What a fool she’d been, thinking her sweet, devoted hubby would two-time her like that. How could she believe that sweet chump had been doing the dirty on her? HA! The thought sent a giggle through her. He was far too honest and stupid to do that sort of thing.
She picked up the phone again and dialled a frequently used number from memory.
“Hi, it’s Kathy,” she said when someone picked up the receiver. “Can you come over ASAP? Keith won’t be home for at least a couple of hours.” She could barely contain the happiness she felt. The response she heard made her giggle before she said, “Okay, see you in a few minutes.” And hung up.
