Blood Bonds: A psychological thriller

by Alex Matthews

  “Are you sure?” he ventured softly. “It’ll only take a minute or so.” But he couldn’t find the matches, to his annoyance. He grunted his impatience.

  “No thank you,” she said again. “I have another house to clean later this morning.”

  With that she disappeared through the door that led to the stairs and he listened to her light footfalls on the treads, the familiar squeak of the loose boards on the landing. It was so good to have a woman in the house again, he thought. So, so good. They didn’t realise just how much he missed her. Missed his wife. Missed Jean. Missed the captain. Oh yes, they all thought he was the strong one, big as he’d always been, broad in the chest, thick-legged, arms like tree trunks they used to say. But she was the strong one. Inner strength, that’s what it was. She filled the house with her presence; she filled his life with it. Solid, dependable, all the things you’d expect him to be. But he couldn’t match Jean. No man could. At times he thought it wrong and cruel that she’d been born a woman in a man’s world; she could have been and done so much more than become a teacher’s wife. And he danced to her tunes, because he loved her and she oozed confidence, and he thought that by giving her the respect she deserved she might not become so depressed that she couldn’t escape being a woman constrained by the bars that men put up to women. And he missed her terribly with each day. The hurt hadn’t faded or gone away; it was like rheumatism of the brain, a dull ache every time he turned his mind to think of her, and think of her he did, with far too much regularity. Unhealthily, he’d been told. Let her go. Try to… What? Forget? Try to forget her? Never! She’d left behind a hole – no, a chasm. And what could possibly fill such a monumental rent in a person’s life, his very fabric? Now his ship sailed its dark sea without aim, without its captain, and he was no longer a Jolly Jack Tar. Which is why he couldn’t just uproot and leave this town, as he’d so wanted to leave, to become something else. Because he was scared. Scared to death of the vast, unknown and terrifying seas of uncertainty without his captain.

  He heard Connie moving around above him and felt a warmth swell inside to hear the house making sounds that didn’t emanate from him alone. He abandoned the kettle, left cold and dripping on the cooker, and rushed to the bottom of the stairs. He could hear her in the bedroom. “Do you want the Hoover bringing up?” he called.

  “That would be so lovely, darling,” she returned.

  Darling! He shook his head and grinned. Nobody called him darling. The boys certainly didn’t. He felt – yes, he felt sort of young again when she talked to him like that. The sort of talk that had passed between his wife and him all those years ago when they mounted these same stairs on their wedding day. Young talk. Talk between two lovers. Between intimates. What shall we do today, darling? It looks like rain, darling. I love you, darling. You look tired, darling. Don’t worry, darling, the doctors say the chances of beating the disease are very, very good these days.

  He opened the cupboard at the foot of the stairs and dragged out the vacuum cleaner, and with an evident spring in his step he carried the cumbersome machine up the stairs and placed it in the bedroom where Connie was dusting the dressing table, much as he’d seen Jean do it so many times before, carefully moving aside the Art Deco glass dressing table set, spraying polish and whipping the duster around. The odour of polish, of creamy beeswax! The memories came shooting back.

  “There, all yours,” he said, and held out both hands as if presenting her with a trophy.

  “Lovely,” she returned, intent on her work.

  He lingered in the doorway, the doorway to the room Jean and he had shared all their married life. Their wedding photograph still occupied the same spot it had when they first hung it on the wall, when the people who hung it looked like the people in it, before they became old and altered – here was a man with hair, a man with a waist, a man with hope for the future – so that it became difficult to see themselves as the happy couple who smiled joyously for the photographer from Barnsley who did it cheaply and as a hobby, but who did a professional job nonetheless, even tinting their cheeks with a pink, summery glow that made them look a little like rustics in a Victorian rural painting.

  “Your boy seems nice enough,” he ventured.

  “Max can be a bit of a bleeder, as I’ve said so many times.”

  He winced. So unlike Jean. Never one to swear, not even a ‘damn’, not even when –

  “His written work is good. He writes some very interesting stories, especially for one so young. Perceptive.”

  “Perceptive?” her eyes were bright, aflame because he’d praised her son. “That’s nice,” she said.

  He fluffed out, pleased he’d touched her so. “We can develop that little talent,” he continued, even though the child irked him, annoyed him with his sullen and unreceptive attitude. Connie smiled the smile of self-satisfaction, and set about her work again. He was glad he’d suggested she clean for him, when he found out that she did similar work for others around the town, overcoming the shock of her initial appearance, their first meeting when he thought her uncouth, flaunting her sexuality like she seemed to do. But then he thought of Jean, and if she’d been young like Connie, only living now and not when she did, she too would have been something similar, would have been eager to flag her personality more openly, in a way women of Jean’s generation were prevented from doing. Yes, Connie and Jean were the same really, when you weighed it all up. Astonishingly they even had a look of each other. And as the months passed he felt somehow that Connie had become another part-time Jean, settling into his house nicely, like suddenly finding that missing jigsaw piece, and now the picture was whole again.

  “You know, Mr Walton, you really must stop smoking in bed like you do.” Connie held up an ashtray with its little island of grey ash and crushed butts. That same light-hearted reproachful tone and look on the face.

  And like a child he felt his cheeks burn. Mr Walton. Big, heavy, built like a brick wall, rugby-playing Walton. Blushing before this mere scrap of a woman.

  She dusted the bedside cabinet and his eyes played over her, this beautiful and perfectly formed Venus with a duster. She looked up. “Aren’t you going to work, Mr Walton?” They both looked at the bedside clock. “You’ll definitely be late now.”

  He shrugged his answer. Damn work! Damn those scruffy starlings! What did school matter?

  She shook her head at him as she walked up to him with the ashtray in her hand. “You’re such a funny thing!” she said, coming up to the seawall that was his bulk and which prevented her from going any further. She cocked her eyebrow, meaning, ‘Excuse me, Mr Walton, I wish to pass’ – faint irritation in the movement.

  But then he did something he knew he shouldn’t ever have done.

  He grabbed her arms, wrapped a meaty hand around each, the bands of his fingers easily encircling the soft white flesh. “Connie…” he said. But then realised what he’d done, and regretted it.

  She struggled to free herself, tiny shrugs, her expression one not of fear but bewilderment. “Mr Walton, what do you think you’re doing?” Ash floated from the lip of the ashtray and trickled unseen to the carpet.

  “I…” he faltered. But it was too late. Her body had tensed, was pulling from him, trying to extricate itself from his grip, a certain panic evidenced in her quick movements, and all the while her slender fingers refusing to let go of the ashtray. He couldn’t release her, because what must she think of him? He had to hold her, to tell her he’d made a mistake, that he’d only been thinking of Jean and that he missed her so, so much. Missed his captain.

  “Mr Walton! Let me go!”

  Fear in her voice now.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I don’t…” He fastened his hands tighter around her arms. “Wait…Listen!” His voice rose just a tad too high, instilling more fear in her. She dropped the ashtray, and they were heedless of the soft clunk it made on the carpet, or of the ash that smeared the white bedcover. I can explain, he thought. Let me ex
plain everything. About the loneliness. Do you know how this house feels – so large, so empty? But the words never came out. Instead he became angry when she didn’t stop her fighting, and his cheeks flushed red, a blush but not a blush. “Keep still, for God’s sake, woman!” he bellowed, as he bellowed all day long at school. And her face grew very white and afraid.

  No, don’t be like this, he thought, don’t fear me.

  It was he that was afraid, as he had been back then. His face that had grown pale. He was gripping the arms of Jean as she lay on the bed dying. Don’t leave me, Jean, he said, as if holding on to her might just prevent her from slipping into death. Don’t you dare go away. Don’t desert your post now. I couldn’t go on without you, Jean. What would I do?

  “Jean!” he shouted.

  And Connie struck out with her foot, which caught him firmly on the shin. He yelled out in pain and released her. The next moment he felt her presence waft by him as if she’d been nothing more insubstantial than the wind, and she’d gone before he could find it in him to utter another word. But his anger didn’t subside. It grew. Because of what he’d done, what he’d spoilt, because of who he was and all the bad things he was and ever had been.

  He turned up at school. Eventually. Very late. He picked up his chalk and scratched away at the blackboard till it was filled with maths questions, his fury perhaps making them a trifle too difficult for the young boys, but not caring all the same. This task concluded, aware that the class were sitting in rigid silence, receptive to his foul mood and taking warning from the hyperborean atmosphere, he returned to his fortress of a desk and sat behind its protective palisade, his glowering face scanning the rows of wary children like a burning searchlight. They set about answering the questions, pens dipping into inkpots and scratching over paper. Pounds, shillings, pence, halfpennies. Added, subtracted, divided. And, except for this mouse-like scratching, total silence. That and the thunderously loud music of his thoughts beating discordantly about his head.

  His face settled upon Max. Connie’s child. Max, Max, Max. And he felt his fury rise at the sight of this youngster who was staring at the blackboard with a combination of confusion and consternation. Fury because he saw her – saw Connie – in his face. And he saw his foolish mistake played out all over again, when he did the stupidest thing and let emotion take control.

  Because he was a bad captain and couldn’t take command of his ship. Not without her.

  He rose slowly from his desk, and his anger rose with him. The boy didn’t even have a pen or pencil in his hand. Wasn’t even attempting to answer the damn questions. Who did he think he was? The little…

  “Problem?” he said, the voice rumbling like distant peals of thunder on a clear, sweltering summer day.

  * * * *

  23

  Sunday

  For all that it is my prison, it cannot be denied; Eilean Mor is a beautiful island. But it wasn’t always my prison. I clearly remember seeing it for the very first time.

  There is something eternally fascinating about them. About islands. Is it because they stand alone, isolated, the way people are, each one of us beset by the troubled storms of our lives, tiny, shrunken, huddled against that which is larger than all of us? The Vikings believed the world was an island, a slain giant’s eyebrow sticking up from the sea surrounded by a thrashing sea serpent that caused the storms and tides. I’m touched by that simplistic view of the world. It’s not much different for us today, I guess. The Viking world was an island; we’d all like to shrink our world to an island. We all dream of being a Robinson Crusoe, drawn to the idea of the deserted beaches they serve up in travel brochures, held on all sides by sticky, tropical isolation.

  There must have been a little of this imagery smeared indelibly on my mind, for I stepped into the boat as if I’d been stepping into church for a wedding, a tiny knot of excitement in my stomach, the heaviness of impending solemnity, the feeling of something larger than me pressing down from the overcast sky, as if the scudding clouds were the high, vaulting arches inside a cathedral.

  When I first saw the island of Eilean Mor bobbing darkly on the swaying horizon, sitting in a foaming white sea froth that fumed at the rocks which formed its ragged black necklace, I thought of the slain giant. I felt the bow of the boat being punched by the green-blue waves, the craft shuddering as if in pain; I felt the slap of icy sea spray across my raw cheeks, trickle down my wet hair and blur my vision; I felt awed by the fact that I was a tiny nothing sitting in a steaming cauldron, and I thought of the sea serpent. Gulls were being swept along as if they were pieces of white confetti tossed into a gale, snatched quickly away and forced to ride the wind, their flailing wings looking as if they might twist off altogether, break away and plunge them into the sea below. It made me want to cry, because it was all so very beautiful, so huge and terrifying, and I was but a speck in a world that would not keep still, was caught up in a cyclone of water and air. And Eilean Mor was a giant. A beautiful dead giant. I did cry. I released a few tears, but the pilot of the boat wouldn’t have noticed, because my face was so wet, and so was his. He looked as if he’d been crying too. Crying in the rain. Everyone has to cross the water one day. You get through your storms, I thought, and then you find yourself. You find your island. You find you. Everyone has an Eilean Mor tucked away inside them. That’s what I thought. But I grew terrified when we came closer, and Eilean Mor tore itself out of the ocean, craggy and spiked, and appeared like a massive black rent against the cold uniformity of the grey sea and sky. It’s not a giant at all; it’s a tear, a gash, and I’m going to fall right on into it. The boat’s going to flip over the edge. The end of the world.

  But that was a long time ago. Now that same island is my prison. Who would have thought that?

  I can still see the very tip of the eyebrow, however. Above the exercise yard walls. There had been snow or frost on it, but it had melted, replaced by greens and blues and browns. It looks like a bruise, I thought. Can eyebrows bruise? I was staring at the mountain because it stopped me from staring at Wise. He’s frightening me these days, standing there on his own, a tiny spatter of hate against the lichen-dappled stone wall. I walked around the walls, losing the sight of the mountain at times and having to look at my shoes for fear of looking at Wise. But his gooey eyes sort of snapped away at my attention till I had to face him. That’s when I noticed – really noticed – how different his face had become. Not physically, you understand, not altered as if he’d had a nose job, or a chin tuck, not that kind of difference. It was more underneath, seeping thickly beneath the skin, oozing up into his eyes. I knew he wanted me to go over to him. Here, boy, they said. Over here. There’s a good boy.

  His right fist was clenched. Tight into a hard white ball. It wasn’t cold that caused him to do that, I thought. The snow had melted from the giant’s eyebrow, so it wasn’t cold. It might be anger, and that held me back for a moment. But his face didn’t show anger, and so his hand couldn’t show it too. I purposely aimed my walk so that we would come within a couple of yards of each other. Engage tractor beam, Mr Scott.

  “Wait,” he said as I came up to him, about to pass, and so quiet I thought I might have mistaken him saying it. Thought it was only my own head telling me to wait. “Wait,” he said again, as he noticed how I halted but rocked on my feet as if about to set off again. I could see his eyes were darting around in his sockets as if he had no control over them. He was looking for something. I guess, from the way they jiggled so much, even he didn’t know where the secret cameras were. We both knew they had to exist. A little of his power drained away from him till he stood there like a battery that’s almost dud, when I knew he was as unsure as me. I think I smiled. Or maybe I thought I smiled. Smiled smugly in my head. He’s even got you spooked, I thought. You may watch me, beat me, lock me up, but you’re just like me really.

  Wise comes over to me and starts to make out as though he’s searching me for something, like they both do now and again. But he i
sn’t doing anything of the kind. It’s half-hearted. Taps instead of thumps. No shoving. No making me feel small like a piece of paper that’s all crumpled up and ready to be blown away on the wind. He just pushes me away with his forefinger as if to say ‘all done, you can go now’; but his eyes, they tell me something different. They look towards my pocket, fast, darting there and back again. A camera would miss it, but I’m up close. I know he’s put something in there. Morecambe did it once or twice. A piece of chocolate or chewing gum. But I can’t feel anything this time. It’s as if he’s grabbed a fistful of air and shoved that into my pocket. It’s a sick joke, because air is free in more than one sense of the word. I can’t make my mind up what’s going on, but I know it doesn’t look good. He isn’t Morecame. He’s Wise, and I hate Wise. The way he lashed into me with his baton he could have killed me. He’s like a spring ready to go off, a rattrap, big, sharp, steely and ugly. He isn’t Morecame. But he’s put something in my pocket, and that’s disturbing. Morecame knew I liked plain chocolate better than milk. Wise could have killed me.

  In my room I did my best to hide myself away from the mirror, tucked myself as far into a corner as I could get. My hands rummaged round in my pocket and clasped hold of a piece of paper. A small piece of paper. No chocolate. No gum. I drew it out unfolded it and read Wise’s thin scrawl. ‘Next time you’re in the yard, pretend to have a stomach pain. At centre of the yard. Eat paper’. I scrunched the paper up into a small ball and popped it into my mouth. It took some time to wet it and chew it to a pulp before I could swallow. I remember Steve McQueen doing it in Papillon. He was on an island too. Got away with coconuts strapped together, eventually. No palm trees or coconuts on Eilean Mor.