HOPE . . . because that's all there ever is.

by James Crow

  She brings an arm across herself. ‘Yes?’

  Her lips are full, inviting. So inviting. Pete wants to bite them. He swallows the lump in his throat. He explains about the smoke alarm and the filter flush. In his mind she peels the jumper off and her breasts bounce free.

  ‘Won’t take five minutes,’ he says.

  Her eyes flick to his crotch and then back to his eyes. He wonders if she can tell he’s hard. Wonders if she wants it inside her. She backs up, lets him in.

  Up on the steps, he removes the old alarm then uses a bradawl to make a new hole for the antennae to feed through into the roof space. As he’s doing this Bethany arrives. She’s still wearing the yellow dress, now with triangle-shaped pieces in different colours strung around her waist, and there’s a pink backpack over one shoulder. He overhears the girl asking permission to go to Moxley for the day with the olds. And she wants to stay over again. Is that okay, Mum?

  Her mother says it is okay. The girl hugs her and she kisses the girl’s forehead.

  ‘I’ll be good as gold,’ the girl says, skipping away.

  With his cock still straining in his pants, Pete runs the water in the kitchen. The miserable woman watches him from by the door, arms folded, hiding her lovely tits. He wonders where her husband is, then thinks he must be doing a poor job of being a husband. Despite her gorgeous figure she always looks like she wants to cry. He wants to tell her a good fuck will make her smile, that the way to happiness is a good hard fucking, and he’s just the man to give it to her. But Pete isn’t that dumb, he needs practice first. Instead he tells her the water might taste bitter.

  ‘Okay,’ she says.

  Pete loads the steps and rucksack onto the quad with his back to the woman to hide the bone in his pants. A car engine starts up. It’s the Fiat belonging to the olds. Good timing, he can have a snoop around, maybe find a pair of the old girl’s knickers and fill them with cum. He takes his time, loosening and doing up a bootlace. He gets in the seat, starts up the quad and waits till the Fiat pulls away. He turns to wave to Alison Black, but she’s already closed the door.

  4

  Beth crouches behind a bush. Most of its yellow leaves are on the floor, so the crouch needs to be a low one to hide properly. The moist smell of the fallen leaves is heavenly, which she thinks she doesn’t really deserve. She feels bad about lying to Mum and it hurts that the M&Ms didn’t invite her to Moxley; their tune had certainly altered from the night before. It also hurts that Elizabeth allowed her to take the blame for throwing the stone at Martin’s head. That was just mean. Plus, everyone seems to be having brick problems. Beth almost smiles when the connection between stone and brick makes itself known. The M&Ms’ bricks were in a frenzy and she couldn’t figure out why, and Mum’s had formed a storm cloud over her head that looked oh so nasty. Peter’s bricks were a throbbing purple that seemed to glisten.

  Then there’s Elizabeth, she hasn’t got any bricks at all. The wood spirit had invited her to a sleepover and despite her throwing the stone at Martin the offer of seeing real fairy magic was too good to let a huff get in the way. It would also be a relief to be among the brickless for a while, and a proper fun do with real magic to witness. This was something she had to do. Had to grasp it and experience it. Yes!

  Beth ducks as low as she can get when the M&Ms’ front door opens. Fingers spread on the damp leaves – they feel nice, like soap – she watches as the M&Ms get in their car and drive off. While she waits for the engine sound to fade away, a new engine sound comes and Peter arrives on his quad bike. He takes the steps and his bag and lets himself into M&Ms’ cabin. Beth checks around. No one about. She slings her backpack over her shoulder, steps onto the path and runs for the hill.

  5

  Bob turned the Fiat onto the Moxley road, eyes ahead, trying not to show his sullen mood. Carol didn’t want to invite Beth along, or have her stopover again tonight. She’d changed her mind. Bob felt for Beth, wished she was here with him instead of Carol. The two of them could have a fun do in Moxley. He would buy her some nice things, a big teddy bear, a new dress, forgive her for splitting his head open and she’d kiss it better and try on her new dress and sit on his knee and wrap her slender arms around his neck and tell him he was cooly-fucking-dooly.

  ‘A penny for them?’ Carol said as the Fiat rattled over the first cattle grid.

  Bob felt heat in his cheeks. The pottery came to mind. ‘I was thinking about the pottery . . . along this road . . . I was thinking we could stop and buy Beth a present.’ The words were out. He stared ahead. Carol’s eyes were on him.

  ‘A present?’

  ‘She deserves it. She’s a really good kid.’

  ‘So you keep saying.’

  ‘I feel a bit sorry for her, that’s all.’

  ‘Why would you?’

  ‘It’s obvious she wanted to come. I saw the disappointment in her face when you didn’t invite her and you shooed her out the door.’

  ‘I wanted some me time, Bobby. Me and you time. I needed us, just us, for a change.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Your precious Beth will no doubt be back tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t be like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘It doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘It?’

  ‘Being . . . being snarky.’ Snarky? What the fuck did that even mean? She was jealous. That’s what she was – plain jealous.

  Silence.

  The Fiat trundled on. He could feel her seething, hear the cogs whirring. He gave her a quick glance, looked back to the passing sheep. She didn’t look happy. ‘Look, Caro, let’s not fight. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry for what?’

  Bob had a feeling if he uttered the word jealous she’d rip his head off and shit down his neck. ‘I love you, Caro. You and only you, forever and ever. And I say that proud and loud,’ he added. The words left a good feeling behind in his chest.

  She took a minute to reply. ‘Sometimes I wish we’d had a kid. I’ve missed out on being a mother. A mum. And you, a dad. Maybe that’s why you dote on Beth the way you do.’

  Maybe it was. ‘So, let’s buy her something from the pottery. Poor kid’s got a woe-is-me mother and a father who’s never there. We’re more parents to her than they’ll ever be. Least we can do is be nice to her. What do you say?’ Bob drove on, eyes ahead, avoiding straying sheep.

  ‘Okay. We’ll stop at the pottery.’

  ‘We’ll get us something too,’ Bob said. ‘A souvenir for home.’

  A mile on, Bob pulled onto the verge outside the pottery and turned the engine off. Carol tapped his arm. Bob looked out the window and felt his heart sink. CLOSED the sign said. He started the engine and drove off without a word.

  ‘I guess it wasn’t meant to be,’ Carol said.

  ‘Another time,’ Bob said.

  Almost at Moxley and Bob’s stomach grumbled. He told Carol his belly thought his throat had been cut and that he could eat a scabby donkey, hooves an’ all.

  ‘I could do with something too, now you mention it.’

  They got fish and chips with extra bits on, smothered in ketchup, and sat on one of the benches at the edge of the market, ate them and licked each other’s fingers and joked about the amount of penguins on patrol. There was a lot of penguins out today.

  ‘I love this place.’ Carol snuggled in.

  Bob put an arm around her, kissed her hair, felt a relief – of sorts – a weight lifted. What the hell had he been thinking, looking at Beth in any way other than a responsible adult? A fatherly figure. He needed to rein it in, starting right now. Three teenage girls approached the chip van, none wearing the ridiculously short shorts with bum cheeks hanging out, yet still, Bob looked away and watched the penguins instead of the pert backsides, and when one old and wrinkled penguin came close he waved her over and pushed a folded fiver through the slot in her collection tin.

  ‘Bless you.’ The penguin smiled through tea-stained teeth. Or maybe tobacc
o, Bob thought.

  Carol bought two vintage dresses, a giant bag of peanut M&M’s for Beth and a blood-red tartan pashmina she simply couldn’t resist. Before setting off back they stocked up at the Spar with bread and fridge stuff and Carol dropped a bag of Dolly Mixtures in the basket. Bobby’s favourite. A little treat.

  As they passed the pottery, Bob glimpsed a face above the gate, part-hidden by ivy leaves, a thin-faced woman with white hair. He looked again in the rearview mirror, but she’d gone.

  ‘We had a good time.’ Carol’s hand squeezed his leg.

  ‘We did, Caro. Lovely fish and chips.’

  ‘The best. Can you believe how many penguins were out today?’

  Bob laughed. ‘Yeah, out in force.’

  ‘I wonder what the occasion was. Would you like to screw a nun, Bobby?’

  ‘What?’ The Fiat wavered on a bend. He pulled it straight, checked his grip.

  ‘You know, lift that holy habit and spread a bit of virginal joy?’

  ‘That’s a bit sick.’

  ‘I don’t mean an old wrinkly hunchback with specs and tits to her knees,’ Carol laughed, ‘I mean, you know, some of those young nuns, I bet they’re quite dishy when they defrock and let their hair loose.’

  ‘Dishy? A dishy nun?’ Bob chuckled at the thought of crawling under a habit and sniffing around. It was an arousing thought.

  She squeezed his leg again. ‘I could easily run-up a habit and wimple, and you could pretend you’re the Archbishop of Canterbury. How about that?’

  ‘You’ve had too much ketchup.’

  ‘I could even shave my head!’

  ‘Way too much.’

  ‘I’m serious. I’ll let my pubes grow wild and pretend I’m a virgin. And you can break me, Bobby, make me scream, make me bleed.’

  Her hand was on his crotch now. She loosened his jeans, pulled the zipper down.

  ‘Caro?’

  ‘Shut up and take it slow.’

  She unclipped her seatbelt and shuffled around and lowered her head and took him into her mouth.

  Bob took it slow.

  6

  Pete had been in luck. On the bed in the dancers’ cabin had been a pair of pale blue knickers. Soiled knickers. He’d sniffed at the gusset – a smell that soon had his cock in his hand, soon had those knickers filled with hot steamy cum. He’d fitted the new smoke alarm while whistling merrily. And he’d ran the kitchen tap until he tasted the bitterness of speed, filled a tumbler and drank it down. Aye, a grand fucking day it was.

  Pete isn’t back in his cabin five minutes when his laptop pings. The top left-hand quarter of the screen lights up. Pete shouts ‘Yes!’ and punches the air. It’s Alison Black, she’s been in the shower. There’s a towel around her head and another around her body. The view is from above but Pete clearly sees her breasts when she pulls the towel away and dries under her arms. Now she’s drying between her legs and Pete’s dick is in his hand. She ties the towel around herself and gets onto the bed and stares directly up at the smoke alarm. She shifts a little and the towel falls open – not a lot, but enough to see her tits. Tits that look amazing, round and firm, and to see her dark nipples so clearly . . . Pete wills her to open her legs, to pull the towel away and let him see. He grips his cock and pulls himself faster, backs off from the laptop on the table. Didn’t think to have tissues ready. He would mess the floor and clean up after. But then he stops, notices the Black woman’s breasts are shaking. She puts her hands to her face. She’s crying.

  A shrill whistle from behind makes Pete yelp and spin round. He covers himself hastily at the sight of the girl.

  She takes the whistle from her mouth and puts it in the pocket of her yellow dress. ‘You have a plan to complete and you’re dithering!’

  Pete’s not sure if she’s real or in his head. If she’s real, she looks like the kind of girl who likes to play with cock. So maybe he’d just show her his, see if she’s game.

  ‘Turn it off!’

  Pete grins at her.

  ‘Now!’

  Pete turns to the laptop and lingers a finger, heart pounding.

  ‘Off!’

  Pete turns it off. He turns back to the girl, exposing himself in the process, waving his dick in his hand. But she’s gone.

  He considers switching the laptop back on so he can finish what he started but a flourish of harsh whispers hurts his ears. He steps away and leaves it be. No matter, it’s all being recorded anyway.

  Time to prepare for stage three of the three-point-plan: Fuck. He collects up cleaning materials, his tool box, and a good saw, and heads down the hill to cabin 1.

  He fixes the leaks, cleans up the batshit and the ratshit and tidies away the easels and artworks and paints before dismantling the racking system and shoving it into the bedroom and, finally, dusting the place down. He draws the curtains and moves the bed into the living area and gets to work with his saw and his hammer, and as he builds, he wonders what it will feel like to be inside a woman. Really inside, so deep he would split her in two.

  7

  There was, of course, no sign of the fast badger, nor any set that Rose could see. She continued on to the walkboards and stopped at the bridge to finish the joint. The mist was thinning and the small island could be seen, a V-shaped cove to its centre. No fish topped the water, no insects, not even a bird to be heard; only the flutter of golden leaves. The calmness of it all was as relaxing as the THC riding her bloodstream and the increased dopamine levels floating her boots.

  From here she could see part of the cabin from last night. She decided a casual walk past wouldn’t hurt. She stayed on the path and it brought her almost to the cabin’s front door. There was no vehicle parked up and the windows were closed. Rose went for a nosey. She’d knock on the door, be friendly if anyone answered, have a sniff around if not.

  She went up the wooden steps and stopped dead when she saw the naked and blood-spattered body of a young boy lying across the bench seat. In her head she heard the bang of the Corsa hitting the pottery kids and almost lost her legs, before quickly realising the boy was only a model of some sort. And, what had first looked to be a boy was in fact a scaled-down man. He was carved from wood, each limb made to appear broken and mangled in several places, the breaks made moveable with flexible joints and painted with realistic-looking blood and gore.

  The sound of someone singing made Rose turn. A man approached, arms laden with wood; from the shape of him Rose knew it was the man from last night. He hadn’t noticed her, yet, but he would look up any second. There was no time to move, no place to hide. Blue-checked shirt, cig packet in breast pocket, reading glasses stored behind, gold crucifix on a chain around his neck, green corduroy trousers – corduroy? Who the heck wears corduroy these days? He looked up as he neared the steps and nearly dropped his wood. Little eyes, frightened almost, hair greying, slight paunch, same age as her, perhaps.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Slight accent. German? ‘I was passing . . . saw,’ she glanced to the model. ‘Thought the poor soul needed help. It looks so real.’

  The man gave a short laugh, came up the steps and dumped the wood to one side. ‘He is quite the gruesome one, yes. It’s a hobby of mine.’

  Rose looked again at the mangled body and noticed a new detail: the bloodied stump of a penis.

  ‘Would you like to see how it works?’

  ‘Works?’

  ‘He should be dry now. I can install him and you will enjoy the full effect. I also have carrot cake and brandy. Derek Whittle,’ he held out a warm hand.

  Rose blamed her writerly nose for agreeing to go inside – that and the carrot cake. Munchies were kicking in; besides, he had a certain irreverent charm about him.

  The sofa had been pushed against a wall and the dining table stood in the centre of the living area. Lying across the table was a huge cartwheel. Not a real one, but a realistic carving. Derek Whittle carried the model in from outside and began threading the broken limbs through t
he spokes of the wheel, locking them into pre-cut notches. Seemingly satisfied with the twisted figure’s position he stood the wheel against the table.

  ‘This is a breaking wheel, from old times when humans would do the most terrible things to each other.’ He explained that the accused would have his limbs smashed in many places with a club or metal bar, the skill of the torturer would keep the victim alive, his broken limbs threaded through the wheel’s spokes and then paraded through the streets as a deterrent to others.

  Rose wanted to ask why his penis had been severed, but didn’t dare. ‘You made this? Fascinating.’

  ‘Whittle by name and whittle by nature . . . so my mother used to say when I carved cows as a child. Cows in a herd, cows being milked, copulating cows. Always cows.’ The man chuckled.

  Rose laughed along with him and offered him her first name but not her second.

  He went into the kitchen area and came back with carrot cake and brandy and sat Rose on the couch and clinked glasses. ‘I know what you must think, Roseanne. You must think a man doesn’t go on his holiday and spend his time making gruesome models.’

  Rose hoped her smile was affirmation enough for him to continue.

  ‘I’m not here on a holiday. I work for the Red Cross, and I’m having an enforced rest. It was either this or retire. I don’t want to retire.’

  ‘How long have you been here? It must have taken some time to make such a detailed model.’

  ‘Six months, with six more to do. I suppose it is therapeutic, the beautiful setting, surrounded by nature and watching the seasons change.’ He stared at the floor in thought, took a bite of carrot cake and washed it down with brandy. ‘I have a big collection of torture devices back home. Observing the horrors of the past helps keep my mind from the horrors in the field. You get to witness some terrible things as an aid worker. Let me show you something.’ He went through to the bedroom and came back with a small wooden box. He sat down on the sofa beside Rose and opened the box. Inside was a black metal contraption that looked like a miniature vice with a wing-nut screw. He picked it up and handed it to her. ‘This is a genuine 17th century pillywinks. More commonly you might know it as a thumbscrew.’