The Stone Flowers

by Nora O'Keeffe

  The Stone Flowers

  Nora O’Keeffe

  Copyright: Nora O’Keeffe

  ISBN:

  Published: 19th December 2017

  Publisher: Nora O’Keeffe

  Amazon Edition

  The right of Nora O’Keeffe to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

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  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  About The Author

  Chapter One

  Wind, urgent and powerful, slapped the pane like a wet hand. Startled by the suddenness of the sound, Maggie jerked forward on the sofa. The book she’d been reading tumbled from her gasp and hit the floor. Living alone made her sensitive to sound and movement, especially at night. Noting the rising storm beating at the windows, she relaxed enough to reach down and retrieve the thriller from the rug and dump it on the coffee table beside the empty wine glass.

  While the mournful howling unnerved her, the wind was little more than an annoyance. She yawned and scratched her head. The temptation to curl up on the sofa and go back to sleep was enticing, but not worth a sore neck in the morning. Grabbing the glass, she padded into the kitchen on burning soles. Shouldn’t being your own boss mean easy living? She chuckled at the thought. Owning a business was hard work and long hours, whoever said it was good to be the boss?

  By the time she reached the sink and dumped the glass, the clamouring storm had intensified. Nights like this made her question the wisdom of living on the outskirts of a small town. At least in the city, traffic and sirens filled the silence. Somehow, being alone was easier when surrounded by noise. A sudden thud, the sound of something falling against the path along the side of the house. She waited, listening for more. A metallic clink as if a can were rolling along the concrete walkway.

  “Damn.” It had to be the wheelie-bin blowing over.

  The last thing she wanted was to go out in the storm, but if the bin blew over, there’d be rubbish all over the back lawn by morning. Muttering another curse, Maggie flicked on the outside light. The instant she opened the back door, a gust hit her, cold lashes slapping her body and tearing at her clothes.

  The bin had blown over, tumbling along the lawn and spilling its contents onto the stone path that wrapped around the back of the house. Darting down the stairs, she wrestled the bin back into a standing position. Struggling to keep her body turned against the relentless gale, she crouched and began gathering a mess of empty milk cartons, cans, and damp food wrappings. Her hair whipped around her face, sticking to her mouth. The back of her pyjamas flew up, exposing her bare flesh to the relentless gale.

  Maggie stood on feet numb with cold and wheeled the bin around the rear of the house, wedging it on the far side of the back steps. With any luck, the building would block the storm’s reach. She ducked her head down against the icy gust and ran around to the foot of the stairs. Desperate to get inside and away from the freezing wind, Maggie clambered up the steps. Before wrestling the door open, she snatched a glance over her shoulder.

  The lights didn’t quite reach the shed, but a full moon lent enough silvery glow for her to make out the shapes of bushes and trees. In the seconds it took for her to identify the familiar outlines, something shifted. Maggie gasped in an icy breath and stepped back so her butt hit the door knob. Hair whipped across her eyes. Momentarily blinded, she scrambled for the door. She fumbled with the knob, heart galloping in her chest. Behind her, the storm shrieked like an injured child. Not daring to turn back and risk another look, she managed to wrench the back door open and stumble inside.

  It was nothing. Nothing. Just a bit of rubbish caught on the wind. Maggie slid the bolt in place and turned the latch. Stepping away from the door, she tried to sort through what she’d seen darting between the trees. Nothing. I didn’t see anything. But she had. Something jerked out from behind the tree, moving with stealth and purpose. How could she know that? It was dark. With the wind blowing so hard, everything was moving. It was impossible to say what she’d seen. Probably nothing.

  The display on the microwave told her it was ten fifteen. Too late to call anyone? The list of people she knew well enough to reach out to this late was woefully short. There was Tess, but she had a young baby. The only other person she could think of was Doug, the old guy who helped her fix up the house when she first moved to Thorn Tree. He reminded her of her grandfather, solid and kind. She almost reached for her phone, but then reconsidered. Doug’s wife, Maureen, was undergoing chemo. Disturbing the elderly couple was out of the question. Maggie ran her fingers through her hair. There was always the police.

  She forced herself to slow down and think. What had she really seen? What would she tell the cops? I saw something move in the dark. But had she really seen anything? What if the cops arrived and found a plastic bag stuck in the tree? An image flashed in her mind, vivid and painful. Her ex-husband, Richard, cheeks puffed out in anger and spittle flying from his mouth. You’re useless. So used to leeching off your rich grandfather, you can’t do anything for yourself. His constant put-downs rang in her ears. She thought of the senior officer in charge of the small police station in Thorn Tree. He was well-known in the town, tall, stony-eyed. Maggie had never actually spoken to him yet. For some reason the idea of looking like a fool, no, worse, a helpless woman in front of the senior sergeant kept her from reaching for her phone.

  “Okay.” She swallowed. “I can sort this out.” Her voice sounded shaky, unconvincing.

  There was a torch in the cupboard under the sink, she grabbed it and clicked the switch. The light flickered. She banged the shaft against her thigh and the globe settled into a blue-white glare. Looking around the kitchen, her gaze landed on the knife block. Moving around the room on numb legs, Maggie slid the largest knife out of the wooden husk and headed for the back door.

  The out
side lights were still on, washing the small deck and stairs in an arc of yellow. Beyond, the trees shifted and creaked in the wind, the leaves rustling like dead fingers over a dusty floor. Maggie shivered and moved forward. Taking measured steps, she descended the stairs. The torch light bounced off the bushes, tracing a line through the trees. What if someone’s hiding, waiting…Her mind faltered. Coming outside to confront a possible intruder was insane. She glanced back at the house. The sensible thing would be to go inside, lock the door and call the police. But doing the sensible thing wasn’t her style– not anymore.

  Holding the knife out in front of her, Maggie stepped across the stone path. Bare feet tingling with the cold, she trained the light on the area between the trees just to the right of the shed. Nothing but shimmering branches washed in wintery grey light. Heart jumping, she moved a little closer.

  The gale blew harder, wrenching her pyjama top up, exposing her stomach to the chilling storm and pulling at her long auburn hair. The wind carried an odour, dank and earthy, as if something rotten had been exposed to the air. Maggie noticed the knife’s shiny red handle shaking in her grip as she eased a low branch aside and shone the light between the trees.

  “Urgh.” The cry broke from her lips accompanied by a cloud of mist that hung in the frigid air. She felt bile hit the back of her throat, not quite making it up over her tongue.

  Maggie pressed the side of her hand to her mouth, knife hanging from her fingers as she tried to keep herself from screaming. What looked like the remains of a cat lay scattered on a carpet of crushed leaves and broken twigs. The thing had been torn apart, its flesh dappling the low-lying bushes.

  Reeling back from the bloody mess, Maggie turned and ran for the house. Her feet hit the stairs with a thump heavy enough to shake the deck. Desperate to put a door between her and the dead animal, the knife slid out of her shaky grasp and went spinning over the edge of the platform. She kept moving, pulling the door open and half falling into the kitchen. Not until the latch dropped with a satisfying clunk did she dare slow down.

  Maggie had no idea what could have killed the cat, if that’s what it was. The pulpy mess could have been a large rabbit or a possum. Not that it mattered, the thing was dead. Torn to pieces. It had to be a feral dog, something with teeth and claws large enough to do that sort of damage. She closed her eyes and the image of something jerking between the trees played out in her mind. How close had she come to being attacked by the animal?

  Leaving all the downstairs lights on, Maggie went up to her bedroom and crawled under the covers. It had been four years since she’d shared a bed with anyone. Most nights she was able to convince herself that sleeping alone was better, but tonight she wished a pair of arms waited to hold her close while the storm raged against the house.

  ****

  The early morning sun revealed the damage left by the storm. A few large branches down, a sheet of tin off the roof of one of the sheds, leaves and branches strewn over the lawn like a woodland carpet complete with a fine wisp of dawn mist. Maggie sipped her coffee, working up the nerve to venture into the trees. By the time she fell asleep last night, she’d almost convinced herself the whole thing had been an overreaction. A dead possum, killed by a fox, the most logical explanation, one that was much more appealing than a savage dog lurking in the bush.

  Even so, it took another sip of strong coffee before she had the courage to put her cup down and set foot on the back lawn. The scene was just as she remembered from the previous evening except in the light of day, there was no denying the dead creature was a cat. As if to confirm its death, a sweet, meaty stench hung in the air. Maggie gagged and covered her mouth.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement. Stomach still churning, she almost tumbled backwards as a large crow danced out from behind the bush with a scrap of something dangling from its beak. Something red and fleshy. Maggie turned and ran. The yard was a mess, not to mention the dead cat being slowly eaten by birds. With no time or desire to spend hours clearing the garden, she headed inside to call Doug.

  The line was engaged. Maggie supposed he was inundated with calls after the storm. She glanced out of the kitchen window, picturing the cat’s body crawling with flies, and shuddered. The phone vibrated in her hand, making her jump and almost drop the mobile.

  “Hi, Maggie.”

  “Oh hi, Tess.” Maggie tensed. Her friend wouldn’t call at six forty-five on a Saturday morning unless there was a problem.

  “Look, I’m sorry.” Before Maggie could ask why she was apologising, Tess launched into an explanation. “I know I said I’d pop into the café this morning and go over the new menu with Cilla, but the baby is sick and I just don’t want to cart him around.” There was an anxious edge to her friend’s usually calm voice.

  “No. I mean, yes, of course. What’s wrong with Eddie?” Maggie rubbed a finger between her furrowed eyebrows.

  “I’m not sure. He started crying just after eleven last night. At first, I thought the storm was bothering him, but then he felt so hot.” She paused, and Maggie heard her take a shaky breath.

  “I’m calling the doctor next.”

  “Good idea. Once Dr Cole has a look at him, you’ll both feel better.”

  “Yes. Yes, I know. It’s just he’s so small and… fragile?” Tess’s voice wavered.

  “I know, but he’s a strong, healthy baby and you’re doing exactly the right thing getting him checked out. These things come and go quickly with little ones. I bet he’ll be as right as rain by tonight.” Maggie bit her bottom lip. She wanted Tess to feel better, but couldn’t help remembering the sound the wind made as it shrilled against the windows, reminding her of a child wailing.

  “That’s what Ollie said, but I—”

  A piercing cry fractured the quiet. The noise faded to a gurgling wail. It wasn’t like any sound Maggie had ever heard Eddie or any other baby make. Her hand flew to her throat and rested just above her heart.

  “I have to go.”

  “Okay. Call me if you need anything.”

  “Thanks.” Tess clicked off and the line went silent. Maggie let out a deep breath and tossed the phone in her bag. Eddie’s cry didn’t sound right; even over the phone he sounded pained. Not that I’d know anything about babies, she thought with a hint of bitterness. Her ex-husband had been far too self-involved to even consider having children. Her inexperience notwithstanding, Eddie’s tortured cries and the panicky edge to Tessa’s voice left Maggie unnerved and anxious. When she opened up shop three years ago and Tess walked into the Hawk’s Nest Café, her down-to-earth attitude and casual confidence said more than any resume ever could. They struck up an instant friendship. If Tess was worried, Maggie feared something might really be wrong.

  On the drive into town, she couldn’t get Tess’s call out of her head. The urgency in Eddie’s cry and the fear in her friend’s voice kept rolling around in her mind. Forcing her attention back to the road, Maggie noticed a fallen tree branch laying at an angle on the opposite side of the bitumen. She thought of the dead cat and the unanswered call to Doug Loggie. Checking the mirrors and the road ahead, she reached over, attempting to fish the phone out of her handbag. It slipped just beyond her fingertips and into the bag’s side pocket. With another quick glance ahead, Maggie ducked across the seat and grabbed the bag. A high-pitched wail startled her into an upright position. The wheel spun in her fingers, the car veering left. Wrestling the vehicle back on course, she snatched a glance in the rear-view mirror just as the siren wailed for the second time.

  “Damn. Damn, damn.” She eased on the brake and pulled the car over to the side of the road. Looking behind her, Maggie caught sight of a large framed cop stepping out a white police vehicle. Senior Sergeant Harness Gibson walked slowly as if he had all the time in the world, stopping only to examine something at the rear of the car.

  “Morning.” He leaned a large hand on the open window.

  “Hi, how are you?” As soon as the words were out of h
er mouth, she knew she sounded too casual.

  “Have you had any drinks containing alcohol this morning?”

  “What? Of course not.” Now she’d gone from casual to shrill. “Look, Officer Gibson, I was just reaching over for my bag. I made sure no one was coming. I mean, the road was deserted.” She knew she was babbling, so she closed her mouth, swallowed and waited for him to speak.

  “Can I see your license?”

  Maggie searched through her bag and found her purse. After what felt like an eternity, she extracted the licence and handed it to Gibson. His face was unreadable, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

  “Wait here.” He turned and strode off towards his car.

  Maggie had seen the cop around town but never up close. She’d even wondered if he was single but didn’t have the courage to bring the subject up to Tess. Not really sure what made her hold back, Maggie often hoped he’d come into the café so she might get the chance to speak to him. Now, here she sat with the perfect opportunity, and all she could manage was a shriek and string of incoherent babble. Very alluring!

  “Here you go, Ms Hawk better.” He put his hand on the lowered window and offered her the licence back.

  “Oh, thanks.” Her cheeks burned, the blush sudden and uncharacteristic. Hoping he hadn’t noticed her discomfort, Maggie reached out and took the licence. Her fingers brushed against his. Quickly shifting her eyes away from his face, her gaze landed on his crotch. She turned her head and tried to shove her licence back in her bag when her elbow hit the horn. The ear-piercing bleep made her jump.

  “Sorry.” She forced her face into a weirdly lopsided smile, hoping to cover her embarrassment.

  “Keep your eyes on the road, okay?” He smiled and just for a second, dimples appeared in his stubbly cheeks.

  “Yes, sorry. I mean yes, thanks.” Maggie put the window up and pulled back onto the road. In the mirror, she saw Gibson standing on the side of the road, hands on hips watching her drive away.