Death's Sweet Echo

by Maynard Sims

  Judd never grew tired of flirting; it kept him alive, gave him a raw energy that was somehow lacking when he wasn’t in the company of a pretty girl.

  As he meandered through the tables back to the window seat he had commandeered earlier, he glanced guiltily at his date for the night. The last thing he wanted was for her to have seen his performance with the barmaid. That would only lead to some rather unattractive nagging, and that wasn’t what he had planned for the evening’s entertainment.

  Elizabeth Cooper had seen the way he stared at the prominent chest behind the bar, but she knew better than to mention it. Even at her young age, and as inexperienced with boys as she was, instinct told her that men like Judd Harrison wouldn’t respond well to being moaned at.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said as he plonked her Babycham down in front of her.

  He knocked the wobbly table with his knees as he slid in as close to her as he could without causing offence.

  ‘What have you got?’ she said as he drank a good third of the pint of beer with one long swallow.

  ‘Pint of Mild,’ he said. ‘My dad got me into it. Try some?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ll stick to this. Thanks, by the way.’

  They were both quiet for a while as they glanced around the noisy pub. In one corner, a man who had to be in his nineties was playing a piano. Some other old people were singing out of tune, and with the words jumbled out of order. Elizabeth thought it might have been an attempt at the Perry Como song Don’t Let The Stars Get In Your Eyes.

  ‘So, what’s your sister doing tonight?’ Judd said.

  ‘Why? Do you wish she was here instead of me?’

  ‘Don’t be daft. It’s you I asked, didn’t I?’

  Elizabeth nodded, sipped some of her sweet drink and tried to suppress a smile. Good-looking he might be, but he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box. Easy to get a rise out of.

  ‘And I got a tongue-lashing from that old grandmother of yours,’ he said.

  ‘Really? What did she say?’ The pub was even more crowded now, if that was possible, and she had to lean into him a little more closely than she would have chosen to hear him.

  He sank the remaining beer from his glass. ‘Told me you were too young, I wasn’t good enough for you, and if I defied her she’d cut off my…’

  ‘She never did?’

  ‘Let me finish,’ he said with a wolfish grin. ‘Dirty mind you’ve got. She said she’d cut me off from work. Threatened to kick me out of the fair.’

  Elizabeth shook her head. ‘She wouldn’t do that. She knows you’re good for trade. Yes, please.’ She handed him her glass as he stood.

  She watched him as he strode to the bar and got served by a man that was probably the landlord – fat, red-faced and immune to any of Judd’s charms. He was gorgeous – Judd, not the landlord – and she wondered how far she might let him go later. He was bound to try it on – she knew enough to expect that. She had worn some nice underwear, just in case. It had been difficult to get dressed without Caitlyn asking questions, but she thought it would be worth it to see Judd’s reaction.

  ***

  Judd tried to get the barmaid’s attention, but she was occupied with what looked like a younger version of the landlord, all cardigan and Brylcreem. He gave his order, and while he waited he looked about the smoky room. There was smoke from cigarettes, smoke from a couple of cigars, smoke from the cracked old briar pipe the landlord kept perched behind the bar from opening time to last orders.

  Walking back to his table, careful not to bump into anyone and spill the drinks, he could see Elizabeth staring out of the window. Only it didn’t look like her. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light, but her blonde hair seemed darker. He hadn’t paid that much attention, but he was certain her hair had been curly, at the ends anyway. It looked from where he was standing as if her hair was quite straight.

  He put both glasses down on the table, and when she looked up to smile at him, his fingers grasped the top of his pint jug so hard he thought it would crack.

  It wasn’t Elizabeth who sat there – it was her sister, Caitlyn.

  ‘I thought…’ Judd stammered. ‘How did…’

  ‘Hello, Judd. Is that what I ordered?’ she flicked her gaze at the bubbles in her small glass.

  ‘Where’s Elizabeth?’

  ‘To be fair, you were warned,’ Caitlyn said.

  Judd sat down, and the table all but toppled over. Caitlyn neatly grabbed her glass while Judd had his to his mouth and managed to spill beer down his front. The droplets caught in his profuse chest hair.

  ‘Your grandmother said Lizzy was too young, but she’s eighteen. She’s old enough to know her own mind.’

  ‘She’s far older than that,’ Caitlyn said, and raised the glass to her lips. When she put it down, her face changed. Just for a moment, a fleeting re-arrangement of her features.

  It must be the light, Judd thought. For a brief second or two he was looking at the lined and crumpled face of Gloria Cooper.

  ‘She’s eighteen, she told me.’

  Caitlyn smiled, and Judd was beginning to think he had better stop drinking. The girl’s dark hair was lightening as he looked at her, and the eyes that had been deep brown seemed to be changing as well. Elizabeth had blue eyes, but this was Caitlyn, wasn’t it?

  ‘Where’s your sister gone?’

  Just then an angry voice interrupted them.

  ‘There she is. Fraud.’ It was the elderly man from the tarot card reading. He had a couple of men with him who looked like they might be his sons. Judd assessed them with eyes that recognised a bar room brawler when he saw one.

  Caitlyn looked very calm, but Judd was alert.

  ‘You told me I was going on a long journey,’ the man said.

  ‘The cards never lie,’ Caitlyn said.

  ‘The papers were waiting for me when I got home.’

  Judd shrugged. ‘So, what’s the problem?’

  ‘She told me my sister and me were going on a long journey… Australia, she said. My sister has been turned down. I can’t go without her. She lied to me.’

  The two younger men moved forward and Judd stood, although he wasn’t as confident he could out-fight both of them together as his face tried to indicate.

  ‘I think we should get back, Judd,’ Caitlyn said. She stood and all four men involuntarily took a step back. ‘I said you were going on a journey. I didn’t mention your sister.’

  ‘I can’t go without her.’

  ‘That’s your choice. The cards don’t lie, and neither do I.’

  ‘I want my money back.’

  One of the younger men had manoeuvred his way behind Caitlyn, while the other was standing close enough so that Judd would find swinging a punch difficult.

  Caitlyn finished her drink, and held out her glass to the man behind her. It was such a surprising move that he took it and looked blankly at it in his hand.

  ‘I’ll gladly give you your shilling back,’ Caitlyn said. ‘We can’t have an unhappy customer, can we.’ She reached down the front of her white blouse and brought out a shiny coin. ‘It may not be the exact same one you gave me, but it will do the trick.’

  The elderly man held out his arm greedily and Caitlyn lightly held the back of his hand while she pressed the coin into his palm. She then folded his fingers around it.

  ‘Don’t let it go, now,’ she said.

  The three men stood aside as she walked away from the table, followed by Judd who tried, but failed, to exit with a swagger.

  They were a few steps away when they heard the scream.

  Caitlyn carried on walking, but Judd was compelled to look back.

  The two younger men were holding onto the older man, trying to keep him standing. His legs had buckled under him, and his right hand, the one that held the coin, was on fire. The man screamed and waved his arm in the air, attempting to drop the coin, the source of the searing heat.

  *
**

  Judd found Elizabeth outside the pub. He grabbed her hand and pulled her along. ‘Come on,’ he said.

  ‘What’s the hurry?’

  ‘If those two are his sons, they’ll be out here soon and gunning for a fight.’

  ‘You’re not scared?’

  ‘Where’s Caitlyn?’

  Elizabeth shrugged. ‘Back home, I suppose. She doesn’t go out much. Not like me. I like going out. If I stay around the fair too long, I go mad.’

  Judd could feel her hand gripping his tightly. Normally he would have liked that, and his original plans for the evening might well have included that. Now he was spooked. He didn’t mind admitting it.

  ‘I’m taking you home.’

  Elizabeth pulled her hand away from his and ran ahead of him. He liked the way her body moved under her light frock. When she got to the stile in the hedge that led to the field behind the fun fair, she stopped. She hopped onto the first plank of the stile and called back to him.

  ‘Do you like this?’

  She pulled up the front of her frock to show him her stocking tops. Before the material floated back into place, he was sure he’d caught a glimpse of her pink underwear as well.

  She was waiting for him. He reached up with both arms and she fell, laughing, against his body. Her lips were cool against his, but he failed to notice that. He didn’t notice when an extra pair of hands tore at his clothes. He was too engrossed in the way her tongue had insinuated its way into his mouth and seemed to be expanding down his throat.

  He tried to pull away as he found it increasingly difficult to breathe. Her hands were held firm against the back of his neck, her nails digging in past his black hair, pinpricks of blood popping out through the sweat.

  When he realised there were more hands than could possibly belong to one person, he tried to turn round to see who was there, but the hands were held flat against his legs and the heat emanating from the palms was getting unbearable.

  His knees started to buckle but he was held upright against the rough wood of the stile. Coming out of the darkness across the field, from the direction of the fair, were two figures. One he soon recognised as Gloria Cooper, although she seemed to be walking with far more energy than he had ever seen in her before. The other figure was a man. Burly, shaggy-haired, despite his shuffling gait. He seemed to be a similar age as Gloria.

  ‘It’s Granddad,’ he heard Caitlyn say from behind him, just as his legs finally gave way and he slumped to the ground.

  The tearing sound from his mouth as Elizabeth pulled away was drowned by the gurgling noises he made as he laid there. His mouth was filled with blood and he was choking.

  ‘Have you learned your lesson, girl?’ Gloria said.

  ‘Sorry, Gran,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘Is Granddad staying?’ Caitlyn said as they all walked back across the damp grass.

  In the distance, the lights of the fun fair could be seen quite clearly, as if it was in full swing, although there was a silence broken only by the cry of a fox.

  ‘Someone has to run the Waltzer.’

  COLD COMFORT

  From the outside, the large, detached house seemed almost empty. Certainly it looked cold, sad, as if something that should have been alive had died and was waiting to be buried.

  The upstairs was in darkness, while in a front room, possibly the living room, a feeble light shone through the drawn curtains. There was another flickering light that played onto the curtains, as if fingers feebly plucked at the material, trying to escape, although the source was more prosaically a television set, company for the lonely and the forgotten.

  Some of the neighbouring houses were more warmly lit, with family sounds coming from some, lights on in different rooms, a car pulling into a driveway, a dog barking from a back garden. Signs of life were apparent in most of the houses in this smart, affluent cul-de-sac. All except this one forlorn, barely lit house, where little stirred the dust and the shadows.

  The dark house showed little sign of life apart from the dim lights in the living room, and even they seemed reluctant to announce themselves, hiding shyly behind the curtains. The other houses appeared as if they were wary of the dark house, perhaps a little ashamed of it or its occupants. The other houses all but drew away from it, their fences and hedges a welcome barrier to any undesired contact.

  Inside the house, it was cold. Quietness prevailed throughout most of the rooms. Only downstairs, where the feeble light flickered, and where the low volume of the television lent at least a modicum of sound, were there any indications that the house wasn’t abandoned, left to lie empty and alone.

  The living room was moderately warm. The radiators were at best lukewarm, but gave enough heat to ward off the unwelcome chills from the night outside. The television set was on and the sound was audible, with an effort. Voices could be heard, and music was playing, but the programme appeared to be some sort of early evening quiz game and the man who sat on the nondescript sofa showed little interest in proceedings.

  A small table lamp spread a weak glow onto his face and upper body. He looked tired and drawn, his dark, unkempt hair was uncombed, rumpled, slightly too long for his age, tumbling down to his shoulders as if it was trying to escape from his head. His dark shirt looked as if it had been worn for several days, and possibly slept in as well, beyond crumpled. His jeans were stained and dirty. He didn’t seem concerned about much at all, and yet his face was pinched with what might be worry.

  A telephone started to ring.

  The man glanced to a wooden sideboard in the corner of the room, and sighed, looking to the side and then behind him, as if expecting someone to answer the phone. As if he didn’t realise he was alone in the house.

  The ringing persisted, not louder, just longer and more irritating.

  The man sighed again and shifted his position on the sofa. Surely someone must answer the annoying phone?

  'For God’s sake,' he mumbled, and leaned forward to place a half-filled glass onto a low side table just in front of the sofa. 'Why can't they leave me alone?'

  The telephone continued to ring incessantly, and seemed to be increasing in volume.

  He stood from the sofa, and stretched his arms and legs, as if he’d been sitting in one position for too long. His feet were bare.

  He had tears in his eyes. Old, not recent.

  He turned and moved a pace or two away from the sofa, walking the few steps to the wooden sideboard where the telephone sat, goading him with its noise. As he reached his hand to the telephone, the ringing suddenly stopped.

  'Oh, what the...'

  He slammed his hand down, hard, onto the surface of the sideboard, and a framed photograph fell flat from the impact. He quickly picked it up and held it tenderly, with the photograph facing him.

  'Amy,' he said, slowly, almost dreamily, and certainly with sadness. With a tender finger he stroked the photograph, his face softening.

  His face crumpled, his tears increased, streaming down his face, soundlessly. He held the photograph to his chest, tightly, hugging it to his body.

  'It won't be long.'

  He put the photo frame back, very carefully, onto the sideboard, and adjusted it so that it was in just the right place.

  'I'll be with you soon.'

  With legs that looked as if they were stiff and difficult to move, he turned away from the sideboard and slowly made his way back to the sofa.

  The photograph was of a pretty young woman, aged about early thirties. In the photograph she was hugging the man, although in the photo he was much more smartly dressed and looked fit and well.

  As he began to lower himself back onto the sofa, he looked ill, worn out.

  He was just about to sit back onto the sofa when the telephone ringing started again.

  From the television a woman’s voice intruded – clear diction, authoritative. She was reading the early evening news, her tone serious and intelligent.


  'Police continue to hunt for the killer suspected of the murders of three women in Hertfordshire in the last month.'

  The telephone ringing was now constant, becoming insistent.

  The man strode over to the sideboard and plucked the receiver angrily from the cradle.

  'What?'

  From the other end of the telephone line, a polite voice could be heard. 'Hello, sir, how are you today?'

  The man stared at the telephone as if he couldn’t understand what had just been said. 'What?'

  'I asked you how you are doing this evening, sir.'

  'I'm awful, what's it got to do with you?'

  'I'm sorry to hear that, sir.'

  'Are you? Why? What...'

  The man walked back to the sofa and sat down. He had the telephone held firmly to his ear with one hand. With his free hand he picked up the glass from the small table near his knees, and swallowed half the dark liquid from the glass.

  'I am sorry to hear that you are awful, sir...'

  'Can you stop calling me “sir”?'

  'Of course, of course. I do not want you to be awful.'

  The man drained the glass, and then picked up the bottle of spirits from the table and poured out a very generous measure into the glass.

  'Who are you?' he said, through a mouthful of drink.

  'My name is Roger.'

  The man laughed mirthlessly. The noise came out of his mouth but his face showed no emotion. His eyes remained still and cold, scared but defiant.

  'You don't sound like a “Roger”.'

  'It is my name. What name do I sound like?'

  The man drank some more whisky, savoured the taste in his mouth before swallowing.

  'You sound like you're from a call centre and your name is Raj or Gupta or something, but definitely not Roger.'

  'You are very perceptive. My name is Roger... for you it is Roger.'

  'What is it for someone who loves you? What do they call you? Your mother, or your lover?'