Old Flames, Burned Hands

by McGregor, Tim

  “Right. Because you’re such a complicated person. Tilda Parish, the tortured artist.”

  “Stop it.”

  Molly’s tone had carried over the room and now heads bobbed up to see what all the fuss was about. The injured and the sick and the gravely disturbed, all roused from their stupor and hoping for some spectacle to alleviate the excruciating boredom.

  Mother and daughter clammed up, mortified at the unwanted attention. Neither made a peep until the walleyed gawkers lost interest and fell back asleep.

  Molly twisted a length of beads in her hand. “This other guy. Do you love him?”

  “Don’t ask me that.”

  “Are you and dad having problems?”

  “No. That’s the crazy part, nothing was wrong. I mean, we had our fights and nothing’s ever perfect but there’s nothing big, nothing really wrong. But still, this happened. Or I let it happen and now I’ve destroyed everything. And now I don’t know what to do.”

  “Fix it,” Molly said.

  “It’s not that simple, honey.”

  “Sure it is. Just make it right. Whatever you have to do, fix it. At least try.”

  “I can’t. Aren’t you listening to me?”

  “Yes you can. Is there another option here? Is it worth it?”

  “Of course it is.”

  Molly shrugged again. “Then you don’t have a choice. Just fix it. Or burn in hell.”

  “Burn in hell?”

  “You know what I mean. Deal with the consequences.” Molly sighed. “That old lady put all that Jesus talk into my head. Got biblical.”

  Tilda looked out over the room and pinpointed the old woman standing near the entrance. The woman gazed back, watching Tilda, before turning to the automated doors and shuffling out of the hospital.

  Tilda’s gaze swung back to her daughter. “Did she give you something?”

  “This.” Molly unfurled a rosary bead from her clenched hand. A small brass crucifix dangling on the end of it. “It’s kinda pretty in a Goth way.”

  “Why did she give you that?”

  Molly shrugged. “She said it was for protection. I guess it will save my soul.” Molly stood and patted her mother’s hand. “I’m gonna check on dad.”

  “I’ll catch up.” Tilda watched Molly cross to the elevators, then she hurried for the exit.

  Taxis bumpered up along the front curb, clogging the hospital entrance. Two police officers dragged a man with a bloodied face into Emergency. Tilda caught sight of the old woman halfway up the block, hobbling away on crippled knees. She turned when Tilda called out to her.

  “Wait,” Tilda panted as she caught up. “Why did you give my daughter that rosary?”

  The old woman’s face soured with scorn. “To save her.”

  Tilda snatched her arm. “You know what those things are. How do I protect my daughter from them?”

  “Trust Jesus,” the woman chuffed, as if the answer couldn’t be anymore obvious.

  “Please. I need something more.”

  “There is no more.” The woman pulled her arm back. She dug into the grimy folds of her clothing and produced another cross. This one about the size of a fist and made of brass. She held it out for Tilda to take. “Trust Him or trust nothing.”

  Tilda looked down at the cross but didn’t touch it. In those old scary movies, the cross had potency only if its bearer held faith. Tilda had none. An avowed atheist in her youth, Tilda became spiritually starved in her thirties but remained wary of most religions. Now that she was in her forties, she was simply lost. “They’re going to come after my daughter.”

  “Take it.” She pressed the brass into Tilda’s hands and then turned away. Five limping paces and then she stopped and looked back. “Fire,” she grunted. “Everything burns. Even them.”

  She shambled away, leaving Tilda alone on the sidewalk.

  OFFICER Whittaker waited for Tilda at the nurse’s station on Shane’s floor. After Molly had said goodbye to her dad, the officer walked the two of them down to where she had left her patrol unit and drove Tilda and her daughter home.

  One uniformed officer was still on scene when they pulled up to the house and Whittaker nodded to him as they came up the walk.

  “Holy cow,” Molly sputtered at the state of the family room.

  The power had been restored and almost every light in the house was switched on. One crime scene technician stood in the wreckage of overturned furniture, snapping a few last photographs. He waved them through, telling Whittaker that he was finished.

  “Okay, upstairs.” Tilda took Molly’s arm and steered her towards the stairs. “Let’s get you packed. Take enough clothes for a week.”

  Molly looked up the staircase. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

  “I’m coming up.” Tilda followed her up the stairs. Everywhere she looked she saw the after-image of the coven inside her house, hiding in every shadow or crawling the ceiling like beetles. She wasn’t about to let her daughter out of her sight for a second in this house.

  Whittaker followed them up to the second floor, which Tilda was grateful for, checking Molly’s room first before leaving the girl to pack. They walked through the rest of the rooms and then crossed into Tilda’s bedroom. The window was blown in, shattered glass flung across the bed. Dark blemishes of filth and soot trailed from the window sill to the floor.

  Whittaker looked up, following a second trail of filth running overhead. “Jesus. What did these creeps do, crawl across the ceiling?”

  Tilda feigned ignorance. She tugged the hem of her shirt, looking at how torn and dirty her clothes were. “I need to change.”

  Whittaker turned to go. “I’ll wait in the hall.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll just be a second.” Tilda said, rifling through a drawer. Truth was she simply didn’t want to be alone in the room.

  Whittaker leaned out the broken window and looked down into the backyard. “Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”

  “Molly’s grandmother is coming to pick her up and take her back to Wasaga. I’ll stay at a friend’s place.”

  “Good.” Whittaker thumbed on her Maglite and swept the beam over the yard. “You know, it’s kinda funny me getting this call.”

  Tilda shimmied into a clean pair of jeans. “What’s funny about it?”

  “I’m a fan. I’ve seen you play half a dozen times.” Whittaker offered a sheepish smile. “Last time was the Mariposa festival, couple of years ago. Your stuff’s on heavy rotation on my iPod.”

  “Oh. Well, thanks.” Taken aback by this news, Tilda wasn’t sure what to do with it. “How come you didn’t say anything before.”

  “I dunno. I guess I didn’t want to sound like some geeky fan. Even though I am.” A shade of pink flushed the officer’s cheeks. “Hell, I even went back and found your earlier stuff with the Gorgons.”

  Over the last twenty-four hours, Tilda hadn’t given music a second thought. Too busy dealing with this uncanny situation and trying not to get killed by a nightmarish pack of ghouls. Her old life, her music career, had faded so far into the background that it felt like someone else’s life. A book she had read a long time ago. She almost asked Officer Whittaker if she hadn’t mistaken her for someone else. “Thanks,” she said again, almost apologetically.

  “It’s been a while since you put out a record. You working on anything new?”

  “No,” Tilda said. There was the rub. She rummaged through another drawer. “There won’t be anymore new records.”

  “You mean it’s all digital now? No CDs or vinyl?”

  “No. I quit music. Quit writing it, quit playing it. Finito.”

  Whittaker’s expression went from confusion to crestfallen. “Jeez. That’s too bad.”

  “No. It’s just life.” Tilda took a breath, feeling marginally better in clean clothes. She desperately wanted to shower but would have to make do with scrubbing her face. “Sometimes you have to let go.”

  Molly appeared at the door, letting her o
verstuffed backpack thump to the floor. “I’m finished.” She surveyed the damage in her parent’s bedroom. “Whoa. This room too?”

  TILDA’S relationship with Shane’s mother had gotten off to a shaky start and pretty much stayed that way, even after Molly was born. In fact, it had probably gotten worse. Although she had never verbalized her feelings about her daughter-in-law’s career choice as musician, Sylvia made no attempt to hide her disapproval of it. Given that foundational rift between them, Sylvia positively despaired about how her granddaughter was being raised. To make up for it, Sylvia Coleman spoiled Molly every chance she got and, to Tilda’s mind, seemed to go out of her way to ‘correct’ Molly’s upbringing.

  Tilda used to seethe over it. Shane would shrug and say “What do you want me to do? She’s a grandmother.”

  Sylvia, who hated Toronto for its lack of parking and rude denizens, pulled up onto the curb and honked the horn. Whenever she came into the city, Sylvia fully expected to be robbed, shot, raped, assaulted or spit upon by all the gun-toting gangbangers or serial-killing perverts she was convinced were lurking behind every corner. She stayed inside her car and locked the doors until someone came out. To her relief, the first person she saw was a police officer.

  When Tilda came outside, she found Sylvia deep in conversation with Officer Whittaker about the vileness of the city and how she’ll never understand why people chose to live in this godforsaken sewer. To her credit, Whittaker was accommodatingly good natured about the whole thing, giving Tilda the impression that she endured this line of complaint all the time.

  “Thank you so much for coming, Sylvia” Tilda said. “I’m sorry to drag you away from home in the middle of the night.”

  “Anything for Molly.” Sylvia hugged her granddaughter then told the girl to load her things in the car. She turned back to Tilda. “I stopped by the hospital to see Shane.”

  “Is he resting?”

  “No.” She looked past Tilda to the house. “But he was damned tight-lipped about what happened here.”

  “It was just a break-in. These things happen.”

  The woman looked ill at the very thought. Of any emergency to call about, this one had been the worst, confirming for all time Sylvia’s opinion of the cesspool in which her granddaughter was being raised. “It’s nightmarish. Just standing here gives me the creeps.”

  “Well,” Tilda hummed, “I’m grateful you can take Molly.”

  “How long can I keep my granddaughter?”

  “The rest of the week? I think it’d be best for Molly to stay away until we can fix things up.”

  “Let’s make it two weeks. I’ve made plans.”

  Typical Sylvia, taking a mile when a centimetre had been offered. Tilda forced a smile. “Well, there’s school.”

  “She can miss it. The girl’s smart as a whip.” Sylvia leaned in for a slight brush of a hug and scampered back into her vehicle before she was gunned down in a drive-by.

  Molly came around to say goodbye. “Will you be okay?”

  “That’s my line. Don’t worry about me. Have fun with your grandmother, okay?”

  “We always do. Listen, don’t do anything stupid. Okay?”

  Tilda leaned back in surprise. “Why would you say that?”

  “I dunno,” Molly said. “I told you to fix it but…within reason.”

  Tilda swept the girl up and squeezed her tight. “I love you. Be good for Grandma.” A kiss on her daughter’s cheek and then the girl ducked into the waiting car.

  Tilda wiped away the inevitable tear, grateful she’d held off until Molly was away. She heard Whittaker come up behind her.

  “Your mother-in-law’s a real hoot,” Whittaker said.

  “That’s a nice way to put it.”

  Whittaker hooked a thumb into her belt. “Okay. That’s one squared away. Now, what do we do with you?”

  Tilda blew the bangs from her eyes. She didn’t have a clue.

  OFFICER WHITTAKER REFUSED TO abandon Tilda, insisting on escorting her safely to a friend’s house. Tilda was grateful but she just wanted to be alone, even here inside the house with its broken windows and strange scorch mark left on the floor. Realizing the police officer wouldn’t be swayed, she traipsed upstairs to pack a bag.

  She sat on the bed and listened to the crickets chirping in through the catastrophe of the window. If the coven suddenly returned at that moment to finish the job, she wouldn’t have cared much. Her husband hated her and her daughter could barely hide her disgust. Everything had been blown to smithereens. Gil was dead. Again.

  The prickly feel of déjà vu was downright sinister, grieving over Gil a second time. How cruel. As ecstatic as she had been when he miraculously came back to her, she never imagined that she would have to go through it all over again and be left mourning. It wasn’t fair. How cruel could God be to allow that? Better still, how could He allow those monsters to exist? Perverse abominations to everything under the sun, to God and nature alike. Her mistake, she grasped, was thinking that God existed or cared. She’d assumed it had to be one the other.

  Fix it.

  Molly’s words kept buzzing at her with gnat-like irritation. But there was nothing left to fix, nothing that could be glued back together in any form. So what was the point? It would almost be easier if those monsters burst in to finish the job.

  Was Gil dead? He had told her that the coven destroys traitors. He didn’t say kill or execute or murder. Destroy. Torn apart and ripped into little pieces. The flash images, once conjured up, refused to go away, refused to stop looping in her mind. She could almost hear him screaming.

  Almost...

  Then a shudder hit. A full body jolt that flensed her muscles as if she’d been electrocuted. Her hands went numb while her veins surged hot and bristling through her frame. The wound on her breast flared and stung and flared again.

  Gil wasn’t dead. Gil was alive. Or still undead, or whatever the hell he was.

  It made no sense, no tangible reason beside this flux of hot and cold, this throbbing where his teeth had cut into her. Her grief was premature. Gil wasn’t dead. He was still out there somewhere.

  It’s in the blood. Her veins had been contaminated with his and now some bizarro bond stretched between them on a gossamer tissue of heat and stinging nettles. He wasn’t dead. The sensation was as acute as torture and as strong as revenge.

  What now?

  The question aligned into a neat order in her brain but her heart was already tapping out the answer in Morse code. Fix it. Find Gil and get him out. A tug of war, the push and pull between mind and heart. How could she save Gil?

  Was it worth it?

  Yes.

  Then go down there and get him

  Just waltz down into the subterranean nest of a coven of vampires and demand they hand him over to her? It’s suicide. They’d destroy us both.

  Then burn them, like the old voodoo woman advised. Torch them like cockroaches.

  How?

  The nagging little voice in her head whispered the answer. That same cringing screech that delighted in wreaking havoc with its doubts and sober second thoughts suddenly changed its tune and provided a plan. Suicidal maybe, but sitting here in useless despair was the surer death.

  A means of entering the nest had already been shown to her. A weapon to keep the vile things at bay was available. A little planning was needed, that’s all.

  That and the small detail of getting shed of the police officer waiting for her downstairs.

  “ALL packed?” Whittaker watched Tilda descend the staircase with a duffel bag slung across her shoulders.

  “Almost,” Tilda said, turning towards the kitchen. “Just a few last minute things. I’ll meet you at the car.”

  Whittaker nodded and went out the front door. Tilda lugged the bag down to the basement and hit the light. Shane’s woodshop smelled of pine and tungst oil. Dropping the duffel onto the bench disturbed a fine layer of sawdust that powdered everything in the room. Rifling throug
h the cupboard, she brought down Shane’s big Maglite and tested it. It worked but the light flickered so she unscrewed the base and let the batteries spill over the bench. She slotted six fresh ones into the tube, replaced the cap and tossed the big flashlight into the duffel. A roll of duct tape followed it. She rummaged through the metal cabinet until she found her husband’s hunting knife. A six inch blade with a sturdy handle tucked inside a leather scabbard. This went into the bag, along with a pair pliers, even though she wasn’t quite sure what she needed them for. It just seemed like a practical tool to have.

  One last look over the woodshop, trying to think of anything else she might need. A spindle of wood lay chucked in the lathe, ready to be turned and she idled a thought to making wooden stakes to bring along too. She doubted any of those things would sit still long enough for her to hammer one into its decrepit heart so she hit the light switch and went back upstairs.

  She found her cell phone and changed into a sturdy pair of running shoes. Stuck a couple of hair bands into her pocket and threw a pair of gloves into the duffel before zipping it up.

  “YOU can pull over here.”

  Whittaker pulled the cruiser to the curb on the south side of Dundas Street and looked with some dismay at the hideous block of tenement housing off their starboard side. “Your friend lives here?”

  “No, up there.” Tilda nodded to the opposite side where Kensington’s one-way fed into the corridor. She pulled the door latch. “I can walk from here.”

  “Hang on. I can drop you right at the door.”

  “Then you’d have to go all the way around. No point.” Tilda stuck out her hand. “Thank you, Jenny. For everything.”

  “My pleasure. It’s not everyday I get to help out a musical hero.” Whittaker took her card from her pocket, scrounged up a pen and wrote something on the back. She held the card out to Tilda. “That’s my cell number. If you need anything or remember anything more about the attack, call. Or if you just want to talk.”