by Stephen Laws
Chapter Two
Alex and Candy Stenmore
It was the empty whisky bottle which blew the Stenmores’ lives apart.
Alex sat alone in his study, sipping the whisky that he’d poured an hour ago when he’d arrived home from work early, only to find that Candy was not in the house. Candy contemptuously referred to the study as his “den”. When she used the word, he knew what she meant, what she was thinking. Only lions had dens. In no way did she regard him as a “lion”. After she’d been drinking, he knew that she was verbally gelding him when she called him a “pussy-cat”.
He sat in his chair, behind the desk where he sometimes tried to write down his feelings, as if he could somehow rewrite his life and the way everything had gone. There were shelves on all sides of him. He must get around to reading some of the books there. Perhaps when he’d solved his problems. He drank, not used to it, hoping that the alcohol would dissolve the knot inside. Instead it made him shiver, cramping his stomach. He wondered if Candy ever got that feeling. His eyes began to fill with tears. It seemed that the study window was beckoning him. He didn’t want to rise from his chair, didn’t want to walk over there and look down into the garden. It was a nice view…wrong—it should be a nice view. But even though the swing had been removed from the bottom of the garden two years ago, he could still somehow see an after-image of where it had been. He had often wondered how things would have been if Ricky hadn’t died. Would that gulf still have developed? Would Candy’s drinking have started anyway? Sometimes he thought these things, but then felt guilty—as if he were blaming his own son for the way his parents’ marriage had turned out. Sometimes he felt sure that the seeds of unhappiness had been sown a long time before Ricky had been born. His head was beginning to hurt now, just as it always began to hurt whenever he thought about that terrible autumn morning. He drank again, trying to drown the terrible images.
Candy, standing in the garden looking back at the house. Her face blank, somehow too white.
Himself, first walking towards her, then hurrying when he saw the terrible, vacant expression on her face.
And then, worst of all—worse than anything he’d ever seen in his life: the garden swing behind her, swaying gently in the wind, the chains squeaking against the metal pole. Remembering what he’d first thought when he saw Ricky apparently trying to climb up one of the chains of the swing, one hand clutched in it as he twirled slowly, his feet hanging high above the seat. Thinking: What’s he trying to do? Why is he so still?
And Candy, still standing facing the house, not looking back at the swing as Ricky turned slowly so that Alex could see his face at last. A face that was purple and blotched. Eyes wide, puzzled. Tongue protruding. And then there were only the sounds of Alex’s screaming.
He drank again, emptying his glass.
I will not weep again. I will NOT!
He spun in his swivel seat to face the door. But the window was still there behind him, still somehow beckoning him to leave his seat, walk over. Look down on to the garden. And remember.
No!
And then Alex heard the faint scratching from downstairs. The noise of a key in a lock. He sat and listened as the front door opened. There was some kind of fumbling commotion now.
Candy…
His first instinct was to call out; to tell her that he was here.
He was feeling really guilty now. He’d assumed that she’d gone out on one of her little jaunts again; assumed the worst because he’d come back to an empty house. She had every right to slip out for a little while, didn’t she? She wasn’t chained up inside the house. And now here she was, coming home again to get herself ready for their trip out that afternoon. But before he could say anything, Candy began to laugh. And there was something about her laughter which made another part of him die inside. It wasn’t the sound of someone laughing to herself. It was laughter for someone else.
Candy wasn’t alone.
The door closed. Candy laughed again. But her laughter was suddenly cut off. There was a rustling sound from the hall. As if the laughter had been cut off by…what?
By a kiss.
Alex gripped the glass tight, feeling the anguish constricting his throat.
Candy laughed again, breathless. Now there was the murmuring of another voice. A male voice. Alex sat motionless, listening to the sounds of feet on the staircase, coming up. When they reached the landing, there was another silence while they paused. The sense of Candy’s unseen intimacy was overwhelming. And this time it was too much for Alex to take. When he stood, his legs felt weak. He was trembling with an anger that seemed to rob him of all strength. When he reached for the handle of the study door, it somehow seemed miles away from him.
He saw them before they saw him.
Candy had been drinking; no doubt about that. She was looking back down over her shoulder, her stance unsteady as she climbed the stairs, holding on to her guest’s hand as she drew him up with her. She began to laugh again.
The man saw Alex before Candy realised he was there. He was youngish, perhaps twenty-two. Fashionably short hair and long sideburns; leather jacket, tan jeans. A smile that showed he knew he was on to a good thing. He stopped, his smile vanishing when he saw Alex. Candy seemed to think that he was having second thoughts about coming back home with her. She tugged harder at his hand, making a cooing noise of encouragement. She tottered on the step, grabbing at the handrail, apparently not able to understand his reluctance.
“What’s wrong, Georgie?” Her voice was slurred. “You were keen enough in the pub. Getting nervous?”
Alex wanted to speak, but could not find his voice. All he could do was stand and look at the young man whom Candy was trying to drag upstairs to the bedroom—to their bedroom. Candy’s visitor ran a hand through his hair and looked back down the stairs.
“I think…” he began. But there were no thoughts he could bring himself to utter.
“Awwww…” Candy tried to pull him up again. She paused then, and Alex saw her cock her head to study her companion’s face, trying to understand why he’d had a change of mind. Suddenly Alex knew, just knew, that she had become aware of his presence. There was no further movement from her, just a certain kind of stillness. She gave a low laugh. No humour in it, just the low mocking sound she often made these days. She let go of the young man’s hands. As he started back down the stairs, mumbling inaudible apologies for the fact that he couldn’t stay, Candy turned slowly and deliberately. When she was facing him, Alex could see that her eyes were closed. She opened them as the front door closed. The young man was gone.
“Well, what have we here?” she asked.
Alex tried to say something. Nothing seemed adequate.
“Came home early, didn’t you?” she went on. “And tried to catch me out.”
“No…” Alex’s voice sounded weak and pathetic in his own ears. A small boy’s voice coming from a man’s mouth. He looked down into his whisky glass and saw that it was empty.
“But you did, didn’t you?”
“Why the hell do you do it, Candy? What the hell is the matter with you?”
“It’s you, Alex. Just you. That’s what’s the matter with me.”
“We were going out this afternoon…”
“That’s what you think.”
“We agreed. Last night. After our talk…”
“Talk! That wasn’t a talk, darling. If you recall, you did all the talking. I never said a word.”
“This can’t go on, Candy. We’ve got to sort it out.”
“I’ve told you before! Don’t call me Candy! My name is Catherine.”
It was her ultimate insult. She’d always made a point of letting everyone know that only her friends called her Candy. The guest list of close acquaintanceship no longer included Alex. Somewhere along the way, the fact that no one ever called her Catherine seemed to have been lost.
Candy stormed up the stairs, looking over her shoulder only once to yell back down to the front d
oor: “Wimp!” She pushed past Alex, walked up to the next landing…then realised that she was heading in the wrong direction. Angrily, she turned unsteadily on one foot and pushed past him again, heading downstairs. This time Alex followed.
“We’ve got to talk, Candy.”
“Piss off, Alex. I need a drink.”
“You don’t need a drink.”
“Says you. The man with an empty glass in his hand. How much have you put away while I’ve been out?”
“Just the one.”
“Right. That’s just what I need. Just the one. A large one.”
Alex followed her into the living room. Candy made her way straight to the corner bar. She grabbed the empty whisky bottle, raised it to her face and was suddenly still. He knew what was coming next. She slammed the bottle back down on the bar and turned, bracing her hands on the counter. Alex watched her rage build as she tensed her hands on the bar, as if she might launch herself from it, straight at him, with fingernails raking at his eyes.
“Where is it?”
Alex stood, looking at her. Again, he didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t the right time. He hadn’t planned it to happen this way. He’d wanted to come home early and talk to her while she was still sober. He became aware that his mouth was open. “Catching flies”, Candy called it, always with that put-down laugh.
“Where is it?”
“There isn’t any more.”
“You what?”
“Candy, there was a three-quarters-full bottle there when I went to work this morning. When I came in, there was a half-inch in the bottom. I drank that. Just the one, because I needed it.”
“Because you needed it. I see. Well, I need it, too. A damn sight more than you do.”
“Maybe you’ve had…”
“Don’t you dare, say it. You mealy-mouthed bastard. Don’t you dare say that I’ve had enough. Living with you, I never have enough.”
Candy pushed herself away from the bar. Alex stepped quickly out of her way as she lunged past him and headed for the kitchen.
“We were going out,” he said, following behind. “We were going to talk.”
“You’re always fucking talking.”
In the kitchen, Candy flung open the cupboard doors above the sink unit and began rummaging through the tins of food. Cans began to fall to the floor around her, bouncing and rolling on the linoleum.
“You won’t find it in there,” said Alex from the kitchen doorway.
Candy paused.
“What?”
“I said you won’t find it in there. I threw it away.”
“What?”
“The half-bottle of Scotch. I threw it out yesterday.”
Candy turned her head slowly to look at him, eyes glaring pure hate.
“And you won’t find the vodka bottle in the upstairs wardrobe. Or the other one in the bookcase.”
“Conspiracy,” Candy said, and grimaced as the word came out all wrong. She closed her eyes as if dealing indulgently with a naughty child. She tried again, and almost got it right. “Conspiracy. You’ve been hatching a little plot, haven’t you, darling?”
“No, Candy. I’ve never stopped you drinking. There’s always been drink in the bar. But I don’t see why you have to hide it all around the house.”
“You think I’m ashamed of myself, don’t you? Don’t you? You think that’s why I’ve got my little hidey-holes.”
“No, I don’t. I just think you want to disguise how much you’re drinking. Not only a bottle a day at the bar, but all that other stuff to keep you topped up.”
“You think I’m frightened of you. That’s what it is.”
Candy slammed the cupboard doors, the impact dislodging more cans and packets of instant soup from the shelves. As they cascaded to the floor, she started slowly towards Alex.
“I’ll show you how frightened I am, Alex. I’ll fucking well show you just how frightened I really am.”
And this time she did launch herself at him.
“Candy! Don’t!”
Alex tried to step back out of the kitchen and into the hall without taking his eyes off her. His heel caught the edge of the carpet and he stumbled. In the brief moment when he fought to regain his balance, Candy was suddenly on him. One hand raked his face, fingernails drawing blood from his cheek. The other grabbed his hair. “Candy!” She clung tight to his hair, dragging his head down, at the same time kicking hard at his shins and beating at him with her free hand. The force of her fury whirled Alex around, and this time he did lose his balance, falling hard against the wall. His hand was trapped between the wall and his side, the whisky tumbler splintering. He pushed away from the wall, shoving Candy to one side. This time, as he tried to rise, she brought her leg up to kick him again. Accidentally, her knee connected with his chin. His jaw clicked shut, his head snapping back. The next moment he was lying on the floor of the hallway, looking up and wondering what the hell he was doing down there. There was a patch up there, above the kitchen door, that he’d missed when he’d been redecorating. Very curious. Candy suddenly came into view, leaning against the wall and sobbing for breath. She pressed both hands to her mouth now as the grief came out of her. Still dazed and winded, Alex could not understand what was happening. There seemed to be movement beneath him now. A strange, shuddering feeling. Surely he couldn’t be lying on the floor after all? Was this a dream? Because now it seemed that there was a rumbling noise; faint at first but getting louder and nearer. He tried to get up, but couldn’t move. It took all his strength to raise his hand in front of his face. He was clutching a handful of glass shards. The shattered glass had cut his palm, and blood was leaking from his fist and down his forearm. How could that possibly happen? He couldn’t remember anything about hurting his hand. When he looked back at Candy, he could see that she had stopped sobbing. She too had heard the rumbling noise, and Alex watched curiously as she stood back from the wall, as if there were something inside there that had moved. The rumbling sound was louder now, like a waterfall. The ground beneath him was shivering, and his vision was blurring.
“What’s happening, Alex?” gasped Candy, her voice muted by the sounds of the gigantic approaching waterfall. “Oh Christ, what’s happening…?”
Glass crashed nearby, making Candy flinch. Alex saw something moving overhead and looked up to see that the light hanging from the ceiling was swaying wildly backwards and forwards. Something cracked up above and a thin cloud of plaster dust began to fall from the ceiling. He still couldn’t rise. He tried to brush the dust from his eyes and smeared blood all over his face.
“Alex, what is it?”
Something groaned and stretched and splintered, very close by. Candy dropped to her knees, leaning over Alex and looking wildly around as the sounds of the waterfall engulfed them. There was another crashing of glass, and then something detonated like a bomb. Candy shrieked, throwing herself across Alex’s body and knocking the breath from his lungs. He tried to touch her, tried to tell her that everything was all right, and that it was just a bad dream. But then the floor that was not a floor any longer shivered…and tilted. In the next instant, both he and Candy were falling into darkness.
Chapter Three
The Journal of Jay O’Connor:
Dead and Buried
My eyes were open, but I couldn’t see a thing.
I was lying face down, and ice water was pooling around my face. The shock of it made me catch my breath and I tried to sit up. For some reason I could only raise my face out of the cold water, but I couldn’t roll over or sit up. My entire body seemed to be in pain. My arms, my legs, the small of my back. I waited for the darkness to lighten. It didn’t. Something was wrong with my eyes. I fumbled at my face, just to make sure that they were open. I was still somehow unable to sit up, so I had to pull my arms around to the side before they reached my face. I groped at my eyes. They were open. But the darkness remained. On Christ. Was I blind?
Then I became aware of a great weight on my ba
ck, pinning me down.
I panicked then, thrashing and squirming to pull myself out from under whatever had trapped me. I couldn’t remember what I was doing here, or where in hell I was. Something bad had happened, and I had to get free and into the light. There was a crack, a rustle and patter of loose stones or gravel, and suddenly I was able to move. I began to pull myself forward. Whatever was on my back seemed to be made of wood, but it wasn’t heavy enough to keep me pinned down any more. Was it a door? I slid from underneath it, and it seemed that every sound I made was muffled, as if I were underground. Was that the reason why everything was so dark? What the hell was happening? In the process of freeing myself I realised that there was rubble all around me. A building site? In the middle of the night? There was a hissing sound nearby, and when I finally managed to rise stiffly to my haunches, crouching on the rubble, I realised that it was the sound of running water, as if from a burst pipe.
Now that I was almost upright, the headache began. But this was worse than any headache I’d ever suffered before. It began in my temples and then seemed to creep around to the base of my neck. From there it stabbed into my brain. Moaning, I clutched at my temples and felt something tacky there. I knew that it was dried blood. The pain in my head suddenly became too much, and I sprawled forward to empty my stomach. It made me feel a little better; but as I crouched there, drawing in breath, the air appeared to be getting thinner. I’d been frightened before, but this was really bad. Once, when I was a kid, I’d been playing hide-and-seek and got locked in my aunt’s wardrobe. I’d been in there for perhaps fifteen minutes, screaming and kicking, before someone came to let me out. That memory had haunted my nightmares. It was back now, worse than it had ever been. I had to get out of this darkness. I still couldn’t remember what had happened or where I was, but something seemed to whisper in my ear, telling me that although I wasn’t a kid any more, I was back in that wardrobe and I was going to stay there for ever, or until I suffocated. In panic, I clawed at the rubble around me, trying to find some light, trying to find a way out. The sounds of my fear—the moans, the sobbing—all came back to me amplified, bouncing off the walls of the wardrobe, making my fear all the worse.
