by Matt Drabble
“Perhaps he wasn’t the only liar,” the boy smiled. “Perhaps we do not know what we have until it is gone. Don’t they say that ignorance is bliss after all?”
“No Joshua, ignorance is ignorance and nothing more. We all have to make our own choices in life and then live with them, somehow.”
“I’m sure that God demands much of us in order to bestow his bountiful gifts,” Joshua said, with all the conviction of a touring preacher. “Nothing in life that is truly worthy comes free of charge; there should always be a price to pay and a bill to settle.”
She could feel the air in the art studio crackle with electricity and for the time being the rest of the kids no longer existed. The slender blonde American held her gaze and their eyes locked together. “But surely we must know the details?” she demanded. “It is too easy to hold religion over our heads and make us cower before our superstitions. If there is a price to pay for achieving happiness then we must know what we are paying for. I don’t accept that we should just sign blank checks and look the other way; trust me, Joshua, that way brings only madness and enough guilt to bury us all.”
He stared at her hard for another couple of seconds. His face seemed old and dark and his expression was one of cruel amusement. Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, his face broke and he smiled warmly again. “Maybe I have a lot to learn after all,” he grinned.
“Maybe,” she agreed, but she couldn’t help shake the feeling that she was being toyed with in some way.
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Colin Merryweather stoked the fireplace again, watching the sparks fly as the logs spat. He slammed the poker into the hearth again, stabbing viciously with the metal tool, picturing his wife’s face.
He had been a big man to begin with, but retirement had rapidly increased his girth to the point where he was starting to think that his wife wasn’t just nagging. His stomach was swollen and fell over his belt as his calorie intake remained high, but his exercise had become non-existent. His hair was a silvery mop that hung loosely over his jowly face. His cheeks and nose were crisscrossed with bright red veins, birthed by an incalculable number of whisky bottles. His eyes, which had once been a piercing royal blue, were now dull and lifeless.
He had spent 40 years man and boy working for the Water Board rising through the ranks and paying his dues. He had finally become a supervising manager with a cushy desk job barely five minutes before they had ushered him out of the door and pensioned him off. His dreams of a life without having to drag himself into work had soon become a nightmare as his days were empty and black. His drinking, which he had managed to convince himself of only being social, had rapidly spiraled out of control with no routine to guide him. It used to be that he would look forward to a few quick halves with lunch and a few pints after work, topped off with a few nightcaps at home. Once he was home all the time, there was no way to regulate his intake and the days started to blur into one.
He stabbed the fire again as the flames died below a roaring blaze. “WOOD, WOMAN!” he yelled loudly into the cottage towards his wife.
He heard her irritating whistling coming from the kitchen and the sound grated on his nerves. Normally, her only saving grace was that she was a quiet woman which allowed him the option of believing that she actually wasn’t there. But the last few days, she had been humming and whistling like she had lost her mind.
“Did you bloody well hear me?” he barked. “Get me some logs in, NOW!”
The cottage was small and compact and when he only had to deal with her during the drunken nights that he staggered home it was fine. But now he was retired and she was on holiday from the hoity-toity school that she pranced around at, they were on top of each other all day long.
The lounge was fairly large and he kept the fire burning night and day. More often than not, he fell asleep in his armchair with a whisky bottle cradled in his lap. His one mission in life at present was to keep the fire burning. They had central heating, but he was damned if he was going to foot the expensive bill for running it, not when he had his fire to keep his room warm. At least Mavis had stopped moaning about the rest of the house being cold for five minutes; now she just grinned and took whatever abuse he threw at her.
There was a woodshed outside in the garden where he stored his logs to keep them away from the damp. The only time that he moved was when he was splitting the wood with an axe. With every swing he pictured her grinning happy face being cleaved in two.
He turned to see her walk past the open lounge door. She was wearing her best coat and dressed for work. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
“I have to go into the school today, dear,” she smiled.
“What are you talking about?”
“I won’t be long.”
“You’re damn right you won’t. You won’t be long because you’re not going anywhere,” he stated.
“Oh but I have to, he needs me,” she said, continuing to smile.
“Who does? Barnaby?” he sneered. “You are not getting paid to trek across the fields through the snow to wipe his snotty arse. This is the school holidays, is it not?”
“But I have to go,” she said quietly but firmly. “I have to go when he calls.”
“Who’s called? I didn’t hear the bloody phone go; what, are you in contact telepathically now?” he laughed.
“But I have to.”
Colin dragged his bulk up from the sofa and grabbed his wife painfully by the arms. He dug his meaty fingers into her bony flesh and squeezed hard. “You are going nowhere,” he growled menacingly. “I don’t give a shit what the great and glorious Headmaster has had to say and I don’t want to hear another word about it, so help me God.”
“But he needs me,” she whispered.
He slapped her hard then. The sound was loud as he struck her with a large open palm. He was pleased to see his handprint in brilliant red standing out from her cheek. She cast her eyes downwards and he was happy to see that the rebellion had been quashed quickly. In truth he would much rather she was out of the house than in it, but not when she was laboring under the misapprehension that she had a choice in the matter.
“Here’s what you’re going to do,” he said in a low hard tone. “You are going to drag your fat arse out into the woodshed, get me my logs and then if you’re lucky I’ll let you make me some lunch. Is that clear?” he said, squeezing her arms hard and was pleased to see the corners of her eyes pinprick with tears. “Is that clear?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Good, then shift it.”
He settled himself back down into his armchair with the world set to rights again. The king was back on his throne and the peasants were back in their hovels.
A couple of minutes later, he heard her return. Her shuffling feet were mercifully unaccompanied by her tuneless whistling. He was starting to wonder just why he hadn’t employed this tactic more often to get what he wanted.
He was still congratulating himself when the axe fell and the blade struck him squarely in the head. The silver metal buried itself in bone and brain. Mavis had to plant one foot firmly against the back of the armchair to pull the axe free from his skull. Several pieces of grey matter and white chips of bone flew out when she finally managed to wrench the axe out. She lifted the blade and swung it down again and again and again until there was only a pulpy mess where her husband’s head and face had once been. She absently wiped some of the blood spray away from her face, smearing the crimson mist across her pale cheeks.
“He needs me,” she said, smiling pleasantly. “He has called, and I shall answer.”
She dropped the axe and left it next to what had once been her husband of over 35 years. She closed the front door behind her and started the hike to Ravenhill, whistling happily as she went.
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Sergeant Donald Ross took the bends slowly and carefully. The outer village roads had been partially cleared but they were still treacherous underfoot. The last
thing that he wanted was to have his authority compromised by having to ask one of the local farmers to pull him out of a hedgerow.
The 4x4 was capable enough at the minute, but any further downfall and he would be stranded. The weather forecast had reassured most of the villagers, but some of the older ones weren’t so sure. He had lived out in the country for long enough to know that some of the old wives’ tales were true, especially some of those about weather predicting. He couldn’t help but feel an air of unease that he couldn’t shake. Paterson went about his day like any other, regardless of the snow or the potential isolation. Donald wasn’t sure if anything would faze the young lad unless it landed on his head with a direct hit.
He knew that Father Monroe had been trying to organize and prepare people for a while now for the storm and thankfully the residents were old enough to still respect the church. There had been a phone tree set up to cover for the most vulnerable amongst them and everyone seemed keen to chip in.
Monroe seemed like a decent enough chap from what he had seen and heard. He was an outsider sent to them after Father Dougray had retired. But most of the suspicions about a new priest and his new age way of doing things had been unfounded. Monroe was a traditionalist which suited the more reserved members of his flock. Donald had never been much for religion, but he knew that it served a great purpose amongst the elderly. He supposed that perhaps as his own life grew shorter it would take on more relevance.
The 4x4 sashayed its way along the icy road, its wheels churning up snow and slush as it went. He rounded a corner and had to swerve hard to avoid the woman walking in the middle of the road. For a moment, despite his slow and careful speed, he felt the truck begin to lose its footing. The back started to swing out and he turned into the skid and pumped the brakes gently. Suddenly he was drifting sideways and he could only pray that another vehicle didn’t come around the corner at that second. The wheels caught on the grass verge and the mud underneath acted as a more adhesive surface. The 4x4 straightened out and slid to a halt.
He was out of the truck in a flash and was grateful for the spikes under his boots as they bit into the icy road as he made his way to the woman. When he reached her she seemed oblivious to the near miss and was whistling merrily along her way.
“Mrs. Merryweather?” he asked, recognising her up close. “Are you alright?”
“Oh yes thank you, officer,” she beamed. “It is a most joyous day.”
She started to move past him again when he noticed that her coat was hanging open and as she moved he could see faint splatters of red against her shirt. “Are you sure that you’re alright?” he asked, leaning in for a closer look. “You seem to have hurt yourself.”
She paused and looked down as if trying to remember where the red stains had come from. “Oh not to worry, it’s not my blood, it’s only Colin’s.”
“Your husband Colin? Is he hurt? Has there been an accident?” he asked, wondering about her state of mind.
“Oh no, it was no accident, I killed him,” she smiled.
Donald tried to process the information. He knew that Colin had a drink problem that had only gotten worse since his retirement. He was a big man with a bad temper whenever he was drinking heavily and The Royal Swan pub had called the station a few times when Colin had been aggressive with staff or other punters.
“Why don’t you come and have a little sit down in my truck, Mrs. Merryweather?” he said soothingly.
“And you’ll take me to him?” she asked with glassy eyes.
“Yes, I’ll take you to Colin.”
“No, not to Colin. I have to get to the school, he’s calling me you see,” she smiled happily.
Donald was now sure that the woman had suffered through something traumatic. “Yes of course,” he said, as he gently took her arm to guide her to the truck. “I’ll take you anywhere that you want to go.”
He led her to the 4x4 and placed her in the back before shutting the door that only opened from the outside. He climbed in and thought about whether to take her straight to the station and leave her with Paterson whilst he checked her house or to drive straight to the house first. Paterson’s dopey face fluttered before his eyes and he decided that the young PC could best be of use by staying out of it. He turned the truck around and headed back towards the Merryweather house, afraid of what he might find there.
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Stuart pushed himself harder. The swim was supposed to be a way of relaxing, but now it was fast becoming a contest of endurance with only himself to compete against.
Ravenhill had many fantastic facilities, one of which was the large covered swimming pool. One of the out buildings within the school grounds had been converted into the sports hall. There was a single large indoor pitch that was marked out for football, basketball, tennis, badminton, and even had room for cricket nets. The weather in the area was never the most reliable and apparently Stuart was grateful that Barnaby shared his passion for sport and the positive influence that it could exert over impressionable minds. The sports hall facility came complete with changing rooms and showers and the large indoor pool took up roughly half of the space.
Stuart pushed himself harder and smashed his way through the water losing his smooth strokes. The water became choppy and uneven as the chlorine waves fought against his passage. His mind was as muddled as the water. He had only ever wanted to get closer to Sarah, but the harder he tried, the more he seemed to lose his footing.
They had barely spoken since she had kissed him at the lighthouse and now he was eventually growing exhausted at the chase. Perhaps it was time that he salvaged a little self-respect.
He swam harder, pushing his aching muscles as they protested at the increased pace. His head flipped from side to side as his arms smashed powerfully into the water.
The swimming pool was dark and the lighting was low. He liked to swim in the gloom as it left him alone with his thoughts after a day full of questions from growing minds. There were a few small windows along the top of the walls which let in small beams of narrow light but mainly it was dimly lit.
Stuart ducked under the water as he made yet another turn. For some reason he glanced upwards and saw a silhouette standing poolside. He kicked hard for the surface and broke through, only to find that he was alone. He bobbed around taking in his surroundings for a moment. There was nowhere that anyone could have reached for cover in the short time. A tall lifeguard chair was set by the side of the pool and various lifesaver rings were hung on hooks on the walls. A snaking line of colored lane separators was lying pooled in a corner. The only sound that he could hear was the thumping of his exhausted heartbeat.
Eventually, he decided to stop scaring himself and he swam slowly for the edge. He pulled himself up and out of the pool on shaky legs. His fingers were pruned and he hugged himself against the cold. Large spider egg-sized goosebumps had broken out on his skin and he knew that someone was there.
“HELLO?” he called into the shadows and flinched at the loudness of his own voice.
Predictably there was no answer.
He stood there dripping and shivering and feeling increasingly foolish. He was not a man prone to outbreaks of fantasy or imagination, but he could feel someone’s presence just the same. He strode purposefully towards the showers, showing far more confidence than he felt. His first thought was that some kid was playing silly buggers. Perhaps they had been watching one too many horror movies and wanted to try and freak him out. Someone like Alex Thompson would no doubt be at the head of the queue when it came to handing out pranks.
His feet slapped on the tiled floor. He walked quickly to the changing rooms, eager to cover his almost naked physique clad only in rather small Speedos. He suddenly felt vulnerable and exposed regardless of the situation.
He had taken one step inside the changing rooms when one of the showers sprung into life. The water jet pounded hard on the floor and the steam soon started to rise into the air. The single shower was suddenly joined
by another and another as the whole row leapt into action. Stuart stood there frozen to the spot as the steam cloud grew in size and intensity. It was just running water, and yet it wasn’t. He knew that he should walk towards the showers and put an end to this nonsense, but his feet wouldn’t move. One of the benefits of having a practical mind, was knowing a bad idea when he heard one.
He grabbed his clothes from the peg and struggled into them as he hopped backwards, never taking his eyes away from the shower entrance. His trousers were unbuckled and his shirt unbuttoned as he stumbled out into the corridor. As soon as his feet touched the carpet outside, he heard the showers snap off. He stood there with a part of him wanting to go back inside and reclaim a piece of sanity. But a larger part more concerned with self-preservation made him turn and walk quickly away as the whole scene was slowly dismissed in his pragmatic mind.
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Sergeant Donald Ross pulled up outside the Merryweather house. Mavis had grown anxious and impatient in the back of the police 4x4 and he was glad to climb out and shut the door on her ravings.
He looked back and saw the usually quiet and reserved woman positively frothing at the mouth as she clawed desperately at the door trying to get free. He shook his head and wondered just what on earth had gotten into the woman as she pounded on the window with a clenched bony fist.
He left her and crunched his way up the garden path. He wasn’t surprised to find that Colin Merryweather hadn’t bothered to clear the path as he reached the door. He knocked hard but the door swung open, unlocked.
“Hello?” he called into the dead house. “Colin? Are you in there?”
There was no answer and his foot hovered across the doorway. The last thing in the world he currently wanted to do was to walk into that house. His senses were screaming for him to turn and run, to call in reinforcements, but the trouble was that he was it. There was no one else to call except young PC Paterson and he couldn’t envisage the lad being anything other than a liability.
