Sweetheart, Sweetheart

by Bernard Taylor

  Not so She­lagh. I would save She­lagh. I would.

  As I ripped open the door of the toolshed the wind tore it from my grasp and flung it back, wrenching it from its upper hinges with a cracking, splitting sound, so that it banged rhythmically, crazily against the side of the shed. I went in, stumbling over the spade, the balls and hoops of the croquet set to the tool rack where I grabbed an axe and a crow-bar.

  The wind was behind me as I ran back over the lawn and I was driven before it in a steady pelting shower of driving rain and bits of flying debris. I reached the house and in the kitchen doorway I hesitated, took a deep breath and stepped again over Jean Timpson’s body and the pool of blood. Moving to the dresser I ripped open a drawer, grabbed the torch and flicked the switch. Thank God—it worked. In the hall I found Reese rattling and pulling at the cellar door’s handle. I pushed him aside, yelled out to She­lagh to stand clear and then let fly with the axe.

  It was a stout door, but my fear gave me strength and after a succession of heavy blows I had it open.

  The cellar light was on—that light that had never worked for me. It was on. Bronwen again? And there in the cold light cast by the single naked bulb I saw Shelagh as she crouched at the foot of the steps, the little injured cat in her arms.

  “David . . . !”

  She was safe.

  Scared and pale-faced she runs up the steps towards me. I see tears in her eyes.

  “The door just—just slammed behind me,” she cries.

  I take a step towards her, holding out my arms. In my head my voice is saying, You can’t do anything to her now, Bronwen—not as you did to Effie—not as you did to Sad Margaret—not as you did to Helen, and Colin . . .

  “She­lagh . . . She­lagh . . .” I reach out, down, grasping her shoulder, bringing her up to me. To safety.

  I’ve told myself I can’t move from this spot until the little spider completes the job he—albeit unwittingly—started. He did the H, the E and the L and then just went to sleep. That’s no good; I have to get home. If I’m not back she’ll start to wonder about me. But I can’t go yet; not while the spider stays so motionless in the crease of the L.

  I search around my feet and find a small twig. Gently I prod the spider with it. It moves, a quick darting little run covering about two inches. I guide it—or try to—very carefully. It must touch every letter, only then can I go . . . One more little prod . . . I’m impatient—and too rough and now I’ve hurt one of its legs. But I keep on and it moves again, although its progress is slow. Carefully now . . . Careful . . . It takes great care, an operation like this . . .

  As it moves slowly, slowly over the stone its injured leg trails . . .

  Looking round I see her there waiting for me on the other side of the wall. I don’t know why I was worrying about getting back late to the cottage; she knows I won’t be far away.

  Her smile, I see, has a touch of sadness, a little disapproval in it; she doesn’t like me coming here, I know. But one more minute and I’ll be ready. Just let this little spider do his job and then we’ll go home together. Home. Together. We’ll walk home together through the village. I know what it will be like as we go through the village. There’ll be silence. No one will speak to us. They never do. We have no friends here now. No one. Pitkin has never called and Timpson, it seems, never stirs from his house any more. And Reese?—oh, he moved away, quite a while ago.

  Perhaps She­lagh’s hold on the cat was too tight. Perhaps her sudden movement up the steps jarred its shattered leg. My fingers had just closed around her shoulder when the cat gave a piercing cry of pain and twisted, squirming in her arms. She­lagh faltered in her stride, bending her head to the animal, and I watched as it lashed out, hooked her in the eye and then dragged its razor claws down across her cheek.

  With a shriek she let the cat go and clutched at her face. But Girlie didn’t fall. She hung on, clinging, claws deep in She­lagh’s breast and when She­lagh, screaming, tried to free herself, the cat snarled, spat and clawed her again. Bounding down the two steps that separated us I snatched the cat away. But I was too late. She­lagh, in an effort to escape the pain, stepped sideways, and stepped too far.

  Her hand came away from her blood-filled eye socket, reaching out for me. For an instant our hands brushed, and then she had gone over the edge of the staircase.

  In the moment it took me to get down the steps I swung the cat—a snarling, spitting, ferocious shape of black fur—back to my arm’s length and hurled it with all my force at the far wall. It struck the plaster-covered bricks with a thud and fell onto a pile of old books.

  I clambered over a chest, skirted the Welsh dresser and hurried to She­lagh. I found her half-lying, half-kneeling over an old wooden box. But she hadn’t fallen very far, only a few feet, and I didn’t think she could be seriously hurt.

  “Oh, my darling!” I heard myself saying. I saw pain in her face and it brought tears springing to my eyes. Quickly grabbing her by the shoulders I started to lift her up. And as I did so her head snapped back and she let out a scream that made my heart turn over.

  “N-o-o-o!” she shrieked. “Oh, God! . . . Don’t . . . Don’t! No-o-o-o!”

  There was something digging into her chest. Something that had been left in the box. Some kind of stake . . . And then I recognised the brightly coloured bands of the croquet finishing post. It was upside-down, the sharp end piercing her chest.

  I yelled out to Reese as he ran down the steps. “For Christ’s sake, hurry up. Come and help me!” I couldn’t bear to look at the agony in her face, so white, or the blood in her eye or on her cheek where the cat had torn her. Her knuckles were white with the strain of attempting to support herself; she was trying to prevent herself from sinking down and being impaled even deeper. I saw that the colours of the croquet finishing-post were changing; now her blood ran down it, red, red, and her desperate, terrified breathing rasped in my ear; the pain, the fear of death was there in her voice as she cried piteously,

  “Oh, David . . . Oh, David . . . please . . . help me . . . Help me . . . David . . . David . . . David . . . David . . .” Her voice went on, speaking my name over and over, and then, her eyes rolling, she said: “I saw her. I saw her. She was down here with me, in the cellar. I saw her. Oh, please . . . don’t let her kill me . . . please . . . David . . . David . . . David . . . David . . .”

  “You’ll be all right, darling.” What real comfort could I give her. I had no idea what to do. I could hardly speak.

  But then Reese was there, bending, kneeling beside us. “Take her weight,” he rapped out. “Support her.” And he leaned lower, making a swift examination. His head came up and he looked at me over She­lagh’s hunched shoulders. The look on his face gave me such a feeling of relief. He said: “I think she’s going to be all right. I don’t think it’s in very deep. Not deep enough to do any real damage, anyway.” His hands moved down and groped in the box. “This thing’s wedged somehow. We’ll have to free it and then ease her up.” He spoke then to She­lagh. “We’ve got to get you free first of all. It’ll hurt, but you will be all right.” He gave her a shaky smile. “Okay?”

  She gave the slightest nod. “Yes,” she breathed.

  And then the light went out.

  “Quick!” I said to Reese. “The torch! Get the torch! It’s at the top of the stairs. I’ve got her. Hurry!”

  It was pitch-dark there now. I heard the sound of his feet as he got up and began to make his way back to the steps. And in the dark, crouching there, I became aware of the perfume. The scent of roses was all around us, stronger than the scent of the musty old books and clothes. Bronwen was close. So close. Watching. Waiting. I shouted to Reese again.

  “Hurry! Hurry!”

  And all at once I heard a different sound. Beginning faintly, it increased in volume so that I became aware that it had been going on for a few seconds. It became louder than She­lagh’s moans, louder than my own breathing, louder than Reese’s feet on the stairs. Som
ething nearby was moving, rocking. Something heavy. The sound came from in front of me where the old Welsh dresser stood. It was the dresser that was making the noise. I leaned forward, stretching, reaching out with my left hand. The dresser was moving. It rocked against my fingers. Bronwen’s Welsh dresser. Rocking back and forth as if under the power of some unseen hand.

  “Quick! Hurry!” I screamed the words at Reese. Turning back to She­lagh I said, “Hold on, darling,” and took away my right hand with which I’d been helping to support her. As I did so she gave a moan. The sound tore at me but I had to shut my ears to it. I leapt to my feet and in the pitch-darkness put my shoulder against the great piece of furniture. As I did so a beam of light struck the wall by the stairs, then circled down, bathing me in it, and the next second Reese was there, holding the torch, dashing down the steps.

  “Help me—!” The dresser was moving furiously now, rocking, rocking, rocking, gathering momentum, moving faster and further, so that the arc of its swing was getting wider every moment. I couldn’t hold it alone; it was far, far too heavy. I yelled again to Reese and he scrambled to the other side of it and threw his own weight against it in an effort to keep it upright. I saw the torch fall from his straining fingers, saw the light go out . . .

  Desperately we clung on, pressing with all our might. But there was nothing we could do. The dresser teetered on the edge of balance, gave a final lurch and crashed forward.

  The scream She­lagh gave as it hit her made my blood run cold, ice-cold.

  We couldn’t lift the dresser. We tried, but we couldn’t.

  And then, even as we struggled there in the rose-scented dark the back of the dresser was struck a heavy blow that jarred our fingers and rang in our ears. Bang, bang. The blows went on. Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang . . . making jokes of our strength. Each blow forcing She­lagh down, hammering her down, impaling her body more firmly on the pointed stake. Ensuring that she would never, never get up.

  When the light went on again I realised that all the noise had ceased. In my ears I could still hear the terrible sound of She­lagh’s cries; but they were only echoes; she was quite silent now. Now there was only the sound of our breathing, Reese’s and mine.

  She­lagh was completely hidden from our sight. Only her blood showed as it ran from beneath the dresser and collected in a widening pool on the cellar floor.

  The spider is really moving now. With a little help from me he practically scuttles back over the letters. I stop him and he starts again—this time at the beginning of her name. With a little prod from my twig he covers her name in one fast, simple little run: S-H-E-L-A-G he spells, and finally settles in the cut of the last H.

  Now I can go. I stand up, brush bits of grass from my sleeve. I won’t bother leaving by the gates; I’ll go by way of the wall. On top of the wall I pause. I sit astride the old grey stones and look back on the graves. She­lagh, Colin, Helen . . . they’re all gone now . . .

  But I’m not alone. No. Bronwen comes towards me. In a minute she will take my arm and we’ll go home together. Home. I’ll have a little drink. Try to relax. We’ll be together, undisturbed. That we can rely on.

  A question nags. I ought to do something—about the future. But what? I ought to try to find a job of some kind somewhere. Helen’s money won’t last forever. But that’s something I can think about. Later on. Give the matter some real thought. It’ll be good to have something positive to think about. I need something positive otherwise I just get landed with memories all the time.

  Oh, She­lagh, She­lagh . . .

  I mustn’t think of you, She­lagh—not as you were when I last saw you—when Reese and I and the men lifted the dresser. I must think of you as you were at other times. I shall concentrate on other images; I shall see you under the flowered arch in your yellow dress as we set off for our wedding; see you beside the river lifting your beer glass; in the garden with the sun so bright on your hair. In the highlights your hair shone red, did you know that . . . ? Oh, She­lagh, I am not, shall not be, faithless to your memory. I loved only you.

  But you are gone. And now there is only Bronwen.

  She loves me.

  Do I love?

  No. No. But I have no one else.

  Though what of my father?

  A good question. What, indeed of my father . . . No, I have no one now. Only Bronwen. She offers me love. Of a kind. And it will do—until I grow too tired.

  When that will be I have no idea. But until it happens we shall stay together. She won’t ever leave, and I have nowhere else to go. And after all, as I said, she loves me. And that’s half the battle. It’s so important to be loved, to be needed.

  But still, you ask, how could I stay with her after the horror that has been? It is something I have often asked myself—though much less frequently of late. The horror does recede as it becomes more and more a part of the past, believe it; even the most shocking events will cease to shock when seen repeatedly—as they have been in my mind.

  And on those occasions when the past does loom up and threaten to swamp me, and I lie in bed while the pictures and the voices churn round in my head, then she, Bronwen, will come to me, and touch me. And I let go then. Completely. I hold back no longer. I can do nothing else when she is with me. And letting go, I let go, too, of the waking nightmares. Soon they dissolve into the past, where they belong.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Bernard Taylor was born in Swindon, Wiltshire, and now lives in London. Following active service in Egypt in the Royal Air Force, he studied Fine Arts in Swindon, then at Chelsea School of Art and Birmingham University. On graduation he worked as a teacher, painter and book illustrator before going as a teacher to the United States. While there, he took up acting and writing and continued with both after his return to England. He has published ten novels under his own name, including The Godsend (1976), which was adapted for a major film, and Sweetheart, Sweetheart (1977), which Charles L. Grant has hailed as one of the finest ghost stories ever written. He has also written novels under the pseudonym Jess Foley, as well as several works of nonfiction. He has won awards for his true crime writing and also for his work as a playwright. It was during his year as resident playwright at the Queen’s Theatre, Hornchurch that he wrote The Godsend. There Must Be Evil, his latest true crime study, is to be published in England in late 2015.