The Festering

by Guy N Smith

  ‘I …’ She fought off a nervous stammer, ‘I’ve been away most of the day … shopping. My husband said … I’ve just seen Mike off on the train to London … he said that the boy looked ill … as if he had a fever or something. He gave him some water. But Mike said he must be okay because they finished the day’s work and went home. Is – is anything wrong, officer?’

  ‘We shall need to speak to your husband, obviously. When will he be back from London?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Her words came in a rush. ‘Tomorrow or the next day. What’s happened?’

  The detective glanced at the uniformed officer and there was a moment’s heavy silence, a kind of ‘I suppose we’ll have to tell her eventually so we might as well now’, ‘I’m afraid Tommy Eaton is dead!’

  ‘Dead!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘That will be for the coroner to decide.’ His tone was suddenly formal, official. ‘An illness of some kind – we don’t know at this stage, but it was obviously both mental and physical. He murdered his girlfriend before he died!’

  Holly felt faint. She sank down into a chair, her features the colour of watery concrete. ‘Oh, my God!’

  ‘You didn’t notice anything amiss with him before you went out?’

  ‘No, I barely glanced at the workmen. They made a mess of sinking the well, and came back to put it right. When I left they were … working. That’s all, working.’

  ‘I see.’ The detective moved towards the door. ‘Well, thank you, Mrs Mannion. If you don’t mind, we’ll just have a look round the site and the machinery – just a formality. Otherwise, you’ll be hearing from us after your husband returns home. Good evening to you.’

  By the time Holly was sufficiently recovered from her shock to get up from the chair and cross to the window, the policemen had left. Obviously they had found nothing out there to interest them. She was trembling as she stood there watching the setting sun sink slowly beyond the Bryn in the distance, the heather slopes a deep purple turning to black as the evening shadows crept in. Soon it would be night, and she felt afraid. Very much afraid.

  Mike was gone, there was nobody else here, she was all alone until the workmen … workman arrived in the morning. Surely the older man would not turn up for work as usual, not after … that! She found herself wishing that she had gone to her mother’s, after all. At least then she would not have been told tonight.

  She turned the key in the door and checked that it was locked. As she turned back into the room she was aware of the pungent, rotting odour, that awful stench that had become so familiar this last couple of days. The window was closed but it still seeped in, coming in wafts like an intermittent breeze, its foulness seemed to touch her like cold, clammy, stinking fingers. She shivered, threw another faggot on to the stove and leaned close to the iron firebox door so that she could inhale the sweet fumes of the woodsmoke. And when she straightened up the smell had gone.

  It was the septic tank, she told herself over and over again until she was almost convinced. It needed emptying. Mike could arrange that as soon as he returned from London.

  She switched on the light, deciding there and then that she would leave it on all night. Because somehow that malignant stench and the blackness of night seemed to complement each other.

  Jim Fitzpatrick turned up for work at Garth Cottage at nine o’clock the following morning. Holly watched from the window as he drove the Land Rover down to the hollow where the well was, got out and began mixing some cement with no hesitation. He looked exactly as he had done yesterday and the day before: surly, workmanlike, a stolid servant of the well-drilling company. His mate had died, so he had to carry on, shoulder the extra workload. So emotionless, it was terrifying. No pity, no respect for the dead. It seemed as though he didn’t care; a piece of human machinery was broken, so he carried on without it until he could find a suitable replacement.

  It was as hot as ever today, not so much as a wisp of cirrus cloud in the unbroken gun-blue of the sky. Sweltering. Holly risked opening the kitchen window and took a cautious breath. That smell was gone, thank God! All the same she decided, she was going to remain indoors today. All day. Maybe she would begin decorating the lounge, take off all that plaster that had not already fallen off. At least it would be something to do, but it was no good trying to pretend that it would take her mind off things because it wouldn’t. Nothing would. That boy was dead, a youth not yet in the prime of his life, sick and crazed. A murderer! And he had seemed so nice, so respectful. It was unbelievable.

  The plaster on the lounge wall fell off in huge shards with just a touch from the trowel. In less than an hour the bare cementwork was exposed, reminding her of an undulating 3-D wall map, with contours and valleys that needed to be filled in. She wondered if Bennion’s man had any spare cement; if so, he might even mix up a bucketful for her. She hesitated, not just because he seemed so surly but because she didn’t like going outside. That youth, Eaton, had been out there yesterday, working like a normal person. Within hours he had become a murderer and had died of some terrible illness. But, she told herself, this place could not possibly have anything to do with it; he might have undergone the same fate if he had been on a job in the town. He would have.

  The door was still locked from the previous evening. And the kitchen light was still burning. She switched off the fluorescent strip, unlocked the door and stepped outside, then caught her breath sharply. The smell was back again, just a faint hint of it in the hot, windless atmosphere!

  Definitely the septic tank! She tried to ignore it as she looked for Jim Fitzpatrick. He was sitting in the Land Rover; just sitting, neither eating his ‘bait’ nor reading his daily paper. Staring fixedly. At Holly!

  She tensed, feeling embarrassment and unease. All right, she knew all men looked at women, fantasized. But this labourer was so crude – there was no other word to describe him. A fish and chips and beer man, a glutton and a drunkard, she decided. Perhaps she was being unfair to him. She had hardly spoken to him during the whole time he had been working here, but she sensed his resentment towards her and Mike. An old-fashioned class hatred because they could afford a well and he was being paid just a basic wage to install it. Now he was eyeing her lustfully.

  She swallowed, and changed her mind about the cement. She could fetch some from town – an hour or two away from the Garth would do her good. Just as she was turning away to go back indoors he spoke to her through the open Land Rover vehicle.

  ‘Can I ’elp you, missus?’

  ‘I wanted some cement, just half a bucketful to patch up the lounge wall.’ Now that was a damned fool thing to say, she told herself, but the words had just seemed to spill out. She stepped back a pace, knowing that she was blushing deeply.

  ‘I reckon I can fix that,’ he leered, unlatching the door so that it creaked open and gave her an unrestricted view of his unbuttoned shirt front with a bulging roll of grimed fat hanging over the waistband of his working trousers. ‘And, come to think of it, there’s sommat you can do for me as well!’

  She nearly screamed ‘no’ and would have fled if her feet had not appeared to be stuck firmly to the ground beneath her. Instead she asked in a shaking voice. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Some water to drink. It’s hot out here and I ain’t riskin’ that well water, not until it’s been passed clear.’

  ‘All right. I’ll get you some.’ Her feet could move now, and she began retracing her steps back to the doorway.

  Suddenly she realized that he was following her. She glanced back quickly and saw him shambling after her like a gorilla dressed in filthy human workclothes; dragging his feet, head hung low, long arms swinging at his sides. Oh, God! She thought about running, dashing indoors, slamming and locking the door. Phoning the police.

  Don’t be silly, she thought. He’s only coming for a drink of water. You said you’d get him one, and he can hardly expect you to wait on him, bring it to the Land Rover on a tray and s
tand there whilst he drinks it. But he’s not coming indoors!

  Jim Fitzpatrick did come indoors. He appeared not to notice the hint as Holly let the door swing to behind her. He eased his bulky frame inside and lowered it down on to a chair at the table, breathing heavily, his chest wheezing. Fags, she surmised, he’s probably a sixty-a-day man – and who could blame him when he had to work in stenches like the one out there. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again.

  ‘Ta!’ He took the mug of water, drank half of it at one gulp, puffed out his cheeks and gave her another leer, it’s a bloody killer today. Must be getting on for ninety out there.’

  ‘Yes, it’s hot.’ She wished that he would hurry up and drink the rest and leave.

  ‘Your hubby’s gone off for the day, ’as ’e?’

  ‘He might be back at any time.’ She was glancing about her, and eyed the breadknife still on the board – a potentially lethal weapon with crumbs adhering to its serrated blade. ‘He shouldn’t be long. I’m terribly sorry to hear about your mate.’

  ‘Tommy? Shame, ain’t it? ’E wasn’t well yesterday, but you can’t just go knockin’ off ’cause you’re off the ’ooks, can you? If you ask me, it was one o’ them brain tumours, been brewin’ up maybe for months and suddenly came to a ’ead. Sent ’im berserk, the cops reckon. Strangled his wench, and then whatever was growin’ on ’im bursted and spewed all up the walls. Still, life ’as to go on, don’t it? I just ’ope the gaffer sends me another bloke afore too long, ’cause this is bleedin’ ’eavy work all on yer tod.’

  Holly felt sick with revulsion. All this man thought about was a replacement; mates were dispensable. He took another drink and set the mug down on the table. And it was then that she noticed his lower lip and felt bile scorching her throat. Oh, God, it was awful. Revolting!

  A sore or a boil – some kind of ulcer, anyway. It protruded from the soft lip, as big as a marble, shiny with the yellow matter that seeped out of it in a sluggish trickle down on to the stubbly, dirty chin. He seemed oblivious of it, and just stared at her.

  ‘Is your hubby likely to stop away overnight?’ It was a low whisper, a husky grating sound that was loaded with lust. Red-eyed as though he had not slept last night, his features were burning with some fever beneath the oil streaks and grime.

  ‘Why?’ Now that’s a stupid bloody question if ever there was one, she realized.

  ‘Must get a bit creepy out ’ere on yer own.’ A low guffaw stuck in his throat, ‘I mean, there ain’t another ’ouse close by, and what with that awful bloody smell out there, it’s enough to frighten any pretty young girl, ain’t it?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ She was shaking. She glanced at the door, but he was between her and a dash to safety; she was sure that she could outrun him in the open, he was so ungainly, lumbering. ‘Anyway, Mike should be back before long.’ He won’t come back for another couple of days, and this fellow sensed it, she decided. Her thoughts returned to young Tommy: what had happened to him, what he’d done, ‘I’m expecting a visitor shortly, anyway.’ The lie seemed more feasible.

  ‘Yer fancy bloke comin’ round, is ’e? A bit on the side, eh? Yer knows what they say, when the cat’s away …’

  ‘How dare you!’ She was so indignant at this innuendo, anger overcame her fear for a moment, ‘I wouldn’t sleep with any man except my husband, I’ll have you know!’

  ‘They all say that,’ he grinned, slobbering some more of that vile matter, and Holly thought she saw another of those dreadful sores on his tongue. She jerked her head away and thought that she might throw up.

  ‘Would you leave, please?’ She spoke unconvincingly, staring at the wall – could not bear to look at him again. Everything connected with Garth Cottage had become a nightmare.

  ‘All in good time.’ He was noisily slurping the remains of his drink, ‘I’ll ’ave some more water, if you’d be so kind.’

  No! Get it yourself, help yourself to anything you want, but just let me out of here, she thought.

  He was struggling up on to his feet, breathing noisily. Coming after her! She thought again about the bread-knife, but it was on the table, nearer to him than to herself. Oh, Merciful God!

  ‘Somebody’s comin’!’ There was both alarm and annoyance in his voice. She looked round and saw that he was staring in the direction of the partially open door. Sure enough, soft footsteps padded across the ground outside and scuffed on the dusty patio. There was a faint whiff of that smell but it was gone as quickly as it had come, maybe just a memory that lingered to plague her.

  Whoever it was had stopped outside the door, waiting there as though uncertain whether or not to knock before entering. Holly saw a shadow slanting in through the gap, a figure clutching a bag of some kind. Waiting.

  ‘Come in.’ There was relief in her voice, a release of pent-up tension. Oh, please, come in, she prayed. Whoever you are, I need you!

  ‘Hi!’ The familiar figure of Nick Paton, the plumber, was framed in the doorway, his tool bag in one hand, his eyes flicking from Fitzpatrick to Holly. ‘Thought I smelled the kettle. Just in time, am I?’

  ‘He’s …’ Holly couldn’t remember Fitzpatrick’s name, didn’t want to, just wanted him out of the house. ‘Our friend’s just about to leave. He’s hoping to finish the job this afternoon so that he won’t have to come back tomorrow.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky.’ Jim Fitzpatrick could not conceal his disappointment at this unexpected interruption. ‘Not unless the gaffer sends me a mate in the next hour. I’ll need the electrician to connect the pump back up. Young Tommy could’ve done that, but ’e ain’t around, is ’e?’ Then he was shuffling through the door, dragging it shut behind him.

  ‘Grumpy old sod, is Jim.’ Paton placed his bag on the floor. ‘Got a chip on his shoulder, but a heart of gold really. Bennion rang and asked me to pop down. There’s been some trouble …’

  ‘I heard about it.’ Holly was filling the teapot, splashing some of the boiling water because her hand was shaking.

  ‘Bad show, that.’ Nick shook his head. ‘But we don’t know any details, they’re not telling us a lot. Anyway, the old man wants to get this job finished as soon as possible. There’s a fellow over at Cemmes screaming out to have his well started. I’ll fix the pump and make sure everything’s working. Then you’ll be rid of us for a bit.’

  ‘For a bit!’

  ‘Well, we can’t cement the liner in and remove the waste pipe until you’ve had your water passed pure, can we?’ Nick sipped his tea. ‘Who knows, we might have to fetch the lot up again if this doesn’t do the trick!’

  ‘Mike’s gone to London for a couple of days.’ Now why am I telling that to the plumber? she wondered. Because I don’t want to be left here alone with that awful man.

  ‘I’ll be around.’ Maybe Nick Paton sensed what had happened, ‘I want to try and get my part of it finished tonight, if possible. You don’t mind if I work late, do you?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ Holly felt weak with relief and sat down.

  ‘One thing, that stink’s gone,’ the plumber said. ‘Not a niff out there. It must’ve been the surface pollution, and now it’s all drained away. That’s a relief.’

  ‘A big relief,’ Holly sighed, and tried to push the memory of those revolting sores on Jim Fitzpatrick’s mouth out of her mind.

  She told herself that they were probably only enlarged mouth ulcers. She was letting her imagination run riot.

  8

  Nick was still working up in the loft. Holly could hear him using the electric drill from time to time. Then he went back outside and was doing something with the pump until almost dark, when he went back to the attic. She heard a gurgling of water. It was running freely somewhere, and it sounded as if the header tank might be filling. Under normal circumstances she would have been euphoric at the thought of having water again, but things were far from normal. The water had come from down there; she shuddered – where that foul smell came from. Anyway, it wouldn’t be drin
kable, at least not until Bill Kemp had called and given it the all clear. Even then, she wondered if she could bring herself to touch it.

  She had spent the evening in the lounge, stripping the other wall. The furling paper came off easily, a sure sign of rising damp, but the wall underneath it was nowhere near as bad as the end one. She thought she might even be able to put a new roll of wallpaper straight on it.

  She had gone off the idea of cementing the other wall. In all probability she would make a terrible hash of it, anyway. There was a roll of wallpaper under the bed upstairs, awaiting this job when eventually she got round to it. Tired as she was, the time seemed appropriate. She would not sleep tonight, that was a certainty, and she decided it was better to do something than lie awake letting her imagination run riot.

  ‘That’s it, then.’

  The door opened, making her jump. A moment of fear, and then relief as she saw Nick’s now familiar sheepish grin. ‘All finished. You’re plumbed in. Just turn on the taps and you’ll have as much water as you’re ever likely to need.’

  ‘Except that it’s contaminated.’

  ‘True, but you can wash clothes in it. Or bath in it.’

  ‘Ugh!’ She was thinking of the stench, Tommy Eaton’s unfortunate fate, his girlfriend’s murder. All related, she felt sure. The water would leave its vile smell on her body, a terrible reminder of recent happenings.

  ‘There’s no smell now,’ he assured her. ‘In fact, if I didn’t know about the failed test I’d probably drink it quite happily.’

  ‘I think we’ll wait until the water inspector’s tested it again,’ she smiled.

  ‘Doing some decorating?’ He moved into the room; he did not seem to be in any hurry to go home. ‘That wall’s in a right mess. Whoever plastered that in the first place wants shooting.’