The Devil's Blue Eyes

by Chris Sanders

  “I’m guessing he looks after you?” Luke asked.

  Zipping up his fly, Marshall walked back to the jeep. He lit up another cigarette and stood himself directly before Luke. The cigarette’s burning ash lit up Marshall’s craggy face in a dim yellow. For the first time since they’d met, Luke could see his features clearly. His face was thin, bony and covered in short, grey whiskers. When he spoke the left side of his lip would raise itself a fraction higher than the right. His teeth were mostly yellow and rotten. One of his front teeth was completely missing. His eyes were dark and deep set into his skull. His breath smelt of old tobacco and whisky. His fingers shook somewhat too as he held the cigarette close to his thin lips.

  “Let me tell you something,” he began, taking a drag on the cigarette and blowing the result into Luke’s face. “Chatterton looks after me. You’re correct. He bought me a cottage and gave me work. If I need a woman he sends one for me. If I need someone talking too he’ll arrange for people to talk to them. If I need a holiday he’ll arrange a flight and accommodation. No questions asked. If I need cash, it’s mine. If I need anything at all and he can arrange it, he’ll do it.”

  “It sounds like you landed on your feet. Congratulations.”

  “Taking that bullet was the best move I ever made.”

  “You’re on to a good thing Marshall. A lot of guys would kill to be in your position.”

  Marshall grinned.

  “I couldn’t have put it better myself…”

  “So? Is that it? Is that why we stopped? You wanted to share that story?”

  Marshall paused. He took a final drag on the cigarette, spat it into the ground and then rubbed it into the soil.

  “Before I met Lord Chatterton I had nothing. I would have ended up in a hostel with no job and no hope. Chatterton handed me a life. I want you to know I’m the sort of man who will do anything to make sure things stay the way they are. Do you understand me?”

  “I understand.”

  “Good.”

  Marshall walked back to the jeep and climbed into the driving seat. He slammed the door closed and started the ignition.

  “You can see the cottage from here. You’ll find the key under one of the stone flower pots. I can’t remember which. Oh, and be more careful this time when you’re crossing the fields. Try not to fall over…” he finished with a smile.

  “Sure. Thanks for the lift,” Luke whispered more to himself, standing back as Marshall reversed the jeep away from the coppice. He then stood and watched as the jeep quickly vanished into the field’s gloom, its backlights decreasing into nothing more than tiny orange dots. Luke flipped his collar up against the cold and studied the cottage again. If he were to walk quickly he could reach the front door in under half an hour. There were no hedgerows to navigate this time, just a field with an occasional mound. Stuffing both hands into his pockets, he set off at a brisk pace. The clouds overhead were heavy masking the evening sky. Consequently, there was no moon to help illuminate his way but only a sprinkling of stars. He slowed his pace once he’d reached the field not wanting to repeat the previous week’s accident. Once or twice he would stop and survey his new surroundings. The fields fell away in every direction, the occasional coppice of woodland punctuating this flat landscape. Thunderclouds continued to gather overhead. Halfway into his journey and the first drop of rain struck the back of his neck. A flash of lightning then erupted illuminating the clouds in rapid succession, quickly followed by the heavy rumble of approaching thunder. Luke dispensed with his earlier caution and began to jog. Quite soon, the fields were drowned in heavy rain. Out of breath and soaking wet, he fell against the cottage door five minutes later. There were hail stones now. Some were as big as small rocks smashing against the cottage roof as Luke kicked over the stone flower pots. There was no key. He cursed Marshall. He flipped over the cottage door mat only to find a family of woodlice scurrying for cover. A bolt of lightning erupted again, this time so close he could smell its burning presence. He turned to find one of the distant coppices ablaze, a trail of smoke still visible in the air above the tress where the lightning bolt had struck. Panicked, Luke picked up a nearby rock and smashed the kitchen window. Carefully, wrapping his jacket about his hand, he brushed away the broken glass and pulled the window open. Using one of the stone flower pots as some sort of balance, he then hauled himself into the cottage kitchen. He fell unceremoniously onto the kitchen’s hard, tiled floor. His ankle, the same ankle as before, twisted and a sudden, violent shot of pain careered through his entire leg.

  “Christ!” he yelled grabbing his leg and curling instinctively up into a tight ball across the floor. “Damn it!”

  The rain was falling heavier than ever outside now. The broken window flapped and then cracked itself against the cottage’s stone frames. Using the kitchen table as leverage, Luke forced himself to stand. He managed to close the broken window and then collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs. Exhausted and in discomfort, he remained in the chair for over twenty minutes. Only when the rain began to subside did he muster enough willpower to stand once more. The pain in his ankle had lessened somewhat. He stood before the kitchen window and peered out into the fields. The tree which had been struck by lightning was still ablaze. The earlier hailstone had stopped replaced by heavy rain which continued to lash against the cottage and splash into the kitchen through the open window. Luke picked up one of the chairs and smashed it across the tiled floor. The legs shattered leaving him with just the seat. He took the seat and placed it carefully against the window’s broken glass simultaneously covering the broken glass and preventing the rain from entering. He then collapsed back into the remaining chair.

  The hours passed. He fell asleep in the kitchen, his head resting against the kitchen table. He would have stayed asleep until morning except for a strong gust of wind which had blown the chair seat from the window and sent it crashing to the kitchen floor. Luke had awakened startled. He found the chair seat still vibrating against the kitchen tiles where it had landed. The rain outside had now stopped and only the strong winds of the earlier storm remained. Once again, he walked over to the broken window. The fields were bathed in faint silver. The tree which had been ablaze was now nothing more than a black stump in the far distance, a thin trail of smoke drifting up into the night’s sky as it sat simmering away. There were no animals to be seen either. There were no rabbits or foxes scavenging. There was only the occasional sound of a bird chirping. It was too quiet. It made Luke feel very uneasy. He had the feeling he was being spied upon and imagined Marshall sitting in his jeep with a pair of binoculars watching him from behind one of the coppices. He looked to the trees now trying to make out the shape of a man or a jeep from between their branches. But there was nothing to see. The trees continued to bend under the force of the wind. Marshall and jeep were nowhere to be seen. Luke picked up the chair seat and placed it across the broken window for a second time. If it fell again he’d leave it. The storm was coming to end and he was craving sleep. It was time to explore the cottage and locate a bed for the night. With this in mind, Luke stumbled out the kitchen.

  The cottage had two bedrooms. He’d found one on the first floor. It was small and narrow and had been built onto the lounge as if it had been some kind of last minute afterthought. The ceiling was very low and Luke had to crouch as he’d entered. There were patches of thick damp in every corner and the carpet had been worn down so much there were now more holes than patterns to be counted. The bed was just as tiny. One of its legs had broken in half, so it sat lopsided against the far wall. Hoping to find better accommodation, Luke had decided to explore the upstairs rooms.

  There were three rooms on the second floor. Luke had found a bathroom, a second bedroom and what looked like a study of some kind. It was difficult to tell. This third room was smaller than the ground floor bedroom. There was no bed to speak of but only wooden desk and chair. The second bedroom was large. A double bed covered almost its entire width. The ceiling
was high and there was even a washbasin in one of the corners. Luke fell across its soft mattress and groaned in mock pleasure. He lay sprawled in the bed for over an hour drifting in and out of sleep. The cold was keeping him awake. He was about to undress and climb under the covers when a noise, a yell from outside, suddenly broke the evening silence. He walked to the bedroom window and peered outside. Could it have been a fox? The foxes which roamed South London were known to scream. It was a horrible sound, almost like a screaming baby. Luke had often been woken in the middle of the night by a screeching fox. They were common in Gypsy Hill often seen ransacking the neighbourhood bins for scraps.

  He pushed open the bedroom window. A cold blast of night air struck him. Once again, he studied the fields. Although the storm had stopped, a thin drizzle of rain remained. The trees now appeared almost motionless. He began to study them, one by one, looking for any sign of a rogue fox. There was nothing. He was preparing to crawl back into bed and finally sleep when the sound was heard again. Someone screamed. Luke was certain this time. It was no fox or any other kind of animal for that matter. It had been a human cry for help. It came from nearby, certainly closer than he’d first thought. He returned to the window this time pulling it wide open and almost sticking his entire body out. To his far left, perhaps one hundred metres from the cottage, Luke discovered a mound of some kind. He could see that a large slab of rock, one side of which rose skyward so that it resembled a sinking ship, sat wedged into this grassy mound. The rain pattered against its jagged surface. Again, he heard the scream. This time, as he looked closer, Luke could see movement. He could see two figures loitering just beyond the mound and beneath the slab of a giant rock. They appeared to be wrestling, the larger man having grabbed his prey and flung him to the ground. The yells continued. Luke slammed the window shut and raced out the bedroom. Once outside the cottage, he grabbed a sizable rock and headed straight for the mound. The rain had turned everything to mud and on more than one occasion he had to be careful not to slip.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Let the boy go!” Luke ordered. He was now standing on top of the rock. Below him, a large gentleman was grappling with a small boy. The boy looked no older than twelve. A second man was standing watching them. The boy was putting up a good struggle and had so far resisted all attempts to be floored.

  “I said let the boy go!” Luke continued, this time louder and with more conviction.

  The first gentleman, far taller and a good ten years younger than his friend, was too busy wrestling with the boy to hear Luke’s demand.

  “Let him go I said!”

  “Who on Earth are you?” the shorter of the two men spoke. “Stay out of our business!”

  Luke leapt from the rock. He then walked over to the first gentleman and tapped him firmly on the shoulder. At once, the second gentleman spun around letting go of the boy as he did. The man stood well over six foot and looked a lot tougher than his friend.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Is that all you boys can say?”

  The child, at last free from his captor, collapsed exhausted into the mud. From his pocket the first gentleman whipped out a black wallet. Opening it, he then flashed its contents towards Luke.

  “My name is Sergeant Drake. And you can put that bloody stone down for a start, man!”

  Luke hesitated refusing to drop the stone.

  “Take it easy Paul. He was only looking out for the child,” the shorter man now spoke, walking over to his partner. He looked a little older than sixty and was not much taller than the child. Luke noticed that his left eye appeared to twitch too whenever he spoke, an involuntary movement which had perhaps afflicted him his entire life.

  “Who are you?” Drake continued, stuffing the badge back into his trouser pocket.

  “My name’s Luke McGowan. I’m staying at the Rose Cottage. I heard the kid screaming and found you ruffing the poor sod up. What was I supposed to think?”

  “He’s from the orphanage you bloody fool! He’s a runaway! Mr Simmonds and I were trying to take him back.”

  Luke let the stone fall into the mud. Mr Simmonds then approached him while Drake walked over to the boy. The earlier wrestling had knocked all the energy out from the kid and now he sat deflated and defeated against one of the surrounding rocks.

  “My name is Alexander Simmonds. I run the orphanage in Chatterton Village.” Mr Simmonds held out his hand to Luke. Luke returned the gesture and both men shook.

  “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding Mr Simmonds.”

  “Don’t apologise. Please. I can see things from your point of view. We were simply trying to take the boy back to the home. He has nowhere else to go. He wouldn’t survive out here for long. Not in this weather.”

  Luke nodded.

  “Of course. I don’t think anyone could.”

  “Go and open the car door, Alexander. We have to get him out of this rain!” Drake now spoke. He’d already put the kid over his shoulder and was making his way towards a group of rocks. Behind the rocks Luke could see the headlamps of a small car. Alexander did as he was asked quickly scurrying past Drake and the boy. Luke followed both men to the car.

  “Make sure the bloody door is locked this time, Alexander,” Drake complained once the kid was safely inside the back of his car. “I don’t want him running loose again. Not in this bloody weather at least!”

  “Right you are Paul. Right you are,” Alexander replied jumping at once into the back seat of the car to check that all the latches were locked. They were and in seconds Alexander was standing outside once more next to Drake. It was obvious to anyone who observed the pair that Drake had some kind of a strange hold over Mr Simmonds. Luke could see it clearly and wondered what it could be.

  “You have a London accent, McGowan. What part?” Drake asked leaning against the car door and lighting up a cigarette. “I don’t like London much. Too many bloody foreigners. Give me the countryside any day of the week.”

  “South London.”

  “Ah, where the magic happens!” Drake quipped.

  “That’s what they say.”

  “So, what brings you all the way up here to Chatterton? Can’t be much to do for a Londoner up here?”

  “Visiting friends.”

  “Visiting friends, eh? Would Lord Chatterton be one of those friends? Rose Cottage belongs to him. He doesn’t usually allow strangers to stay in his property.”

  “You could say he was a friend of a friend.”

  “Fair enough. Not my business. Just keep your head down while you’re here and I’m sure there’ll be no bother.”

  “Well, I wasn’t planning on any.”

  “I’ve been the local police sergeant for ten years now. We get the odd break in during the year. The occasional fight breaks out in one of the local pubs. But apart from that Chatterton is a small village. Very quiet and respectful. I’d quite like to keep it that way too.”

  “You seem to get the odd runaway too,” Luke went on glancing through the car’s back window. The boy sat huddled in the far corner of the seat, the hood of his raincoat pulled down across his face, his legs pulled up into his chest, his tiny hands wrapped about his knees. Drake smiled. He then said, “Dylan is a good kid. He’s just a bit wild. Both his parents passed away last year. Poor fellow.”

  “It isn’t the first time he’s tried to run away, of course,” Alexander now butted in. “He’ll be well looked after once he’s back home. I look after all our boys and girls,” he finished glancing at Drake for approval. Drake threw his cigarette into the mud and then stomped it out with the heel of his boot.

  “Well, we must be on our way now, McGowan. You should get yourself home too. It’s not the sort of weather to be hanging around in. We had a rambler last Christmas who froze to death in these parts. The silly bugger.”

  “Perhaps I could come and see you tomorrow, Sergeant Drake. Maybe pay a visit to the home too? I’d like to see if the boy is okay.”

  Drake was already i
n the driver’s seat.

  “That won’t be necessary. The boy will be taken care of. Isn’t that right, Alexander?”

  “Oh yes, he’ll be fine. Just dandy,” Mr Simmonds replied having climbed into the passenger side seat. Luke didn’t buy what Alexander was telling him. There was something in his voice which didn’t quite convince him. Placing both hands onto the car’s roof and then pressing his face up against the car’s front window, Luke said, “Well, if it’s all the same with you boys, I’d quite like to pop by one day. A surprise visit if you like. We could have tea and biscuits.”

  Mr Simmonds turned to look at Drake.

  “You do as you want. Just keep your nose out of trouble and I’m sure you’ll have a pleasant stay at the village,” Drake replied, winding up the window and then igniting the car’s engine. Luke stepped back as the car then sped away. He’d pay the orphanage and Drake a visit tomorrow.

  The drizzle had almost stopped as Luke walked back to the cottage. Once inside, he loitered in the kitchen for several minutes. He found the seat had fallen from the broken window once again. Already there was a large pool of rainwater in the middle of the kitchen. He was too tired to do anything about it and instead made his way slowly to the top floor bedroom.

  Something was wrong. The door to the bathroom was now closed and he was certain he’d left it open. Carefully, almost at a tip toe, he crept towards the bathroom door. For a few seconds, his ear pressed against its wood, he listened. There was no sound coming from within. He pushed open the door and stepped inside. Empty. The bathroom looked the same as he’d left it earlier and he began to wonder if he had in fact imagined everything. He was turning to leave, too tired to care anymore, when something downstairs smashed. He froze. It had been the sound of glass smashing against the tiles. Perhaps the wind had knocked a glass cup from its shelf? He waited listening intently. He waited for perhaps three minutes and when, having become increasingly impatient that there was no repeat breakage, he walked calmly down the staircase and into the kitchen.