The River Dark

by Nicholas Bennett

  Why?

  It occurred to Susan that half of her life had elapsed between her two longest periods of independence.

  Fear? Habit? Was she that old fashioned to still carry with her the notion that a woman must have a man? In the days since she had filed for divorce she had tried to remember what it had been like to love Eric; she had tried to recapture the essence of her twenty-four year old self but she had found herself unable to reconcile that young woman with the forty-four year old woman that stared back at her from the mirror. Do people really change that much? Yes, they do. The mirror documented those changes with a coldly accurate eye.

  Perhaps she had always felt compromised. That was a thought that scared her. Along with the bizarre phenomenon of spending a lifetime with someone and then simply (if only it were!) cutting ties, Susan had spent hours obsessing over that one terrible idea: had she ever loved Eric really? Or had she been living a lie for twenty years. It was safe to say that this was true of the last few years when things had deteriorated further but how far back did it really go? She remembered her paternal grandparents; married all of their adult lives and, as far as she could remember, had never even liked each other.

  It happened.

  If she had indeed lived in a way that was so untrue to her self, it didn't bear thinking about. How weak did that make her? She knew that she wasn't alone in this; how many times had she heard friends berating their ex-husbands and wives with such ardent vigour? The vitriol was a result of years of animosity with the added factor of infidelity to boot? People don't only feel that way at the end.

  She sipped her chamomile tea and read the situations vacant section. She had worked part-time for years but now she wanted to get back fulltime. Nothing doing. She flipped to the back page and looked at the crossword before skimming the mindlessly pointless Dee-Dee cartoon strip at the foot of the page. As she always did when she looked at cartoon strips, she found herself thinking about her nephew, David. Now he was good.

  She picked up her tea and headed towards the bedroom.

  The figure in the doorway shifted slightly.

  She dropped the cup on the floor. It smashed, splashing ceramic shards and hot water onto her bare ankles.

  Eric Callaghan leaned against the doorjamb and smiled at her.

  Susan's heartbeat quickened rapidly enough so that she felt the world tilt temporarily as though she would faint. Her mouth moved to tell him to get out but she made no sounds. She noticed the sticky red substance on his right forearm and the half-full bottle of Jack Daniels dangling from his left hand. His mouth was a spittle shined leer. He held up the bottle and arched his eyebrows.

  "Thought we might have a little drink?" He whispered conspiratorially, like he had recently been let in on a secret. "You like a bit of Jack don't you, eh?"

  He held the bottle in his left and made an obscene hand gesture on its neck, that repulsive, suggestive smirk remaining. "Eh? You do don't you?"

  He moved towards her. "Like a bit of Jack. Eh?"

  8

  Craig Phillips made his way to the garage at the foot of his back yard. There was a weather beaten, paint splintered door that gave him access to the garage; the retractable door that faced the road was never used.

  Never.

  Despite the superficial damage to the door, it was heavy and secure. First he unlocked the chub, then the double locked barrel and finally the deadbolts at the top and foot of the door. As was his habit he glanced over his shoulder before opening the door.

  All clear. Phillips ducked inside. He confidently picked his way across to the other side of the garage and turned on the overhead strip lights. He turned back to lock the door behind him and saw a tall man with shoulder length black hair, thinning on top, stepping through the door. He carried a large wrench in his right hand. Phillips' initial shock gave way to a sense of familiarity- Tom somebody from school- and then anger.

  "What the fuck are you doing in here?" He looked around for something to use as a weapon. All of his tools were carefully locked away.

  "No, you sick cunt. What the fuck have you been doing in here?" Phillips flinched at the words and reflexively looked around the interior of his garage. There was nothing to see. He had always been careful. He took a step towards the intruder and stopped, noticing the way Tom Somebody tightened his grip on the wrench. The man's eyes were cold, devoid of adrenalin unlike himself. He felt himself shaking with- what? – anxiety? Fear?

  "You're trespassing," he said, disliking the wavering tone of his own voice. "I'll call the police."

  The other man smiled and shrugged. "Go on then." He held out his arms expansively and looked at the row of lockers to his left. "I'm sure they'll be very interested in what they'd find in there." Tom Somebody's eyes lingered on the ex-factory lockers for a moment. That was all Phillips needed. He` lunged across the eight feet between them in two steps, his hands reaching for the other man's throat. Momentary panic flashed across Saunders' (that was it, Saunders) face before he recovered in time to bring the wrench up in an arc. It caught Phillips on the side of his neck sending a lightning bolt of pain into his right aural cavity. The impetus carried him beyond the other man and into the lockers, hard enough to leave deep dents in two of the doors. He turned to his assailant in time to see the wrench sweep down towards his lower face. There was brief pain in his skull and then blackness.

  Tom looked down at the unconscious form at his feet. He had never been a violent man but felt only cold satisfaction at the blood that had begun to ooze from Phillips' mouth. He saw broken teeth fragments in the blood.

  Keys.

  Phillips had a bunch of keys hooked through a belt loop on his hip. Tom bent down and unhooked them. He studied the collection of keys in his palm and shuddered at their oily stench. The smaller keys would open the lockers. He looked at the locker doors again. In places the faded outline of factory graffiti was still visible. Johnny Loves Jazz but hates working here. AVFC are the best. Sid woz ere. He stopped at the third locker along. Some deeply disturbed fucker. Stick it in your eye, stick it in your eye, stick it in your eye over and over again. He stared at the words for over a minute trying to imagine what would have inspired such a rant. Could cold monotony do that? Some poor bastard stuck in some shithole factory on a nightshift. He shook his head and sorted through the keys. The numbers taped into the keys corresponded with the locker numbers. He found the key marked "1" and went to the locker marked "1". He put the key in the lock and turned pausing briefly before pulling the door open.

  He took a deep breath and looked inside locker #1.

  The lockers were macabre trophy cabinets. Feline tails hung in bushy bunches from the coat hooks while sharp toothed skulls lined the shelves. Within several, Phillips' instruments of torture were neatly piled in fruit boxes. Cleavers, cutthroat razors, pliers, cheese wire. A bloody chain bore testimony to the time Phillips had chained a tortoise shell female to the bumper of his car before a nighttime drive through the deserted Cornhill estate.

  Then there were the bottles of acid.

  9

  Susan awoke from the nightmare with a vicious headache. The side of her face felt like it was on fire. She opened her eyes a crack and closed them against the harshness of the light. The main light was on, glaring down at her from the bedroom ceiling. She tried to move but found that she could not. She snapped fully awake then.

  Eric Callaghan looked down on her and smiled.

  She realized then that she was tied to the bed; her wrists and ankles painfully wrapped and twined to the bedposts.

  She was naked. A stark X against her white sheet.

  It had not been a nightmare. Eric had broken in, he had beaten her and she was tied to her bed.

  "Now that you're awake," he soothed. "It's time for a drink."

  "Eric-" she pleaded. "Think about what you're doing. Please!"

  She was exposed, helpless. She began to cry.

  "Oh don't worry. I know I'm not him but I'm sure you'll enjoy it just
the same." She saw his fixed eyes. It was as though he was in a trance.

  "What do you mean? There isn't anyone else," she sobbed. "Please. Untie me and we'll talk." She could taste her own coppery blood in her mouth and remembered his fists raining down on her face before losing consciousness.

  He thrust his face into hers and screamed at her. "I know! I know all about it you fucking slag! All those fucking years of-" His voice rose in a parody of femininity. "-not tonight Eric. I'm not in the mood Eric. Not that Eric please. I don't like it!" He slapped her face on each stressed word making her ears ring. "And there you are with him letting him do anything to you!"

  "Who?" Susan pleaded.

  "Black, you bitch!" Eric screamed into her face.

  "I didn't. I-"

  "Shut up, you bitch." He was calm again. She looked up at him and watched him unscrew the bottle cap. "You're going to have a little drink and then we'll play."

  He hasn't been drinking she thought. When he had screamed in her face she had expected the usual blast of stale alcohol but there had been none. He was sober.

  "Eric," she tried to sound calm and reasonable. "Perhaps you need a drink. You're not well. Have a-" Callaghan threw back his head and laughed.

  "Well, well," he said. "I never thought I'd hear that from you."

  He grabbed Susan's jaw and forced the bottle between her lips. She gagged as the first fiery mouthful of alcohol hit the back of her throat.

  "You drank for him, you'll drink for me," he snarled and poured some more.

  10

  John-o parked in Tom's old man's drive and headed towards the workshop. It was in darkness so he was unsurprised to find the door locked. Back in the car, he lit a cigarette and thought.

  Stupid.

  He had driven the remainder of the journey too fast, his mind fixed upon finding his friend to ease the growing sense of disquiet within his gut. More paranoia? He didn't think so. Whatever that Harlequin thing had been there was no denying the link between the incident with the deer and his friend. He had always been persuaded by the weird and wonderful so he found the signs impossible to dismiss. Joss the poacher –or whatever he had been- had focused his superstitious nature and even if he did wake up tomorrow morning feeling stupid, he had to follow his instincts. He was clear headed now, despite the beers and dope that he had consumed during the day. Thoughts of his row with Jennifer and his unsuccessful attempt to get it on with her room mate were long gone. He had to see Tom. He had to know that everything was alright.

  But fuck it. He wasn't here.

  He sighed and turned on the engine. He reversed onto the quiet B road and headed into town. He would try Tom's place and then go home.

  The town was quiet. His beams lit up the occasional lone figure heading homewards but there was no traffic on the roads. On an impulse he turned onto Cornhill Road; the woman Tom had been seeing- Jackie- lived on the Cornhill estate. He wasn't sure where exactly but decided to cruise around the estate hoping to see Tom's motorbike. He drove along the road that ran parallel to the river; at the curve he saw a motorbike parked in the shadows beneath the trees by Powells' Glass. He parked alongside and got out.

  Strange place to park, there's nothing here, he thought. Tom didn't know anyone in the terraced houses opposite- what else was there? A little further along and the pavement opened out onto the dark wasteland that led to the river. Tom wouldn't be down there. He went back to the car and drove up to the mouth of the waste ground. He put his lights on high beam and got out. Nothing but the shadows and shapes of heaps of rubbish and abandoned household appliances. Why would Tom be down there?

  He’d almost made up his mind to walk down onto the dump when he sensed a movement to his right. He started and looked that way. He saw the fleeting figure of a boy crossing the road out of the darkness and into the streetlights. He followed the boy's progress to the other side. The boy stopped and turned towards him. Given the distance and the fact that the boy was half in darkness, he could not make out his face. The boy beckoned to him.

  "What is it?" John-o called. “What do you want?” He started towards the boy, across the road. The boy ran in to the shadows of the terrace and around the corner.

  "What a fucking night," John-o muttered and jogged around the corner. Sure enough the boy was waiting two streetlights ahead.

  "What do you want?" he called again. The boy only watched him from the shadows. He seemed to be waiting. "I'm looking for my friend. He-"

  At that, the boy turned and trotted further along the road.

  It had been a strange fucking night that was for sure. John-o resolved to follow the boy and jogged after him. The boy did not look back. John-o listened to the sound of his boot heels echoing back down the road and onto the wasteland along with the sound of his already laboured breathing. Cut out the fags, he thought and on the heels of that what the fuck am I doing?

  The boy crossed the road onto

  Shinehill Lane. From thirty metres behind, John-o noticed the fact that the boy was wearing Wellington boots. He crossed the road and headed onto Shinehill Lane his eyes fixed on the fleet figure ahead. The only sound was the scuff and clack of his boots on the broken tarmac. That was when he realized that the boy's feet had made no sound as he ran. John-o increased his pace to catch the boy but there was no need.

  The boy had stopped at a gate leading into one of the terraced two-up, two-downs. Probably where he lives, John-o thought and slowed to a walk, blowing for breath. Again the boy waited until John-o came to within twenty metres. Then he went into the garden. John-o arrived at the gate in time to see the boy go into the house.

  There were no lights on within but in the moonlight, he could see that the front door had been left open.

  Imagining the beating from some Cornhill thug that was to follow, John-o walked through the gateway and along the short path to the door. He knocked nervously. "Hello." He peered in to the dark hallway and found that he could look straight through the house to the back window, the light from the shed at the bottom of the garden giving enough visibility to see the simple furniture.

  It didn't smell great. Fried food and mustiness. And something else. The boy's figure formed a silhouette against the far window, causing his heart to thud.

  "Jesus Christ, kid!" The figure disappeared into the shadows again before reappearing on the other side of the window in the back garden. The boy pointed towards the building at the foot of the garden.

  As though in a dream in which he had no control over his actions, John-o stepped into the house.

  11

  Susan vomited onto her shoulder, her eyes streaming, her throat on fire. She gagged again, dry heaving, the taste of vomit mingling with the sour taste of her own blood. Her blurred vision followed Callaghan's progress to the foot of the bed. He rested the empty bottle on the mattress and began to undress.

  He muttered unintelligibly to himself as he did so.

  "Eric," she sobbed. "Please don't."

  She squeezed her eyes closed begging whatever God there was for unconsciousness. She felt the weight of the mattress shift as he crawled in between her legs.

  "Look at me," he panted. "Look at me!"

  She looked at him through swollen eyes. His bloated body above hers, his penis hanging limply below his gut. He held the bottle in front of her face and nodded slowly. His fingers clenched against the bottleneck and for a fleeting moment she was sure that he would use it to bludgeon her to death.

  He brought the bottle down on the edge of her bedside table, spraying a cocktail of glass shards and spirit over the side of her face. She screamed instinctively, more at the shock than in pain. She saw that spittle ran freely over his beard, onto his chest and that whatever her husband had been, all of those years ago when the world had been a younger place, had been replaced by this bloated, grinning monster

  He reached down in between her legs and thrust two fingers into her vagina. She cried out at the further indignity. She shook her head at him imploringl
y. "Please Eric. You don't know what you're doing!" He moved the broken bottle between her legs. She felt its cold hardness rest her and realized what he was going to do.

  12

  Phillips' first thought was that he had the mother and father of all hangovers. Vicious pain pulsed through his skull. His second thought was that he must have been so pissed that he had actually pissed himself. He was uncomfortably wet from the crotch to the chest. He must have been so pissed that he'd collapsed on the forecourt of the twenty-four hour service station and pissed himself. Hence the hard concrete surface beneath him, the harsh strip lighting trying to penetrate his closed eyelids and the cloying stench of petrol.