MOUSE (a psychological thriller and murder-mystery)

by D. M. Mitchell

  What he had been able to afford was his bicycle. A brand new Carlton Criterium in polychromatic bronze with lightweight five-speed derailleur. He could be at the Empire in under ten minutes, and in the absence of any other transport – no car and the buses were so infrequent they were a local joke – it meant his small world could at least be extended a little wider, limited only by the strength in his legs and the hours in a day.

  It was this shining bicycle that he rode through the streets of Langbridge. Today was Saturday, market day in the town. The June sunshine was beating down on the sweltering shoppers, eager to grab their groceries and cheap tat from the market stalls before magically disappearing around one o’clock, when the town centre would fall almost empty again.

  Vince breathed deep the warm summer air, the tang of oranges and lemons and the earthy smell of potatoes still caked in dirt wafting over from the fruit and veg stall. He loved this time of year; people swanning around in T-shirts, girls in light summer dresses, transistor radios playing in the streets. Made him feel like he’d like to stay on his Carlton and keep on riding, just take the road that led out of town and see where he ended up.

  He leapt off his bike before the twin gates that led into the Empire’s rear yard. It was his job to unfasten them and pin them back every morning, and to close them again at night after everyone had left. He was fastening his bicycle with a chain underneath a ramshackle corrugated shelter as Mr Caldwell drove into the yard in his MGB GT. He let the engine growl a second or two and then the yard fell silent, the fumes coming over to Vince thick and strong.

  Martin Caldwell was a little younger than Vince, if only by a year or so, he thought. But he appeared far more worldly wise. He was tall and lean, almost too tall for his MG; his hair was long but expensively cut, feathered in beautifully and held in place by vast amounts of Falcon hairspray for men; he wore a wide-lapelled chocolate-brown suit, even though he didn’t need to wear a suit, with a matching brown kipper tie; his shirt was cream with tiny daisies on it. Though fashions had changed and it was now OK for men to wear flowers – and even the colour pink – Vince could never see himself being brave enough to don daisies, ever. Caldwell’s platform Chelsea boots click-clicked over to where Vince was just finishing off fastening the padlock on his bike lock.

  ‘Morning, Vince,’ he said. He smiled briefly, only to be polite. ‘How are you?’

  Though Vince replied that he was fine he could tell his manager wasn’t interested whether he was fine or not. He’d already walked off in front to the back door, fumbling with a hefty bunch of keys. Vince could smell Aramis aftershave, lots of it. He went through a number of keys before shrugging and letting Vince open the door for him.

  ‘Thanks, Vince. Why are there so many damn keys?’ he said, thumping open the door.

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Caldwell,’ he said.

  ‘We need to rationalise,’ he said. ‘Get them down to three or four. There must be twenty keys here, all told. Is there really any need for that many different locks?’

  Manager and Chief Projectionist didn’t share another word, Vince leaving Caldwell to nip into his office and close the door, whilst he went up to the projection booth. The twin projectors stood like two massive hounds waiting silently and obediently for their master’s return. Furniture was sparse. The long wooden table that took up most of the centre of the room had on it a device for rewinding film and a splicer, and little else except for a bottle of black blooping ink for putting changeover dots onto the film, and a small reel of tape beside the splicer. There was a hard wooden chair and a coat stand. That was it.

  The room was always cold and dark, even in summer. There were no windows except for two small viewing panes, one beside each projector, and the glass panels through which the projector beams entered the auditorium. There used to be a selection of old film posters on the walls to help lighten things up, make it feel less like a mausoleum, but Caldwell had ordered him to take them down. All that was pinned on there now were a sign banning smoking and a yellow health and safety poster filled with a veritable desert of dry text that no one ever read.

  Vince went through the morning ritual of working through the jobs on his list, wandering through the building, keeping the old girl ticking over as he liked to call it. Then he prepared for the Saturday matinee. A couple of shorts and a feature for the kids. Today it was an episode of Buck Rogers and another called Rocket Man – ancient black and white things – followed by an old black and white cowboy film. The kids loved it, though. Martin Caldwell didn’t. He had to go out on stage before the films started and pretend to be the kids’ uncle, make jokes, which he positively loathed.

  ‘Fucking kids!’ he’d say. ‘I’m not a fucking clown so why do they make me behave like a fucking clown?’ And he’d stomp away to his office as soon as he could.

  Vince liked it though. The kids called him Uncle Vince and waved up to his window and he’d wave back. Then he’d have to go down to the auditorium afterwards with a plastic bag to clear up any crap left over because the cleaners didn’t have to work on a Saturday.

  But Vince was particularly excited today because there was a new evening feature being screened and he was hoping that the woman would come in to watch it. It was her type – a bit of romance, a bit of adventure. So he couldn’t wait until the afternoon and the time of the first screening. He was disconsolate when he scampered down from his booth to the auditorium only to find her seat on the back row empty.

  ‘Hello, I’ve not seen you before,’ said a shrill voice behind him.

  He turned to see a young slip of a girl with a square tray of ice cream and lollies strapped around her neck, ready for the interval. She was a pale-faced thing, her skin peppered lightly with acne.

  ‘Are you new?’ said Vince, avoiding eye contact. ‘Not seen you either.’

  ‘I finished school this summer. This is my first job,’ she said in a whisper. Acne aside, the dark made her look quite pretty, thought Vince. ‘It’s so exciting, isn’t it? Are you Vince, the projectionist? My name’s Edith,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I’m Vince,’ he said.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be projecting?’

  She unnerved him so he said that yes, he was, and dashed away to his booth. He peered down and saw the young woman. She looked up and waved energetically at him and he stepped back, out of view.

  Vince’s luck changed at the third and final screening of the day. She was there, sitting in the back row. He stood some distance away, lost in the dark near the exit, studying her, finding her more attractive every time he saw her, he thought. In his mind he was going over a variety of ways he might approach her, but they were all pretty frightening and each filled with disappointment and disaster. At least he could stand here in the dark safe in the knowledge he hadn’t been disappointed, the bubble of his dreams remaining intact and un-pricked. Better to be here with hope than talk to her and have that hope dashed. He couldn’t bear to live with the thought of rejection.

  Just before interval little Edith came up to him. ‘Hi again. It’s so exciting, isn’t it?’ Vince couldn’t quite make out what she found so exciting but she was definitely a live wire flushed through with it. ‘It’s a good film, isn’t it?’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said, annoyed that his attention had been diverted. These opportunities wouldn’t crop up that often and she was ruining it for him. He had to be back in his box soon.

  ‘Oh, look!’ she said, pointing a finger at the back row. ‘She’s here!’

  ‘Who’s here?’ Vince said.

  ‘Her – can’t you see? The woman over there, sat all by herself on the back row. You know, fuddy-duddy hairstyle.’

  He realised she was pointing at the object of his desires. ‘You know her?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes, don’t you? She’s the Witch of Devereux Towers.’

  ‘The witch?’ he repeated, frowning. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, not exactly a witch, I suppose,’ she said
with a giggle. ‘That’s what all the kids at school used to call her. She lives all alone in Devereux Towers, you know, that creepy old place in the middle of that field a few miles away.’

  ‘I know the place,’ he said. ‘I thought it was empty.’

  ‘It used to be. She’s been living there a couple of years now. Lives all alone, like I said. My mum says she’s a very strange one. Keeps herself to herself, doesn’t get involved with things, doesn’t like to talk to people. A regular little mouse, my mum says, hiding quietly away in the dark. The kids call her a witch because that’s what kids do. I’m not saying she’s got a cauldron or anything. Do you suppose she could be a witch?’

  He scowled. ‘Don’t be silly!’ he said. ‘Do you know her name?’

  ‘Laura Leach. All her family is dead. Some say she killed them and has them buried in the grounds of Devereux Towers, or walled them up or something. Cooked their hearts and ate them for breakfast. That’s what the kids say.’

  ‘Well that’s just stuff and nonsense,’ Vince defended. ‘She looks a very nice lady.’

  ‘Just saying, that’s all.’ She fell silent and then nudged him with her sharp point of an elbow. ‘Do you fancy her?’ she asked, a bright mischievous light in her eyes. ‘You do, don’t you? You fancy her like crazy!’

  ‘No I do not!’ he returned, a little too loudly because someone turned around and hissed at him to be quiet. ‘Stick to selling your ice creams, you silly girl!’ He stormed away up to the projection booth, his cheeks afire.

  He could hardly concentrate the rest of the evening.

  * * * *

  4

  Casper Younge

  Laura Leach rose quickly, before the end credits came up, before the lights in the cinema went on. She wanted to beat the crowds of people tearing for the exits. Not that there were often huge crowds; but it was particularly busy tonight, being a new feature. She didn’t like to be caught up in the crush, having bodies pressed against her, touching, brushing sleeves. Didn’t like the rush of excited noise, the energetic chatting as people descended the purple-carpeted stairs to the foyer animatedly dissecting the film they’d just seen.

  She could have remained behind till last, but then she’d have to sit there all alone in the revealing glare of the lights, a spectacle for people filing past. That was worse. So she was the first out of the heavy swing doors, down the stairs and through the foyer, past the now-closed ticket booth and kiosk. First out into the warm night air.

  It was around 10.30pm, had only been dark for half an hour or so. She had a coat on but didn’t need it really, not with it being so warm, but without it she felt a little bit naked, a tad vulnerable. She found her car parked some way off in a side street. A blue Hillman Imp that had cost her more to repair and keep on the road than it did to buy. She could easily afford something far grander, she knew that, but that sort of thing would only attract attention and that was the last thing she wanted. The Hillman suited her needs just fine, when it behaved itself. She learned to drive whilst still at boarding school at the age of 16. Pestered her father like crazy to pay for lessons. Privately she saw it as a way of being able to drive home whenever she wanted, but of course that wasn’t going to happen. She was too young to be careering around in motor cars, her father had told her. So she passed her test and had to wait a long time before she could get a car of her own. That was before she came into money. Now she didn’t have the heart to trade in the old Hillman. Besides, it was familiar, trusted, comforting, had a certain homely smell. She even found she talked to it, mainly to gently chastise the thing when it got all stubborn on her. How could she replace it with a complete stranger?

  Laura drove the few miles out of Langbridge to Devereux Towers. It took all of fifteen minutes. It was a straight road out, rarely busy. The Hillman’s suspension struggled with the ruts and potholes of the hard-baked track to the house. She had it in mind to pay to have tarmac put down, but that would mean having builders nearby for weeks on end and she didn’t feel at all comfortable with that.

  She pulled up outside the main door to Devereux Towers, a huge oak-panelled affair her father had salvaged from some church or other. It had masses of studded ironwork lacing its surface, great chunky hinges, bands of metal embracing it. The thing reminded her of a chastity belt, she thought grimly. How fitting.

  Once the car’s headlights were turned off the entire place was plunged into darkness. There were no streetlamps here, no lamp over the door – her father felt he didn’t want the faux medieval façade of Devereux Towers defaced by the modern world, and had even resisted the installation of a discreet letterbox in the wall by the door. Laura had to walk to the beginning of the track, where there was a post box on a pole, to retrieve letters.

  The ivy looked like the scales on a crouching dragon, she thought, drawn to glancing up at the high walls; the shining leaves rattled in the thin breeze, sounding as if it were a faraway crowd applauding her return. She went through into the hall and flicked on the light switch. With that one simple action the joyful escapism of the evening, the last sweet residue of the memory of the film sugaring her thoughts, were washed away. Devereux Towers had her in its claws once again, smothering her with its dark corners, cold marble and cold stone.

  She went into the kitchen, fixed herself something simple to nibble and then sat down in front of the TV. It was the biggest television she could find, an ITT 28-inch, and colour too. It brought a little of the cinema into her house, she felt. But all that was showing was Appointment with Fear – a re-run of Universal’s The Wolf Man – so she hurriedly turned it off. Even the music during the opening credits to Appointment with Fear disturbed her, and the images of all those horrible, scary faces melting into each other made her shudder. And that was even before the main film began.

  She turned everything off and went upstairs to get ready for bed. She still had her bedroom in the tower – Laura’s Tower – but not the same room her father had prepared for her. No, not that one. Though she paused briefly outside the blue-painted door to it. At her waist, fastened to the belt of her skirt, was a key. She was tempted to open the door, to go inside, but she turned away at the last minute, a tear in her eye, her chest beginning to tighten, her breath firing out in rapid bursts.

  No, not tonight. She could not go in there tonight. She could not face what was behind the blue door. She could not face her past.

  So she left it locked and made her way to her bedroom. It was large, spacious, the walls curved exactly like the walls of her childhood bedroom, and it had the same long-arched window; but of course it never felt the same. It never felt warm or comforting. It always felt cold and functional, as if she were but a temporary lodger there.

  She left the curtains open and got ready for bed, slipping beneath the covers. She listened to the ivy tinkling on the windowpane; the scrabbling of mice or something between the joists in the ceiling. She preferred the dark. She could get lost in the dark. Hide away, safe from curious eyes. No one could find her in the all-consuming blackness of the night.

  Monday was Laura’s shopping day. Most people chose Saturday, largely because that’s when people didn’t work and had the added benefit of the street market. But she didn’t have to work so she chose Monday. Langbridge was quieter then anyway. Not as many people in the street or in the shops. So she drove her little Hillman into town and parked in one of the two small car parks. Always the same space, if she could manage it, arriving around 8.30am to ensure she secured it. She popped into the butcher’s shop first.

  ‘Morning, Miss Leach,’ said the butcher. He seemed to come from the same mould as all butchers, thought Laura; large of frame, belly pushing at his white apron, pink-cheeked, looking smiling and happy even with a meat cleaver in his hand. He was hammering out lamp chops. ‘Usual, is it?’ He’d already wiped his bloodied hands on his stained apron, adjusted his straw hat and was piling brisket onto the weighing scales. ‘Lovely day,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, looki
ng away to avoid his pebble eyes. ‘Beautiful. Set to last, too.’

  ‘Too hot for me though,’ he admitted. I’ll be glad when it cools down.’ He popped the meat into a bag, hand automatically going to the sirloin. ‘I hear they’re planning on closing down the Empire,’ he said absently, making conversation.

  ‘Oh no!’ she said, horrified. ‘Where on earth did you hear that?’

  ‘Oh, here, there and everywhere. I can’t rightly remember now, as you ask. But it’s been on the cards a while, I reckon.’

  ‘Well they can’t do that!’ she said shrilly. ‘They just can’t!’

  He glanced uncertainly at her outburst as he rang up the till. ‘Not up to us now, is it? They can do as they please,’ he said with an air of finality, taking her money and handing back change. ‘Still, who needs them, cinemas? We’ve got telly now, haven’t we? And let’s face it, these days it’s all a load of American rubbish they’re showing. What’s happened to good old British films? Where are the Norman Wisdom films? Bring back the Ealing Comedies and all that.’

  ‘What? Ealing?’ she said vaguely. ‘I love America!’ she cried and he smiled awkwardly at her. ‘They are so – so colourful and positive!’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose they are, if you like that sort of thing.’

  Laura wasn’t really listening now. She went out of the butchers and into the newsagents, buying a Langbridge Gazette, the local paper, and hurriedly scanning the pages for news of the supposed closure. But she didn’t find one solitary article about the Empire. She was in a half-daze throughout the remainder of her shopping, feeling she wanted to burst into tears. How could they? Whoever they were, she thought acidly. Petty, faceless bureaucrats making decisions in back rooms that affect people’s lives. She hated them! She hated them all!