The Bitter End

by Ann Evans

  ‘Mrs Bentley! I’d forgotten her. She was lovely.’

  ‘It was her who told me you’d come out of your coma. But then I went and caught chicken pox like half the class that month, and couldn’t come to see you. Then you’d gone – empty bed. Went to your house and it was up for sale and you’d all left. I was sure you’d died, mate. Positive of it.’

  Paul reached across the table and squeezed his old friend’s arm. ‘No, I didn’t die, we moved soon after I got out of hospital. You go where your parents tell you at that age. Anyway, it's good that we’ve found each other again.’

  Paul got the beers in and later Owen insisted on getting another round. They were half cut by the time they left the pub.

  ‘Have you got to get back to work?’ Paul asked, as the fresh air hit him.

  ‘Not especially. Why, got something in mind?’

  ‘Yes, I fancy seeing my old house again.’

  Owen looked delighted. ‘I’ll take you.’

  ‘Great. I wonder if it's changed much?’

  ‘Let's find out.’ He turned and began walking with real purpose.

  Paul fell into step and he listened with interest as Owen pointed out various landmarks and related tales about things they’d done.

  Eventually one particular street lined with red-bricked cottages sent a twinge of déjà vu through him. He was close to home. He could feel it in his bones.

  ‘Is anything coming any clearer now?’ Owen asked.

  ‘Fourth house from the right, yes?’ he murmured, knowing he was home.

  Owen nodded.

  It felt quite strange as they approached his old house with its long front garden. He could picture himself, a scrawny kid in short trousers, racing out of his front door, ‘See ya later, mum!’ and her standing in the doorway, ‘Back by tea time – and behave!’

  ‘Number eight, yes?’

  ‘You got it, mate.’

  ‘I remember it. My bedroom was at the back. I’d come out of the front gate and head this way to catch the bus to school or that direction to play in the woods.’

  ‘Dead on, mate.’

  Paul smiled and patted his friend’s shoulder. ‘Thanks for bringing me, Owen. This is just … well, incredible.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway, time I was getting home.’

  Owen held up a hand. ‘I’ve something else to show you, my old friend. Another little memory jerker. Follow me.’ He walked on, towards the woods. Then stopped and looked back at Paul. ‘Come on. This should definitely bring back a memory or two.’

  Bemused, Paul caught up with him. Owen strode on in silence, his gait so familiar now that he could practically turn back the clock and see his school pal swaggering along, catapult sticking out of his back pocket. ‘Well, come on, then. You chicken or what?’

  Cutting through a gap between the cottages opposite, they emerged near another block of houses, detached, more upmarket. The end house was the doctor’s house. Paul remembered as clear as day how he’d sat in the stuffy little waiting room, the gas fire pop-popping as it poured out its heat on the old folk coughing and sneezing. He couldn’t remember why he was there. A cold probably – or maybe it was a verruca. Yes, he remembered now. He’d had a verruca.

  ‘Doctor Scott’s place,’ he said as they walked on.

  ‘Right on! Doctor Scott junior is running the practice, now.’

  Paul nodded, vaguely remembering the doctor's son as a snooty little kid who always had a cold.

  There was a brook to the left and a small humped brick footbridge. ‘I used to play here,’ he said softly.

  ‘We used to play here,’ Owen corrected him.

  ‘Didn’t we catch newts in a jar?’

  ‘And frogspawn.’

  Paul smiled as they walked over the little bridge towards the forest of trees. ‘I’m trying to get my bearings here, Owen. This is the same forest that ends up at Sally’s place, well our place, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yup! The village is kind of enclosed by the woods. If you took an aerial photo, you’d see they’re in a crescent moon shape.’

  They headed along a pathway until the sight of an old grey stone cottage stopped him in his tracks. ‘I remember that.’

  ‘And so you damn well should.’

  Paul could hardly believe his eyes. He'd forgotten about this place, but now the memories flooded back. It was grey and ancient, a slate roof that he could reach up and touch now. As a kid the cottage had loomed large and foreboding, filling him with dread. Taller now and older, he realised that it still did.

  A crow sat hunched up on the apex of the roof, watching them. Hadn't there always been a crow perched there?

  ‘Bang the door, Paul!’ He could practically feel Owen shoving him. ‘Go on, do it now. Give it a good kick, that’ll scare the pants off her, if she’s wearing any. Go on, then!’

  ‘It’s the witch’s house,’ Paul murmured, rocking slightly on his heels, the terror of those childhood days hitting him like a hammer. ‘God, it gives me the creeps even now.’

  Owen’s face beamed, reminding Paul so much of the kid that once lived in his skin. ‘I thought it would jog your memory.’

  ‘We really believed a witch lived there, didn’t we? I used to be terrified. I never wanted to bang on her door you know, mate. I was so scared.’ He stopped short in accusing his pal of forcing him into doing it. What was the point?

  ‘Yeah, fun, though. I wonder who lives there now?’

  He backed away. ‘Don’t know, don’t care. Mate, I have to get home. It’s going to take me an hour to walk back, and if I don’t get a move on, it’ll be getting dark and there’s a fair chance I’ll lose my bearings in the woods.’

  ‘But aren’t you curious about her? Whether she’s still around? She could be. Maybe she was just an ancient-looking sixty-year-old back then, she’d be a real old crone now, bordering ninety but she could still be in there.’

  Paul stared at Owen in amazement. He was still a little kid at heart, and one full of devilment at that. ‘Are you seriously suggesting we go knocking on some old woman’s door, putting the fear of God into her? She’ll be ancient for Christ’s sake, we’d give her a heart attack.’

  ‘Go on, where’s your sense of adventure?’

  It was just so ridiculous that Paul could have almost laughed. ‘You know what Owen, you haven’t changed a bit.’

  Owen grinned. ‘You neither, mate. You’re still chicken.’

  With a shake of his head, Paul turned and walked back the way he’d come. Owen came sauntering after him, chuckling to himself in that unique way of his.

  Paul halted, turned and waited for Owen to catch up with him. Then slapping an arm around his shoulder, he laughed. ‘Are you ever going to grow up?’

  ‘One day, probably,’ Owen grinned. ‘But not yet.’

  12

  Paul lay in bed listening to the yew tree tapping at the window pane, then turned his head closer to Sally’s.

  ‘What’s it saying?’ he whispered into her ear.

  She lay quietly for a moment. ‘Sally Knightly loves Paul Christian.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. It’s saying that Paul Christian was a right little shit when he was a kid.’

  Sally turned on her pillow to look at him. ‘Why on earth would it say that?’

  ‘Because it’s true.’

  Her hand stroked his chest. ‘What did he tell you? Owen, I mean. It has to be him that’s reminded you about something you did as a child. You shouldn’t take any notice, Paul, I swear that man is a bully. I think he bullied you as a child and if you’re not careful he’ll be bullying you again. Don't let him get into your head.’

  ‘I don’t think so, honey. But you’re right about him telling me what I used to get up to.’

  Sally leant up on one elbow, her face half illuminated in the moonlight. ‘I can’t believe you’d do anything bad. You were just kids.’

  ‘Well, I hate to disillusion you, babe, but I was a right little brat. Seems I used to knock on some old
woman’s door, then do a bunk.’

  Sally chuckled. ‘Is that all? It’s hardly a hanging offence.’

  ‘We tormented her, regularly. We probably made her life hell.’

  ‘He probably put you up to it.’

  ‘Well yes, you’re probably right about that, but I could have said no.’

  Sally ran her fingers down his cheek. ‘Not when you’re only eight or nine and your best friend is bigger and older than you.’

  ‘Maybe. It doesn’t make me feel good, though.’

  She lowered her lips to his. ‘Go to sleep, Paul. It was a long time ago. There’s nothing you can do about it now.’

  He lay awake wondering if maybe there was.

  * * *

  At the first opportunity, he got back to work on the bust. He needed to do the nose. To open up its nostrils so it could breathe. It was a ridiculous notion, but he worked feverishly until he felt the nose draw in its first breath.

  ‘That’s better, isn’t it, my friend, whoever you are.’ He stood back and admired his handiwork. The top half of the bust looked vaguely familiar – the broad forehead and sweep of hair, the strong, straight nose. It felt as if he was working from memory, but the memory of who?

  Paul brought life to the eyes next. A light touch of a sharp knife to the blank, open eyes gave outline to the irises and pupils. The bust looked right at him, its creator, and for a whimsical second he thought he heard a faint sigh of satisfaction.

  Sally brought him some soup and a crusty roll at some point, then tea and coffee. She said nothing about the bust, in fact she barely glanced at it. She looked at Paul, though, and a frown overshadowed her pretty eyes.

  His week was spent mostly in London. With the Peace Conference just a matter of weeks away now he needed to liaise with his department to ensure nothing had been overlooked. Logistics needed working out regarding routes, buildings, sewers, everything needed to be checked, looked at for possible vantage points for would-be snipers and bombers. Putting all the world's leaders into one of the city’s best hotels seemed a good option. The idea being that fanatical objectors or terrorists from any one nation would hopefully not try to bomb a hotel that also housed its own leaders. At least that was the theory. Paul guessed there were some people who wouldn’t give a damn either way. Security was going to be massive, but the PM and Home Secretary knew they could rely on him. He wouldn't be letting anyone down. His team were the best.

  * * *

  Returning home on the train on Friday evening, Paul’s thoughts slipped back to his childhood. Since meeting up with Owen again, and seeing the places where he played as a kid, lots of memories of his life before the coma were returning. Worse was the memory of being made to knock on the old woman's door. He pondered over whether that had any connection to the apparition that occasionally flitted through his head.

  Those times had been pretty traumatic to him as a kid. He clearly recalled how his heart had pounded and his legs had felt like jelly as he succumbed to Owen’s insistence.

  Go on Paul, peep through the window, what can you see?

  He’d seen darkness.

  Knock the door! Go on, bang on the door.

  He’d knocked the door, loud enough to appease Owen, quietly enough not to disturb anyone inside. At least that had been his intention. But she must have been watching for them because one day the door sprung open. He’d tried to run. Owen was quicker off the mark, sprinting away like a gazelle through the woods.

  He’d tried to follow – he could still feel the terror, feel the rubbery sensation of his legs which refused to take him anywhere. Any second now he'd be turned into a toad or something. He knew – he was positive she was casting her spell that moment, that's why his legs wouldn't work. Then suddenly he was sprinting down the lane, yelling at Owen to wait for him.

  Paul’s eyes shot open. A woman sitting opposite in the train carriage was staring at him and he wondered if he'd actually shouted out loud. Slightly self-conscious, he turned towards the window and watched the countryside flashing by.

  As the train neared his station he went to call Sally so she could pick him up, then changed his mind. Instead, once off the train, he walked back towards the witch’s cottage. This was something he had to do, an attempt to rid himself of the nightmares.

  Looking at the old cottage, he shuddered at the sight of the crow perched on the roof. It was ridiculous to be spooked by the sight of a crow. They were in the woods for Christ's sake, crows were everywhere. He hadn’t stepped back in time, yet it felt that way. Standing there, staring at the drab grey cottage with its solitary window, there was no quelling the churning in his stomach. But at least Owen wasn’t pressurising him into knocking the door. He could easily turn around and go home and no one would be any the wiser.

  Or, he could walk down the path, knock on the door and wait to see who answered.

  He presumed that, seeing as he was dressed in his London style black overcoat and carrying a briefcase, he probably looked like a salesman or a Jehovah’s witness. So even if there was anyone living there now, they might not answer his knock.

  The front door was smaller than he remembered, and it had been sanded and repainted. It even had a doorbell. Paul pressed at it.

  In the silence that followed he felt the urge to turn and run, imagining the old crone that would, at any second, throw open the door and turn him into a toad.

  The door opened, and his knees buckled slightly but for very different reasons. The only thing witch-like about the woman standing there in a tight blue sweater were her bewitching green eyes. She was blonde, buxom and beautiful.

  She looked him up and down and then smiled. ‘Yes, can I help you?’

  Paul’s first word caught in his throat, and he gave an awkward little cough before trying again. His explanation sounded stupid and lame as he rambled on about how he used to play here as a child, and how kids thought a witch lived here, and how he and his friend would knock on her door then run away.

  Her eyes locked onto his, and she listened patiently before another smile transformed her face into an even greater vision of loveliness.

  Paul struggled to continue with his story. ‘… I wasn’t expecting her to still be living here. I imagine she’s dead by now. But on the off chance, I wanted to call by and apologise for being such a brat and no doubt making her life hell.’

  ‘Well, I think that’s admirable. And I can understand you wanting to ease your guilty conscience.’

  Ridiculously, he felt his cheeks redden under her scrutiny. ‘No denying that. I do feel pretty bad about it.’

  She ran her fingers through her blonde hair, smoothing it back from her bright green eyes. ‘Well, you could be in luck. I believe the old lady who lived here before I bought the place is in a nursing home now.’

  ‘God! So, she is still alive? That's incredible! Do you know which nursing home?’

  She wrinkled her nose, making her look cute as well as gorgeous. ‘I think it’s the one just off the main London Road. Oakwoods, I’m pretty sure that’s the name. It’s on the left just after The Woodman Pub. I’m sure you’d find it easily enough.’

  ‘That’s good news. Thank you so much.’

  Her voice softened, and she extended her hand. ‘You’re welcome. And if you feel the need to come knocking on my door again, I hope you don’t run away.’

  The touch of her hand made him smile and he walked away wondering if she had just made a pass at him.

  * * *

  He walked briskly back through the woods, finding his way easily, then veered off towards the fallen oak to see if the face in the bark still looked like something he could work with. It might just have been his imagination, or he might not even be able to locate it now. To his surprise however, he spotted the face in the tree bark straight away.

  Tomorrow he’d be back with some tools. It could make a wall plaque, although he doubted anyone would want such a grisly old face peering down at them.

  The aroma of roast chic
ken wafted from the kitchen when he finally got home. Sally fell into his arms, her happy face upturned to receive kisses, which he gave willingly.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ she said, linking his arm and drawing him into the living room.

  The fire was blazing in the grate and Paul hesitated. The crackling of logs, the glow and heat took him back. But as Sally sat him down and placed a glass of red wine in his hand, he realised his thoughts were drifting much further back than the car crash. His thoughts were back to Owen building a bonfire.

  Paul didn't broach the subject of visiting the old woman in the nursing home, until after dinner. He guessed Sally wouldn’t be in favour and he didn’t want to spoil the atmosphere.

  She was eager to tell him about more orders for her bags and, to his surprise, the fact that his wood carvings were selling like hot cakes.

  ‘Juliet rang today. She’s sold your clogs to Mr and Mrs Clarke – she does the church flowers; the butcher’s wife has been admiring your horse …’

  ‘Very apt.’

  ‘Oh, don’t Paul, our butcher only sells quality meat.’

  ‘Only joking,’ Paul assured her, with a smile. ‘Go on.’

  She cast her eyes upwards, ‘Let me see, oh yes, the little mouse and cheese has gone to Mrs Scott, she’s the doctor’s wife. Juliet asked if you’d drop some more pieces in when you can.’

  ‘There isn’t anything, really,’ he replied. ‘I’ve just been working on that bust. I’ve another idea lined up, but I’m not sure it will appeal to anyone.’

  Sally began clearing away the plates. ‘Well, at least it's nice to know that others appreciate your work.’

  ‘It is, indeed,’ he indulged her, although deep down he didn’t give a damn whether anybody liked what he did or not. ‘Oh, by the way, fancy coming with me on Sunday? I need to visit an old folk’s home.’