The Bitter End

by Ann Evans

  It wasn’t just her face, either. It was the smell, and the feeling of panic as he’d tried to get away. Making his way across the care home lounge to the locked door, he'd been positive that she was on his tail, ready to smash him over the head with something.

  A glimpse of memory or imagination – he didn’t know which – flashed through his mind. A face looming above him, gnarled hands clutching a rock, coming at him. Then pain. A shooting pain through his skull, like he’d experienced on the day he’d arrived here.

  Sally murmured and rolled over. It was just a memory of the pain, not real, he told himself … just a memory. But his thoughts were drifting. Had the old woman really smashed his skull in that day when he was nine and he’d just burned her cat? Had she? Owen had said she’d appeared from nowhere and chased after them. They’d split up and the old woman had gone after him.

  His breathing slowed as his thoughts drifted, and then something shifted in the shadows over by the wardrobe. There was something there. A feeling of dread crept over him. He dived out of bed, finding the light switch. He clicked it down, but nothing happened. The bedroom remained pitch black. Then a face, pale and ugly, sprang up right before his eyes. His yell of fright brought him wide awake and sitting bolt upright in bed.

  A dream. Nothing but a damn nightmare, but he was sweating.

  Sally slept on, barely stirring. He swung his legs out of bed and sat, head in hands. It had been years since he'd had a nightmare. Years since anything had scared him. What the hell was going on? He got up, badly needing a coffee.

  Downstairs, he took a mug of black coffee through to the workroom and checked his emails. It was just after two and while he was alert enough to do some work, he certainly wasn’t in the mood for it. His mind was elsewhere.

  Maybe he should go back to the nursing home. Ask Petronella Kytella if she had smashed in the skull of a nine-year-old little boy forty years ago. No maybe about it. He’d definitely go back. His feelings of disdain for this woman were growing. She was playing on his mind far too much for his liking. He’d whisper in her ear that she couldn't play dumb with him. He’d tell her in no uncertain terms that he knew she’d tried to kill him when he was a nine-year-old kid. Yes, at the first opportunity he’d do just that.

  Eventually he went back to bed. Sally slept on, oblivious. He was glad of that. No point in them both being baggy-eyed in the morning.

  Concentrating on his decision to return to the nursing home when work allowed, Paul eventually slept. At some point in the night he felt something soft brush his cheek. In his dreams it was just Bluebell but then he felt the bed dip. He opened his eyes to see Sally getting up.

  ‘You okay, Sal?’ he asked drowsily.

  She didn’t answer, but walked out of the bedroom door. He listened for her going into the bathroom, but instead her soft bare feet descended the stairs in the dark.

  He got up, almost tripping over the damn cat. ‘Move Bluebell!’

  Fully awake now, he followed her down and through to the kitchen, switching the lights on as he went. She stood at the back door in just her flimsy nightdress, and drew back the bolt. ‘Sal … Sally, what are you doing?’

  Still no answer. He stepped closer and turned her to face him. She stared straight through him, her eyes wide, pupils dilated, her face blank. Sleep-walking.

  Instantly, Paul drew the bolt back across and gently took her hands, finding she was clutching her car keys. God. She wasn’t intending to drive, was she?

  ‘Back to bed, Sally,’ he said softly, trying to stay calm, wondering what the hell had brought this on. In all the months of being together she had never sleep walked. Maybe it was the upset of the owl. Her next word confirmed his assumption.

  ‘Sanctuary …’ she murmured, allowing herself to be led.

  ‘Yes, sanctuary, a nice soft, warm bed. Up the stairs now.’

  Halfway up, Bluebell wrapped its body around Sal's legs.

  ‘Bluebell! For God’s sake will you stop trying to trip us up.’

  It trotted downstairs and out of the cat flap. Once in the bedroom, Sally stood at the side of her bed, a vacant expression on her face. Paul gently pressed her shoulders so that she sat, then lifted her feet until she was lying down. He tucked the covers under her chin. Lying beside her, he watched her sleeping until the morning light crept in. Finally, he slept.

  * * *

  Sally woke him with a kiss. She’d brought tea and toast on a tray and balanced it expertly as she climbed back into bed with him. ‘Morning, sleepy head. Cuppa?’

  Paul eased himself upright, the events of the night unfolding as he sipped the hot brew. ‘I need this.’

  ‘I wonder how the owl is this morning,’ Sally said as she drank her tea. ‘I didn't want to check without you.’

  He nodded. ‘Sal, do you remember getting out of bed last night?

  ‘Nope, I don't think so.’

  ‘Well, then you were definitely sleep-walking.’

  She almost choked. ‘Never!’

  ‘I’m telling you, Sal, you were sleep-walking.’

  ‘I was probably going to the loo.’

  ‘You went downstairs and were trying to get out the back door.’

  She stared at him. ‘You are joking.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘And you had your car keys in your hand.’

  ‘Oh my God!’

  Paul put his cup down. ‘You don’t remember?’

  She shook her head, stunned. ‘No. I slept like a log last night, or I thought I did. I did have this dream of the owl though. I was so worried it might die. Then someone told me to take it to the animal sanctuary …’

  ‘You said sanctuary! The one and only word you said was sanctuary. I guess that’s why you were sleep-walking.’

  Sally stared wide-eyed at him. ‘I was. In my dream there was someone telling me that’s what I had to do.’ She clutched his hand. ‘I had to drive there … Paul, I would have driven in my sleep!’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t have got that far,’ he assured her, although deep down she had just voiced his worst fears. ‘You’d have woken as soon as the cold air hit you.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Without a doubt,’ he promised, giving her a hug but thinking that tonight he would hide her car keys.

  She looked thoroughly miserable. ‘I’ve never sleep-walked before. Or at least, I don’t think I have.’

  ‘It was the upset of the owl,’ Paul said, eager to check on the bird. Kissing Sally's cheek he got up. ‘If it is alive and kicking, it might be an idea to get it checked out at that sanctuary.’

  Sally said nothing, and when he raised one eyebrow at her, she murmured. ‘I think I was a bit befuddled. There isn’t a wildlife sanctuary around here. Not as far as I know, anyway.’

  ‘Oh!’ He felt quite sorry for her. She looked so confused. ‘Come on. Let’s go take a look at that mad bird.’

  Paul threw on some working clothes and went downstairs, opening the living room curtains to a dull, misty-grey, Sunday morning.

  The grass was soaked with dew and a chill mist hung over the garden. Sally slid her arm through his and they walked purposefully down to the barn.

  Exchanging glances as he opened the door, he hoped the owl would come swooping over their heads to freedom. What he feared was that it would be stiff on its back with its legs in the air. What he saw, however, brought a smile to his face.

  It was perched on top of a wooden roof beam, slightly ruffled but alert, with an indignant look on its face.

  Sally gave a little squeal of delight and hugged him.

  ‘The tough old bird.’ Paul said, delighted.

  ‘It's okay, isn’t it?’

  ‘Certainly looks it. And it’s obviously flown up there, so no major damage done.’

  She squeezed him, happily. ‘What should we do?’

  ‘Just leave it, I guess. We’ll leave the barn door open, and it can fly out when it’s ready. Or it can stay. I don’t mind.’

  * * *


  Later they popped into the DIY store to buy outdoor lights and spotted Father Willoughby wandering around the aisles, his mind was clearly on his shopping as he paced past them, heading down the pest control aisle.

  ‘He's miles away,’ Paul murmured, macabrely remembering the myth about all the parishioners being poisoned. He was about to make a joke of it when Sally spoke.

  ‘Probably thinking about his sermon for the funeral on Monday. What on earth can he say that’s going to comfort anyone?’

  ‘We don’t have to go, you know, Sal.’

  ‘I want to!’ She sounded offended, then ashamed, as if she’d just remembered that it wasn't that many years since he buried his first wife. ‘Sorry, I was forgetting. I don’t mind going on my own, if …’

  ‘I’m coming with you, Sal. I was just thinking about you.’

  ‘What about me?’

  He thought it best not to suggest she was maybe getting a bit stressed, hence the sleep walking. ‘I don’t want you upset, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s Doctor Scott and his children who are upset, poor lambs.’

  Finding the area selling security lamps, he was glad to change the subject as they discussed what was needed.

  That afternoon he got the lights all wired up. As he worked he thought more about visiting the nursing home again to confront the old crone. For all he knew she could have attacked other kids. He'd look deeper into this once the Peace Conference was over and done with. It was just a month away. Get that out of the way first.

  They’d left the barn door open all day and kept an eye on the owl. It looked perfectly at home perched on the beam, and just as it was growing dark and Paul was thinking what a nice companion it would be, it swooped out through the door and vanished into the woods.

  He would liked to have spent a few hours on his carvings, but it seemed wrong to desert Sally on a Sunday evening. Reluctantly, he closed up the barn and walked up the garden, pleased by the way the halogen lights clicked on, triggered by his movement. The fact that it plunged everything else into pitch blackness was a by-product he would have to live with.

  16

  The weather suited the mood. The heavens opened and a biting cold rain lashed down as mourners gathered together. Paul stood arm in arm with Sally on the street outside Saint Mary Magdalene’s church, huddled under an umbrella. It was a fine-looking church, typically Norman, with a tall clock tower and crenelated parapets. It seemed like the entire village had turned out to pay their respects to the doctor’s wife.

  The fact that Paul didn’t know her was irrelevant. He remembered her widower, Adrian Scott. They'd gone to the same primary school. He remembered that the second he saw the bereaved man step out from the black limousine.

  As a kid, Adrian Scott was always red nosed, always had a cold or an allergy or something. Bizarre, considering his dad was a doctor. Looking at him now, Paul couldn’t tell if the red nose today was purely down to his grief.

  Two weeping teenagers – a boy and a girl – clung onto their father’s arms. Paul’s heart went out to them, knowing the years of heartache and misery that stretched ahead. ‘Poor souls.’

  Sally squeezed his hand, as if feeling his pain. He folded the umbrella and joined the sombre congregation as they filed into the church.

  The music was ridiculously cheerful – probably a favourite song of the deceased. She could never have guessed it would be her funeral anthem.

  ‘There’s Juliet and Owen,’ Sally whispered, before they silently walked down an aisle and slid into the pew next to them. Owen turned and nodded his head in acknowledgement. His skin was unusually pale. Juliet was even greyer.

  The coffin was set in the centre aisle, light oak with a beautiful grain. A framed photograph of an attractive smiling woman stood on the lid beside a tumbling arrangement of lilies and ivy. When the church seemed as full as it could be, the doors closed with a resounding clang. Candle flames fluttered, and the smell of incense and lilies filled the air. Paul tried not to think of Helena, but it was impossible.

  The diminutive Father Willoughby made the Sign of the Cross, his voice more subdued than Paul had ever heard as he began the prayers for the Requiem Mass.

  Between the silences, the sound of sobbing was continuous and wretched, and in the Homily the priest talked about the tragedy of the lovely, lively young wife and mother who had died so suddenly and tragically. There seemed no rhyme nor reason for her passing, and he reiterated the fact that God works in mysterious ways.

  Why was it always God who got the blame? Why not the devil? Paul thought.

  When it was time for the Eucharist, Sally and Juliet both went up to the altar. Heads bowed, they filed around the coffin set on its pedestal. Others joined the queue to receive Holy Communion or a blessing, leaving sparse people dotted about on the pews – the unbelievers or the sinners, Paul assumed. He was surprised to see Juliet in line to receive the priest's blessing, seeing as she was a white witch.

  He leant towards Owen. ‘A Christian witch, that's unusual.’

  Owen slid along the pew, closing the space left by the two women. He whispered in Paul’s ear. ‘I’m in deep shit.’

  Paul glanced at him. Whatever was troubling him, it was taking its toll. Owen was uncannily pale. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Been caught playing away, mate.’

  Paul’s initial reaction was to think his old pal was a stupid idiot. Couldn’t he see what he risked losing? Keeping the irritation from his voice, and hoping Owen wasn’t chasing sympathy, he murmured, ‘Sorry to hear that. I thought you pair were pretty sound.’

  ‘It was a one-off. Bloody stupid, I know. I just kind of got carried away and it happened.’

  Paul stared at him. ‘How did Juliet find out?’

  His pale face hardened and his voice came out as a hiss. ‘The bitch told her.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Paul gasped, causing the woman in front to turn with a glare of disapproval. He lowered his voice, noticing that Sally was just about to receive the Communion host. Irrationally, his thoughts strayed from his old mate’s predicament to that story – the myth or whatever it was - of the congregation being poisoned. For a moment the thought was so strong that he almost shouted Don’t take the host! But the story was seventy years old and probably not a scrap of truth in it, anyway.

  Sally headed back, followed by Juliet, their heads bowed.

  Under his breath Paul asked, ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘You remember the witch’s house?’ said Owen.

  How could he forget? He nodded.

  ‘Well there’s a different kind of witch living there now …’ he broke off, as Sally and Juliet slid into the pew.

  Paul's jaw dropped. The blonde with the green eyes. The one he’d fantasised about not so long ago. The woman who’d hinted that he’d be welcome back at her door any time.

  My God! If he’d done anything – not that he would have, not in reality, but if he had, then she might have come knocking on Sally’s door. And their life together – his second chance at happiness – would have been over in a flash.

  The fragility of it all made his head reel. It could all have been swept away so easily. One mistake. One wrong move.

  The service continued but Paul found it hard to think about anything except those bewitching green eyes that could have been his downfall. At the end of the service Father Willoughby led the procession as they carried the coffin from the church.

  The deceased’s son’s legs buckled and there was quite a commotion as he collapsed, distraught. The priest and coffin bearers moved on, but the congregation waited until the boy was back on his feet and was led, weeping inconsolably on his father’s shoulder, out into the rain.

  Juliet, with tears streaming down her face, linked Sally’s arm and the two women walked on beneath an umbrella. Paul had no doubt that they were talking about Owen’s misdemeanour. Owen shuffled along beside him, the arrogant swagger gone, head down and dejected.

  ‘What am I going to do,
Paul? Juliet means the world to me?’

  ‘So why did you do it? I don’t mean to get on my high horse, but if you’re going to put it about, don't do it on your own doorstep.’

  ‘I don’t. It was a one off. Honestly. I’m telling you the truth.’

  ‘So, you weren’t seeing this woman regularly?’

  ‘No. I can only put it down to thinking about how we used to knock the door and run like hell. It kind of tormented me, so I did it. I knocked the door. Just to see what would happen.’

  Paul held his breath. He knew the next bit. ‘And it was opened by a buxom, green eyed blonde who invited you in?’

  Owen stared wide eyed at him. ‘You’ve been there, too?’

  ‘I knocked the door but that’s as far as it went.’ It wasn’t the exact truth, but a fantasy doesn’t count.

  Owen pulled up his coat collar, rain streaming down his white face. Paul put his umbrella up, sheltering them both as the rain pelted down and the cold seeped through to the skin.

  Ahead, the crowd had gathered around an open grave, and the coffin was lowered into the hole. The sound of sobbing was heartbreaking. Moving closer to the girls, Juliet flashed Owen a look of utter misery and turned away from him. Paul caught Sally’s eye and her expression was one of uncertainty – what was to be done in this awful situation?

  Father Willoughby began the graveside service as the wind blew and flapped his vestments and rain streamed down his face like the teardrops of the broken hearted.

  ‘What do I do, Paul?’ Owen pleaded. ‘How the hell do I turn back the clock?’

  ‘You can’t, my friend. You’ll just have to tell her you’re sorry and keep telling her until she believes you,’ Paul whispered, his eyes drawn then to a solitary magpie perched on a low branch of a tree.

  One for sorrow …

  It couldn’t be more apt.

  * * *

  Earth to earth, ashes to ashes. They committed the body of Adrian Scott’s wife to the ground, and one by one the people dispersed. Family back to the Scott’s household, the rest to the Crow and Feathers. Paul needed to get home. He had work to do, and a carving to be looked at.