by Mark Tilbury
‘Jesus,’ Mel whispered, as she surveyed the derelict scene.
Come on, Mel, dinner’s on the table, her father’s voice piped up in her head, so loud and clear that, for a moment, she thought his ghost was actually in the room with her. Cabbage and sprouts to make you grow up into a big strong girl.
She used to love it when he was at home. The place seemed to come alive. Proper meals on the table. Roast beef. Yorkshire puddings. Apple pie and cream. He was a wonderful cook. They would talk for hours, just the two of them sitting on the sofa, her father smoking his pipe and telling her stories about his time at sea on a submarine. Sometimes, when her mother was lying down upstairs with one of her migraines, he would sing ‘Yellow Submarine’ to her, and make strange noises which imitated a ship’s bell and the claxon. He would tell her of trips to faraway places, where all the people lived forever, and they rode on pigs’ backs and mowed the grass with hungry goats.
Once, she’d asked him where he went to when he sailed to sea. He’d sat silent and thoughtful for a long while before answering. ‘Anywhere the wind blows, Mel. Anywhere the wind blows.’
Sometimes, he’d let her read passages to him from her favourite book, Black Beauty. She’d loved the story. From Black Beauty’s early life on the farm where he grew up with his mother, being treated with love and kindness, to his later life and experiences with other owners who had not been so kind. How she’d wished to have such a lovely caring mother as Black Beauty’s.
Now, she went to the sink and looked inside the base unit. Apart from a dozen scouring pads that lay in a puddle of filthy brown congealing liquid, the only cleaning product was an old bottle of Vim. Did they even make that stuff anymore? She made a mental note to get an arsenal of cleaning products from the supermarket when she went shopping for food.
She looked at the fridge-freezer standing against the wall near the back door. She couldn’t bring herself to look inside. She would just dump everything into black bags later and leave them outside for the dustmen.
Next to the fridge-freezer, halfway along the wall, there were two doors standing side by side. One led upstairs to the bedrooms, the other down to the basement. Just thinking about the basement made her feel as if her whole body was being molested by clammy hands.
‘This place is as dead as door knobs.’
Mel’s legs buckled at the sudden sound of her child’s voice. She spun around to see Chloe standing in the doorway, Ruby’s face pressed to her ear.
‘Jesus Christ, Chloe! Don’t make me jump like that.’
‘Don’t make me put you down in the basement again, Smelly-Mellie.’
41
Charles Honeywell seemed in a buoyant mood for a man with only one functional hand. The other, encased in enough bandaging to suggest it might have fallen victim to a bomb blast, rested by his side.
King made a mental note to tread carefully. A wounded animal was a dangerous animal, and he thought he detected a note of deceit in those eyes. ‘You seem chipper.’
‘I’ve managed to contact Mel.’
King almost abandoned caution and threw his arms around his lover. ‘Where is she?’
‘At home.’
King imagined her sitting amongst the burnt-out ruins at St Kilda’s Close. ‘She can’t be. The place is uninhabitable.’
‘She’s gone to her father’s house.’
‘Father? Marvellous. Now we have another obstacle in the way.’
‘He died just before Christmas.’
‘Good. What about her mother?’
Honeywell shrugged. ‘She mentioned nothing about a mother. I assume she’s also deceased.’
‘The truth is oft blinded by assumption,’ King said, pleased by the sound of his spontaneous originality.
Honeywell looked at his bandaged hand. ‘I’m sorry, Peter. I’m doing my best.’
‘Where is this house?’
‘Rokemarsh. It’s out in the sticks. About an hour away.’
‘That’s all we need. I detest the countryside. All muck and mire and little else. Is the child with her?’
‘Yes.’
‘The husband?’
‘No. She said she needs a break from him. It might be irreconcilable.’
‘Excellent.’
‘What do you plan to do?’
For once, King resorted to honesty. ‘I’m not sure. Drive out to Rokemarsh and see how the land lies. What’s the address?’
‘She didn’t say.’
King eyed his lover’s good hand and imagined plunging a dagger through it, preferably one with a poisoned tip. ‘Why didn’t you ask?’
‘I didn’t think to… I’m sorry.’
‘How in devil’s name are we supposed to find her without an address?’
‘I—’
‘Ask the satnav where she lives? Knock on every door in the village and announce our intention to eliminate the bitch?’
‘I’m sorry. I’ll call her back.’
‘For goodness’ sake, wake yourself up, Charles. Your constant need for instruction is wearing out my brain.’
‘I’m not thinking straight with all this going on. And my hand hurts like mad.’
‘Your statement lacks logic. The mad are incapable of feeling pain. Inflicting it, perhaps, but not experiencing it.’
‘I need to go to the doctor.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘A tetanus jab.’
‘Don’t be absurd. That paring knife was as clean as a surgeon’s.’
‘It’s better to be safe than sorry.’
‘It’s better to be a man, Charles. Accept your punishment and move on.’
‘I did nothing to deserve punishment. You had no right to stab me.’
‘“To offend, and judge, are distinct offices and of opposed natures.”’
‘I’ll make that call.’
King dismissed him with a wave of his hand. As soon as he’d located Mel Hollis, Charles could go to negotiate the Pearly Gates with St Peter. He’d now decided that Gavin Westwood and Charles Honeywell would die in a suicide pact. It had a certain theatrical ring to it which satisfied his artistic nature. He would make them both write heart-wrenching suicide notes to this effect before they died. It might prove poignant to lay them side by side, letting their blood merge in one final act of union.
‘It’s been a hard week,’ King told the empty kitchen. One which had seen his belief system turned upside down by Purple-five’s unquestionable return. It was almost as if she’d been conjured from the pen of one of those awful horror writers. Or, worse, had stepped straight from a scene in a Christmas pantomime.
She’s behind you!
If he had his way, pantomimes would be banished at Christmas, along with baubles, gaudy lights and tinsel. He liked the festive season, but it had been forever tarnished by man’s unerring ability to turn it into an orgy of overindulgence and extravagance. Where in the Bible did Jesus say that everyone should drink themselves into a stupor and eat enough food to feed the five thousand? Where in the Bible did Jesus say everyone who owned a theatre must put on a hideous pantomime every year which bore no relation to the Virgin birth?
‘Jesus would spin on the cross at such a bastardisation of His values,’ King said, pleased with the fluency of his muse. ‘Mesmerisation: A tale of love spurned, mind control and retribution.’
An image of a quill gliding effortlessly across paper was so strong in his mind that he actually visualised it sitting on the breakfast bar. Another flash of inspiration: he would dress as Shakespeare to write his masterpiece.
Perhaps you are his reincarnation.
King was about to scoff, but then remembered Purple-five’s unquestionable return. ‘Are we one and the same?’
‘“One and the same” what?’ Honeywell said.
King jumped. ‘None of your business. I’m thinking aloud. I hope your interruption brings good news?’
‘She’s staying at a place called Rose Cottage. I’ve googled it. It’s down the
end of a lane where the Rokemarsh road forks with Berrick Salome.’
King felt all his stars align. ‘Good. We’ll take a look tonight.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Nothing for now.’
‘Do you really have to kill them, Peter?’
‘We’ll see what transpires. Rose Cottage, you say?’
‘Yes.’
“‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose…”’
Honeywell didn’t look very impressed by this latest quote from Romeo and Juliet.
‘Rose is a rather nice name, don’t you think? Warm and comforting. Reminds me of blood-red lips and stiletto heels.’
‘How is that warm?’
‘By virtue of imagination, Charles. By virtue of imagination. I’m going to have a lie down. Don’t disturb me unless it’s vital. I want to meditate; transcend the conscious mind and see if I can’t tap into my muse in preparation for writing my new play.’
‘Can I ask what it’s about?’
King didn’t care for the doubt lurking in his lover’s eyes. It was just as well he wouldn’t be around to read the finished masterpiece. ‘Tragedy, Charles. Now, if you’ll please excuse me.’
King did such a fine job of transcending the conscious mind that he fell asleep whilst visualising a candle. The flickering flame in his mind’s eye lulled him into a state of relaxation so deep that he crossed the threshold into sleep before he’d had a chance to contact his muse.
Eight hours later, he was in the midst of a dream vivid enough to induce palpitations. It portrayed a rerun of Purple-five’s death by guillotine, but instead of the mechanism failing to take off her head, it had detached it with ease, sending it rolling across the floor in a trail of blood. It came to rest against the leg of the playing table.
In the true tradition of dreams, it had skipped a frame, and the head had then appeared on top of the table, sitting in the middle like some hideous decoration. Only it was no longer the one separated from Purple-five’s body; it now belonged to Chloe Hollis and, from what King could tell in this strange land of impossible plots, it didn’t seem too happy with the day’s events.
‘I will follow you wherever you shall go,’ Chloe promised.
King tried to snort derision, but only upset his adenoids. ‘Your idle threats don’t scare me.’
‘Peter?’
A man’s voice. For one crazy dream-state moment, he actually thought God had spoken to him.
‘Peter? Wake up. It’s half-eight.’
‘Who’s there?’ King said. ‘Show yourself.’
‘It’s me... Charles.’
King looked at Chloe’s head, as if his lover might be hiding inside it. Without warning, the head exploded, sending a kaleidoscope of blood and brain matter airborne. King screamed and flailed his arms, trying to protect his face from the gore.
‘Peter? Peter, wake up!’
Hands upon him now. Strong. Shaking him. Honeywell’s face above him, almost angelic in the glow of the ceiling light.
‘Where am I?’
‘You’ve been dreaming. It’s half-eight.’
It took a short while for this piece of news to digest. When he realised they were supposed to be driving out to Rose Cottage, he sparked into life. ‘Jesus Christ, why didn’t you wake me sooner?’
‘I tried, but you were completely out of it.’
‘Have you not heard of the word persistence?’
‘I’m sorry.’
King sat up on the four-poster bed and swung his legs over the side in one movement. It was an action he immediately regretted as his head didn’t seem to travel with him. ‘You shall be the death of me.’
‘Would you like a drink of water?’
‘I only intended an hour’s meditation. Now, thanks to you, we’re way behind schedule.’
‘We’re only driving to Rokemarsh. It won’t take that long.’
‘I want to see Gavin Westwood afterwards.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘Business.’
‘What business?’
‘You’ll see when we get there. Get my phone. It’s on the dining table. I need to make a call whilst I get ready.’
For once, Charles Honeywell obeyed an order without argument. He fetched the phone and left King to attend his private business.
Once ready, his mood had lifted slightly. Gavin Westwood had agreed to let him visit the flat and bring Charles with him. King had neglected to tell Mr. Westwood of his true intentions, and had let the reason for this impromptu visit rest under the vague heading of “a fruitful proposition that might be of benefit to all three parties”.
The drive to Rose Cottage took just over forty-five minutes. They parked halfway down the lane and walked the rest of the way. Two lovers, hand-in-hand, out for a romantic stroll beneath the moonlit sky.
After studying the house for a few minutes, King decided to strike within the next few days. He would gain access to the building by fair means or foul, kill the occupants, and set fire to the place. A proper job this time. No faffing around with pouring petrol through the letter box. Rose Cottage would be razed to the ground before the fire service got anywhere near it. And Mel and Chloe Hollis would be long dead before the fire got anywhere near them.
King was so delighted with this latest thought he almost threw his arms around Charles Honeywell and peppered his cheek with kisses. Instead, he opted for the simplicity of words. ‘It’s a beautiful night.’
Honeywell’s teeth rattled together like maracas in a cave. ‘Is it?’
‘See how the stars align?’
Honeywell looked up. ‘I’ve never really studied astrology.’
‘You don’t need to. Just understand that fate is forever moving, forever changing, forever shaping our destiny.’
42
It took Mel the best part of two days to get Rose Cottage licked into shape. She bought new bed linen, winter duvets, enough food to feed an army, and most of the cleaning products available in Tesco’s, including a mop and bucket and a Henry vacuum cleaner. She also treated them both to a wardrobe of new winter clothes, two pairs of boots each, and a pair of pink dolly shoes for Chloe.
Chloe helped her mother clean the kitchen sink, standing on the same small red plastic step Mel had stood on years ago when she’d helped her father peel vegetables. After they had been subjected to four buckets of hot water laced with disinfectant, the black-and-white floor tiles now looked ‘clean enough to eat off’, as her father used to say when her mother wasn’t around to spoil their time together.
Henry the hoover sucked most of the dirt from lounge, stairs, and two double bedrooms. She’d had to change the bag three times; and she’d filled six bin liners with perished and out-of-date food. The hard work had seemed to make Chloe happy. Helped to take her mind off her father.
Although reasonably settled by day three, the house still lacked the comforts of home. But at least it was warm, clean and habitable.
Mel and Chloe were huddled together on the sofa watching cartoons.
‘Why hasn’t Granddad John got a DVD player?’
‘I don’t think he ever watched DVDs.’
‘Huh? Everyone watches DVDs.’
‘Maybe he just preferred the telly.’
‘Can we get a new DVD?’
‘Course.’
‘I miss my Disney films.’
‘We’ll get new ones,’ Mel promised. ‘You’re going to Kerrie-Anne’s tomorrow. We’ll pop into town after.’
‘Finding Dory?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Why am I going to Kerrie-Anne’s?’
‘Mummy’s got to see some people about the fire.’
‘To find out who lit it?’
‘To see who will pay for the damage.’
‘Like a bank?’
‘Sort of.’
‘When are we going to go back home?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I miss my bedroom.’
&nb
sp; ‘Me, too,’ Mel lied.
‘Granddad John’s is too cold.’
‘Even with the new duvet?’
‘Uh-huh. And the bed smells.’
‘Anything else, Goldilocks? The mattress too lumpy?’
Chloe giggled. ‘I’m not Goldilocks.’
Mel stroked her hair. ‘Are so.’
‘I’m Chloe Hollis. Thirty-six St Kilda’s Close, Feelham.’
‘Wow! That’s impressive, young lady. Would you like some hot chocolate?’
‘Can Ruby have some, too?’
‘Tell you what: why don’t you share yours with her.’
‘Okay.’
Mel went to the kitchen and set a pan of milk to boil on the stove. She put two heaped teaspoons of Cadbury’s chocolate powder into each of their mugs and stared out the small kitchen window. She watched shadows falling across the lane. Just past four, and already the light was haemorrhaging from the sky.
She remembered going up the lane when she was young to fetch eggs from Miss Tomms who owned the big house at the top of the lane. She kept chickens and ducks and geese. Mel had been terrified of the geese; they always seemed angry, hissing and waddling after her like a gang of angry thugs. But the eggs had been worth it. Golden yolks. Dipping the soldiers her father toasted over the open fire on the end of a long two-pronged fork. There wasn’t a toaster in circulation that could make toast to match her father’s. And now he was gone. Forever erased from the earth. Nothing but a memory.
She watched a car pull up outside a house halfway down the lane. Warwick Lane had no streetlights, but the house where the car had pulled up had a security light. A man stepped out of the car. He was well over six feet.
The Tall Man.
Mel told herself not to be stupid. Her imagination was working overtime. Writing a script that suited her paranoia.
So, why’s he just standing outside in the freezing cold? Why doesn’t he go inside?
