by Jane E James
‘Shit.’ I remember, in time, to say this under my breath so Darkly does not pick me up on it. She sees and hears everything, that child.
I suck my hand to cool it. I don’t know why I don’t go straight to the tap and run cold water over it, but I do not. Instead, I watch fascinated as the oil continues to sizzle and splat out of the pan onto the range, leaving angry little fat balls everywhere.
Drip. Splat. Drip.
When I next glance up, there is a man standing in the open doorway. The first thing I notice about him is that he looks at home leaning against the doorpost. About the same height as me, he has grey shoulder-length hair tied in a ponytail.
‘Jed,’ I exclaim.
I cannot say for sure if I am pleased to see him or not. The last time we met, he was bearded and scruffy but he is now back to his good-looking clean-shaven self. How could I have forgotten his mismatched eyes? One blue. One brown. Why haven’t I missed waking up to them every morning? Then, I look at my children, Darkly in particular, and I know why.
‘You don’t seem surprised,’ he declares in the familiar singsong Irish accent I never thought to hear again.
It is true. Now that I come to think of it, I am not the least bit surprised. What does flummox me though, is the fact I cannot seem to get any words out. We have a million and one things to say to each other, yet we stand there gawping stupidly at one another.
Eventually, he tears his eyes away from mine long enough to glance down at Darkly, who stares back at him with Merry’s eyes.
‘She gets more like her every day.’
‘She calls me Mummy now.’
My critical tone surprises him. Truth is I don’t know where it came from myself.
‘And so, you are.’ He gestures to the baby. ‘What did you have?’
‘A boy,’ I reply tersely, wondering what has gotten into me. This is Jed. My Jed. And he is back. ‘We call him Frank.’ I find a smile for him at last, but I think it arrives too late. Jed doubts me now. I can see it in his face.
‘I hear you’ve re-opened the shop,’ he states, without any trace of disapproval.
‘Well, I am a butcher’s daughter.’
Except perhaps not in the way you imagine, I secretly think.
‘I don’t know how to be anything else.’ I laugh off any embarrassment I might feel.
Darkly tugs at my hand, her eyes darting nervously between me and Jed. ‘Who that man?’
‘Go and play on the swing,’ I order coldly. ‘I’ll call you when dinner is ready.’
Jed and I remain silent as Darkly clatters outside in a pair of high-heel shoes that are way too big for her. I have no idea where she got them from. They are certainly not mine. I would never wear anything so fashionable or uncomfortable.
For something to do, I lay the table. These days my mother’s willow-patterned china service comes out at every meal. I hate to see it go to waste.
‘Sit down. Stay for some dinner,’ I say in a friendlier tone.
‘Thanks,’ he says, coming in proper.
Not wanting to assume anything, I turn to him and say, ‘I take it you are planning on staying a while?’ In a way, it would be unbearable if this were not his intention.
He throws me a casual nod, not wanting to give away too much, then sits down at the table. I swear that his eyes never once leave my face. My skin burns because of this.
‘You’re looking well,’ he observes.
‘After two babies,’ there’s that stupid nervous laugh again, ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘Just one baby, Natalie.’
It is my turn to be surprised. I would never have thought Jed would pick me up on such a thing. He is right of course but the reminder was unnecessary and, in my opinion, cruel. Trying to hide my feelings from him, I go over to the frying pan and turn the joint of meat over so that the other side will brown.
‘There was a time you couldn’t look at it without wanting to throw up,’ he observes.
He is doing too much observing for my liking, I decide, so I am relieved when he flicks through a large reference book lying open on the table. As soon as his back is turned, I peel off a thin strip of barely cooked meat and pop it in my mouth. It is a childish gesture, I know, but I want to get back at him for what he said.
‘Just thinking about what they did makes me sick to my stomach,’ he pulls a face, then continues flipping through the pages of the book. ‘There’s a lot to talk about. Merry for one thing. And the police.’
‘You haven’t said anything.’ Fear makes me grip onto the handle of the frying pan. Sensing panic in my voice, he twists in his chair to look at me. It is his turn to feel hurt.
‘I wouldn’t put you or Darkly in any danger. You know that. But once we’re away from here…’
His words make my heart sink. Today started out so promising but now it is filled with a bittersweet menace. Although Jed does not know it, his very existence threatens ours. Our whole way of life depends on his silence. Darkly can never leave Little Downey. It would be the death of her. Send her mad even.
‘After dinner, Jed.’ I play for more time. ‘When the children are in bed. We’ll talk then.’
Seeming reassured, Jed turns his attention back to the book. I have no idea where it came from. I am certain it was not there before.
‘Is this the book I sent you?’ he asks.
I want to tell him that I don’t know, that I thought he had brought it with him. But I say nothing. Luckily, he doesn’t require an answer.
‘I never read it properly before. Never got the chance,’ he admits.
When the tone of his voice changes, I know that he is reading from the book.
‘Human cannibalism.’ He grimaces. ‘Forty-two cases discovered worldwide between 1911 and 2017. Clinically proven to be…’ he begins.
I know for certain that the book and the subject matter have nothing to do with me, because I would never leave such a thing out for Darkly to find. Yet, while he pauses, and I wait and wait and wait, I find myself holding my breath, till it hurts.
‘Extremely addictive.’
Aware that the grease from the fatty piece of lamb is trickling down my chin, I remove the pan from the hob and stare at the back of Jed’s head.
What if I start…
What if I start doing it again?
A numbness creeps over me as I hear myself repeatedly asking Dr Moses the same question. But Jed’s voice droning on in the background brings me back to the present. Oh God, he is such a stupidly slow reader, I think spitefully, wondering when he will ever shut up. But then it hits me that I already know the answer to that question.
‘Long-term side effects have been known to cause dramatic instability…’
There is a catch to his voice as he pauses. Here it comes—
‘Of the brain.’
At last he turns to face me, a startled look of fear and comprehension dawning in his different-coloured eyes.
‘It’s taken you a long time to figure it out, hasn’t it, Jed?’ I state coldly.
With the force of someone far stronger than myself, I hit him sideways on with the frying pan, catching the top and side of his head. Everything happens in slow motion. Bone splinters. Blood splatters. There is a sickening thud and a stunned silence as he goes down.
Where the joint of meat ends up, I do not know, but the hot meat fat continues to drizzle down Jed’s sun-weathered face, and I thank God it is over, that he cannot feel the pain. But then, his eyelids blink open, to stare accusingly at me, and I realise with a heavy heart that he is stunned, not dead. Pulse racing with terror, I imagine that both of his eyes have turned blue, yet I know that to be impossible. Deciding I cannot have him looking at me in such a reproachful way, I am left with no choice but to raise the frying pan again.
Second guessing me, Jed rolls onto his front and desperately tries to crawl towards the door. I am reminded yet again of the pig in the slaughterhouse, frantically trying to get away. Like that pig, J
ed is going nowhere. His movements are painfully slow, and a deep head wound leaves behind a trail of blood on the floor.
The baby watches Jed with interest, bouncing up and down in his chair, as if encouraging him to move faster. This is so cute. I manage to find a smile for him, before turning my attention back to my beautiful gypsy lover. Deciding that it would be kinder to put him out of his misery before he reaches the door, I go to stand over him. Sensing that my shadow is looming, he turns to look up at me. His eyes are filled with such sadness, I want to cry. Don’t plead. Don’t beg. It will all be over soon.
Without any hesitation, I bring the frying pan down with such force on his battered head, the cast iron structure splits into two, right down the middle. This time, when his eyes change colour, to a milky white, I know that it is done.
When the baby renews its crying, I drop the remains of the handle, and walk over to pick him up. Straightaway, I rock him. This always used to do the trick for Darkly, but not so my son, who continues to sob into my shoulder. Ignoring the blood splats on both our faces, I gaze into his perfectly blue eyes and share some perfectly good advice.
‘Never trust a man who isn’t your father. That’s Natalie’s law.’
Little Downey Beach
Darkly
It is dusk. Soon, any remaining snippets of daylight will disappear, along with Darkly’s tears. On no account must her mother know that she has been crying. In her world, tears are not allowed. Rubbing her reddened eyes, she sways on the swing hanging from the branch of a dying apple tree and scuffs her bare feet in the sandy soil. She doesn’t smile, as other children do, but nobody ever notices or comments on this peculiarity.
She does not take her eyes off the house by the sea, hoping that the door will eventually open and her mother will come out to welcome her back inside. She knows better than to try to go back in before being asked. Sometimes she can be out here for hours. Once, she spent a whole night outside, alone and forgotten about. Scratching her arm until it reddens, Darkly stops what she is doing as soon as she sees her mother come onto the porch. Ambling over, she pulls down the sleeves on her top to hide the fresh scratches on her arms but doesn’t know why she bothers. Nobody ever looks at her that closely.
Her mother is mostly in shadow but Darkly can make out the shape of a butcher’s saw in her hand. Blood drips from the saw onto the porch decking.
Drip. Splat. Drip.
Darkly had dared to hope that this time would be different. The man seemed so nice. Not like the others. But the faraway look on her mother’s face tells a different story. It is unnerving for Darkly to have her mother stare at her as if she doesn’t exist. She has that certain look in her eye again. The one that warns Darkly not to tell the truth, under any circumstances. The truth only makes her mother angry and confused. Usually, her mother’s eyes are as black as a raven’s but right now they are smoky grey. The colour reminds Darkly of ash left behind after a fire has burnt itself out. At times like this, Darkly knows it is best to avoid her mother, but she wants to find out about the man. For some reason she cannot comprehend, he is important to her.
‘Who that man, Mama?’ Darkly asks, trying to peer through the open door into the kitchen. She wants to see. She doesn’t want to see.
‘What man, darling?’ Her mother is vague.
Darkly can tell that her mother does not want to come back from the secret recesses of her mind, where she is hiding. But she must. Tugging impatiently on her hand, Darkly watches her mother’s beautiful face fill with confusion, quickly followed by anger.
‘I don’t see any man,’ her mother snaps. ‘Have you been making things up again?’
Shaking her head in fearful denial, Darkly backs away, but is nowhere near quick enough.
‘You must stand up straight. Don’t slouch.’ With nipping fingers, her mother shakes her hard, until her head wobbles on her shoulders. Biting her lip, Darkly prays that her tears will go unnoticed. But her mother notices everything when it suits her.
‘No tears, Darkly.’ Her mother tuts, abruptly letting go. ‘Mama won’t tolerate it.’
Darkly is saddened to see the distant look return to her mother’s eyes. At least while she is being shaken and shouted at, she is being shown attention. Now, as if she were in a world of her own, her mother hums a song to herself. This is nothing new. Whenever she gets like this, the same depressing tune shows up, like an unwelcome visitor. Then, unexpectedly, her mother marches back into the house and slams the porch door shut.
The House By The Sea
Natalie
As I step over Jed’s dead body, I amuse myself by wondering if his hand will snake out and grab my ankle. Isn’t that what happens in scary movies? But this is no movie, I remind myself, pausing to stare at what is left of him. His chest has been split down the middle, the skin is lying in folds by his side. The intestines and organs have been removed and sit in a bloody pile on an old-fashioned butcher’s weighing scales. I have made such a neat job of cutting up Jed’s body, I do not think my father could have done better.
Going over to the sink, I drop the butcher’s saw in a bowl of soapy water and turning on a tap, I let the cold water rinse away the blood on my hands. I stand there much longer than I should, gazing dreamily out of the window, remembering the day Jed showed up outside. He came back for me, like he said he would. Poor Jed. If only things could have been different. But thinking like this will only make me maudlin. The trouble is it is too quiet out here, even for me. The silence is suffocating. The baby, I must start thinking of him as Frank, is asleep, thank goodness, and Darkly is outside playing on her swing. She never gets tired of being outdoors. Such a happy little thing. We do not get any visitors out here so it’s just me and the children most of the time. It can be a lonely life, but it is best this way.
When I sense movement behind me, I don’t think anything of it at first. But when I hear the scrape of a shoe being dragged on the floor, I spin around so fast I think something inside my head pops.
It is impossible. There is no way—
Even I am not crazy enough to believe that this could be happening.
‘You’re dead,’ I say accusingly to Jed’s corpse, which has somehow pulled itself into a sitting position on the floor, surrounded by a large puddle of his own blood.
I watch in disbelief as Jed tries to stretch the trimmed back skin over the empty cavity of his chest, pulling a sad, confused face when he realises his organs are no longer there. His face is badly burned, almost cooked in parts, and bits of meat stick to his hair. When he stops what he is doing to stare at me, my blood runs cold.
‘You’re not real. You don’t exist,’ I hiss, reaching blindly for the butcher’s saw. But as my hand settles around the handle, I am hit by a memory so strong and powerful, I drop it.
There is a man standing in the open doorway. The first thing I notice about him is that he looks at home leaning against the doorpost. About the same height as me, he has grey shoulder-length hair tied in a ponytail.
‘Jed,’ I exclaim.
‘Sorry.’ He throws me a quizzical look, seems embarrassed even. ‘You must have me confused with somebody else. The name’s Tom. Tom Banks. I’m looking for my dog. Lost him on the beach. He’s old and deaf and I’m worried about him.’
He looks like Jed. Sounds like Jed. But—
When the porch door slams shut of its own accord, the jarring travels the length of my body. I glance fearfully back at the other doorway, but the man calling himself Tom Banks has vanished and Jed’s body is as it was – dead and butchered on the kitchen floor.
That’s when the music eerily starts to play. Nina Simone’s haunting track ‘I Put A Spell On You’ wraps itself around me, like a protective blanket. The song, once a favourite of my mother’s, and now mine too, soothes me as no other can. It lures me into the living room, but my movements are unnaturally slow, as if my body does not belong to me. My eyes feel incredibly heavy and my feet make no sound on the floor. I watch, fascin
ated, as the heavily scratched record spins around on the old-fashioned player. My first thought, on seeing it, is when did all this old stuff return? Didn’t Daniel throw out the record player and my mother’s willow-patterned dinner service when I was still in Thornhaugh?
Thornhaugh seems such a long time ago now. A different life almost. As for Daniel, I can barely remember what he looked like, although I will never forget his smell. Who could? Realising that the music has stopped, I lift the needle and gently replace it on the vinyl. As the opening ballad plays once more, I think I hear laughter coming from somewhere inside the house.
‘Is that you, Mother?’ My voice is a whisper, barely discernible above the music, but it is enough to drive the laughter away.
When my glance settles on a framed photograph turned face down on the mantelpiece, a sense of dread takes hold of me and won’t let go. Where has it come from? Why is it turned face down? Has it been there all along? Have I been ignoring its existence?
Sweat trickles down the back of my neck as I walk over to the fireplace. My hands shake so much, I have to take a deep breath before I am physically able to pick up the photograph. Even when it is in my hands, I do not turn it over. I keep my eyes closed as more forgotten memories assail me. I feel them crawling over me, like vermin, digging their way in.
‘And there’s no mad woman in the cellar out to get me?’ I hear my own voice, back from the past, intent on tormenting me.
‘Nobody is out to get you, Natalie.’ Calming reassurance from Dr Moses. ‘I have a copy of your mother’s death certificate right here if you want to see it.’
Next thing I know, I am in Little Downey cemetery watching my seven-year-old self at my mother’s funeral. There are a great many people there, villagers mostly, but it pours with rain, and a sea of umbrellas has gone up around the grave. Six men, including a tearful Bob Black, carry her coffin, but only two are needed. Towards the end, my mother barely weighed a thing. She never overcame her battle with anorexia, which the doctors warned would kill her in the end, but it was depression and a sense of desperation that sent her over the cliff edge that day.
