The knife dropped to the floor, the tip nicked a sliver of vinyl, out
of the floor tile. A listless old man, balding on top, grey hair hanging
in clumps around his ears, set down the plates, stooped and strained to
pick it up. In one arm he was carrying a birthday cake; in the other he
was trying to balance seven plates, napkins and the knife. After a few
attempts, the juggling act complete, he pushed open the door with his
backside and moved into the dining room.
“
Here comes the cake, for the birthday boy,” he broadcast, almost
singing.
The guests, at the table returned with varying degrees of, “OOOh’s” and “AAAh’s” and
a few rounds of, “Would you look at this?” Someone said, “Ten
candles for the big man!” Another, “Soon you’ll be shaving,
young fella!”
A man in a dotted bow tie stated, “I’ll need to watch out,
you’ll be having my job next.” Each of them chipped in with
other such drivel, all in an attempt to enhance a mediocre party for the ‘Birthday
Boy’.
The old man set the cake on the table, in front of the boy, who sported
big ears and two front teeth that had grown prematurely and way out scaled
his mouth.
“
Thanks Granda. Can I make a wish?”
“
You do what ever you like, young lad. This is your day, so make it a good’n.”
The boy straightened his neck and closed his eyes, deep in thought. After
what seemed like an eternity, he opened them and blew. A raucous, round
of applause followed the action, they patted his head, tossed his hair.
The man in the bow tie boxed the air with dummy punches and joked about “Give
the man a beer, for god sakes.”
Everyone laughed.
“
Did you make your wish?” Granda asked.
“
Yes.”
“
Well keep it a secret, or it won’t come true, now.”
The cake was divided up and passed round, along with beers and a ginger
ale for the boy. They all sang ‘Happy Birthday’ and more beer
went round. A stubby little, middle aged woman, with a double chin and
heavy, grey bags supporting her eyes, turned to the boy.
“
Did you get many presents today, then?”
“
Yeah! I got loads. I got a bike from Uncle John. Mum and Dad got me trousers,
a jumper and an Arsenal rig.” He looked towards his parents. “I
got ‘Airfix’, from you and an ‘Action Man’ and
loads of other stuff. It was brilliant!”
“
So what did Charlie get you, then?” A man asked, beer dripping from
his ginger beard.
The conversation at the table stopped. All eyes went to the little boy,
everyone with an expectant look on their faces. The boy paused.
“
Charlie got me this.” He pulled out the bottom of his T-shirt, to
display the front, it was blank. “It’s a picture of me and
Charlie; he got it done for me in one of those shops, where they put your
picture on the front. It’s the best present I’ve ever had.” A
tear welled in the corner of his eye.
With that the whole group turned towards a chair at the end of the table,
lifted their glasses.
“
To Charlie! Good man Charlie!”
The chair was empty.
* * * *
The bell tinkled as he pushed open the door of ‘Campbell’s,
All You Want’ mini-market. He scraped the snow from his boots, onto
the rubber doormat, leaving puddles of melting, dirty snow on the patchwork
lino-covered floor. He tucked his suitcase away, neatly to one side of
the door and brushed the loose snow off his raincoat. George Campbell
came out from behind a multicoloured bead curtain, straining to carry
four boxes of Baked Beans, tucked tight in under his chin and a delivery
note clutched in his teeth, as though the postman had just stuffed it
there, for posterity.
“
I thought I heard the bell,” he said, his speech coming out garbled,
through both the paper in his mouth and a mess of rotten teeth that looked
like a row of derelict houses. “Give us a minute, while I put these
down.” He placed the boxes on the counter, took the note from his
mouth and wiped a long string of saliva, onto his trousers. “Well
then, if it isn’t young Jeff. How the hell’s it going, young
fella. Back up for a while then, holidays I s’pose,” he said,
thrusting his hand forward as if demanding it to be shook.
“
Not too bad, George. Yourself?” Jeff replied; shaking his hand and
wincing slightly, George Campbell had a strong grip. “Christmas
break, usually two weeks off then back for the exams in January, but I
left a week early, thought I could just study here at home.”
“
Well, you were always the smart one, Jeff, ever since you were no high;
I knew you were a smart one. What is it you’re going to be again,
doctor or lawyer, something like that?” he asked, splitting open
a box with a Stanley knife and stacking cans on a shelf behind.
“
Anthropology.”
“
Well I don’t know what that is,” George said, chuckling at
his own ignorance. “But it sounds like fairly big stuff. Can’t
be far of the mark when it’s an ‘ology’. I always knew
you were a smart one, next thing you’ll be coming back here puttin
us all straight and I’ll tell you this for nothing, there’s
a few round here need puttin straight and I’ll not mention any names,
you know who I’m talkin about. Say no more, shtum.” He winked
and tapped his nose with his forefinger.
“
Yeah, well I suppose there is a few in need of a bit of readjustment,” he
agreed, smiling.
“
Never a truer word and you can take that to the bank! Anyway, what can
I get you, young Jeff?” George was eager to use his name at any
juncture, in case something of his perceived genius might rub off. As
the first person in the area, in many years to go to University, Jeff
had acquired something of celebrity status, treated with veneration that
usually would only be attributed to the priest or a schoolteacher.
“
I just need something to bring up to Mam. I was going to get flowers,
but then I thought maybe a box of chocolates or an ornament or something
like that. What have you in the line of that, George?”
“
If you want chocolates, you can’t go too far wrong with After Eight’s;
the women all love their After Eight’s. She’s mad about them,” George
said, in reference to his wife, whose name was Carol but mostly went by
the alias of She or Her and occasionally The War Office. “Or if
you wanted, I’ve got these here, wee ornaments.” He pointed
to a shelf carrying a series of plaster trinkets; they depicted various
scenes of the hunt. He presented one, it was the ‘Duck Shoot’,
a countrified gentleman, in a tweed jacket, his shotgun broke over his
arm and a dog bounding over the grass with a duck in its mouth. He had
it laid in the palm of his hand, like a waiter displaying an expensive
wine. The others, on the shelf were equally tacky, the ‘Fishermen’,
rods in hand, the ‘Fox Hunt’, same dog, different prize and
one with two gentlemen, dressed in similar attire, aiming to the sky to
disburse of a flock of invisible birds. “So, what do ye think, then?
They’re very popular and a well made wee article, to boot. Only
fourteen ninety nine.”
“
I can see that, they’re very nice, George,” he lied, cringing
at the prospect that anyone would even dream of buying one, let alone
give one as a present. “But I think I’ll just go for the ‘After
Eight’s’. I’m not, what you could call, the richest
in the world.”
“
Aye, s’pose the grant doesn’t stretch too far, what with electricity
and rent and that. So then, ‘After Eight’s’ it is, alright
then.” He reached down a box and deposited it into a white paper
bag; Jeff handed across a five-pound note. George opened his cash register,
it was old, with large keys and a drawer that sprang open with a jolt,
nearly took his finger off. “Ah! Ye bugger!” He returned the
change, put it in the bag, along with the chocolates and handed it across. “There
you go then, young Jeff. I guess, we’ll see you in the pub, the
night? We’re all meeting up with Charlie, if you want to come in.”
“
I might just do that George,” he affirmed. “But Charlie who?
I never knew any Charlie about here.” It was intriguing that the
town had a newcomer and more so that anybody would want to actually come
and live here.
“
Oh, Charlie. He’s the man; he’s a great fella. Everyone thinks
the world of Charlie. You’ll have to meet him,” George replied. “No,
wait a second, I reckon I’ll have to check with him, first, see
if it’s alright. He’s not too big on other people being around,
other than us that is.” He looked worried, as though his suggestion
had broken some unwritten law. “I s’pose I’d better
check with him, first. Ach, I’m sure it’ll be alright, though,
seeing you’re from round here and that. I’ll let you know.” He
patted Jeff’s shoulder, winked. “Well, now is that it then?
I have to be gettin on, unpacking all these here beans. Don’t put
off til tomorrow and don’t go anywhere empty handed, that’s
what my mam always used to say.”
Jeff lifted his case and opened the door; the bell tinkled and a sharp,
winter chill filled the shop. “That’s it, for now. I’ll
be heading on up the town, maybe see you later, then George?”
“
Aye, later then,” George replied. “Say hello to your mother
for me.” He disappeared, through the bead curtain to the back storeroom.
Jeff went out, the bell tinkled again as the door shut and he started
up the street, seven doors to his house.
“
Well fuck me pink,” he thought to himself. “New people in
Glenhill.”
Glenhill, was one of those typical Irish, picture postcard villages, complete
with wandering sheep, donkeys and old men with pipes permanently attached
to their bottom lip. The town was more secluded than others, the only
access road difficult to distinguish and lacking a signpost. In the small
population, everyone knew everyone else, lives merged, secrets were impossible
and gossip rife. To some degree or other most were related and as not
too many moved away, interbreeding probably accounted for the more than
average number of village idiots. However in its isolation Glenhill subsisted,
farmers traded, deliveries arrived on time and there was still a half-weekly
postal service.
Arriving at his house, he went into the kitchen, through a door that led
directly from the garden. “Mam! I’m home,” he shouted
and scraped the snow off his shoes. He placed his case on the floor, removed
his coat and hung it on the back of the door. “Mam! Mam! Are you
here?” There was no reply, that was unusual, because apart from
shopping, which she did early in the morning, his mother was always home
and if not, she would be no further than the front garden. Dad would be
at work, in the abattoir, where he was a slaughter man. He wouldn’t
be back til teatime, but Mam was always home and especially as he was
coming home. He went to the bottom of the stairs and called again, nothing.
He came back into the kitchen and saw that a note, lying on the dining
table.
“
Welcome home son. Sorry I wasn’t here when you get home. I had to
go over to Charlie, won’t be that long. There’s pork chops
and spuds in the oven. Make sure you turn it off after you. I’ll
see you later. Mam.”
“
Charlie again, must be some character,” he thought and went over
to the cooker. He opened the oven and using a pair of oven gloves, removed
a plate, set it on the table. He switched off the gas, got a knife and
fork from the drawer and sat down to eat. Through the window, his eye
caught that a crowd of about twenty people had gathered outside ‘Kyles’ petrol
station. Catching his attention mostly, because around here, three or
four was the biggest number of people that gathered anywhere, at anytime
except, maybe for ‘Logans’ pub. He placed his face closer
to the glass and squinted. Gathered on the other side of the street was
the most unlikely assembly of the miniscule populace of Glenhill, a neatly
sliced cross section of its two hundred or so residents. Mary Crawford,
a rich spinster who lived in what used to be Glenhill Castle, P.J. Morgan,
the groundkeeper of the school, dressed in a grubby, tattered bib and
brace. Molly and Martha Diamond, two sisters in their twilight years,
who hated each other with a vengeance, ever since Martha ran off with
Molly’s fiance, Jack, back when they were teenagers, around the
time of the war. The rift was permanent; Molly lovingly referred to her
sister as ‘That Cow’ and was known in return as ‘The
Sour Bitch’. One thing you could be sure of was that, Molly and
Martha Diamond would not be seen in the same place at the same time, under
any circumstances. The relationship didn’t last; Jack married Pauline
Mc Ivor and moved into Wilson’s mill! They too were among the congregation.
George Campbell from the shop and his wife Carol, Marko Grimes, the town
dipso and general nuisance, Brian Major of ‘Brian Major, Used Cars
and Van Hire’, Mick from the pub and Mary Flynn from the post office.
Jackie Baker, who had the fortunate occupation of being the Baker, a tacky
sign, in felt tip, on his shop window announced ‘Fresh Today, Baked
the Baker Way’. The Cardew twins, with their own pair of twins,
must run in the family, the three rhyming namesakes, Dave Davies, Kyle
Kylemore and Rob Roberts another drunk and complete nuisance. Billy Smyth
with a ‘Y’ and Barney Miller, who with five hundred head of
cattle and god knows how many sheep, was the towns richest man, drove
a ‘Range Rover’. Ann Ross who lived in a caravan and her husband
Mick, who didn’t live with her in her caravan, but preferred to
live with one of the Cardew twins and her enormous breasts. Pat Gormley,
John Grimes the local police sergeant and right there, mingled in among
the motley crew was Jeff’s mother and father. It struck him, that
although it was a small town, something was wrong with the make up of
this little menagerie. Glenhill was a place of habits and one of the habits
was knowing your place. Mary stuck to her Castle, the men to the pub,
the women bickered and an argument usually evolved into deep-seated resentment.
He opened the window and shouted across, “Mam. Dad!” The group
turned to him in unison, his father shouted back. “We’ll be
back over in a minute or two, son, just after we’ve seen to this.” And
turned away as they reconvened their meeting, his father’s curtness
left Jeff feeling a bit stunned. He cast it off, shut the window and returned
to his pork chops.
Half an hour or so later his parents arrived. “Sorry about that
son, we just had to arrange for Charlie’s party,” his father
announced. “We’re going to have it up at the old school, we
had first thought maybe in the pub, but the last two or three times we
had it there, Charlie didn’t like it. Says there’s too many
things to remember about in there, he likes us to have them in a more
out of the way, kinda place. Tell you what, I’ll ask him and see
if it’s alright for you to come to one of them, sometime, if you
like. He knows that you’re coming home, said he’d have to
meet you sooner or later. What do you reckon, Mother?”
“
Oh, yes, son. You’ll have to meet him sooner or later,” she
encouraged.
“
Charlie? Who’s Charlie? George Campbell was going on about him.” It
was beginning to concern him, he had talked to three people since he came
back, his parents and George Campbell and all they seemed to go on about
was this Charlie.
“
Ah, Charlie’s…. well…” He looked to his wife for
inspiration; they beamed broad smiles, like the cat and the cream. “Charlie’s
just…well…he’s just Charlie, isn’t he mother?” She
nodded in agreement. Pride shone on their faces, much the same as the
day Jeff announced that he had been accepted to University.
They chatted for a few hours, about his schoolwork, job prospects on finishing
and Dad’s forthcoming retirement from the abattoir, but mostly the
conversation would return to Charlie. What Charlie would do, how he’d
put things in perspective. Dad told how he was feeling a little put out
by having to retire, but that Charlie had put him right, he no longer
worried about it. It seemed to Jeff that Charlie was somewhat more than
a lively addition to the life of a boring, dozy, little village, in the
back end of nowhere. Charlie was, psychiatrist, analyst, social worker
all rolled into one, along with a celebrity status that was verging on
the popularity of Elvis. Charlie was some article and the people of Glenhill
worshipped him like hero. Whoever he was, he had certainly put a spark
into ‘Bally-go-backwards’ and any one, who could reunite the
warring factions of the town, must be some pup. He would, definitely have
to meet this Charlie.
Later Mam and Dad got ready, said their goodbyes and left for Charlie’s
party; Jeff rolled up on the couch and turned on the telly.
The next morning, when he came down for breakfast the only talk was of
the success of Charlie’s party and how it was better than all the
others put together. Plans would have to be made for tonight, but it would
be a hard job to do any better than last night’s. Charlie looked
great, everyone had a blast, and anticipation was high for the next one.
There would be a meeting at the usual time, two o-clock, in the usual
place, outside ‘Kyles’.
The radio was switched off.
“
Are you not listening to the News, Mam?” Jeff asked. “Is the
radio broke; it’s not like you to miss the news.” In their
house, the mornings were pretty much routine, the breakfast was prepared,
the News on the radio, that’s the way it had been for as long as
he could remember.
“
No, the radio’s fine, just don’t listen to the News much these
days. Too much bad news about, anyway. Charlie says it clouds your mind.” There
was finality in her answer, as though they were going through a period
of cleansing, old habits were being shed for newer ones. Jeff’s
parents were not complicated or pretentious, but they had had a certain
flair for keeping abreast of the goings on in the world. Now, however
they appeared deadpan, apathetic, there was a blank contentedness to their
actions. It worried him.
“
This Charlie’s some man. I’ll have to meet him.”
“
You will, son. Not just yet,” Dad answered him.
On the surface everything was reasonably the same as when he left, but
he couldn’t help feeling, since this Charlie had arrived, major
changes had taken place in Glenhill and he wasn’t sure it was all
for the best.
Since he was a boy, being that there were not that many children, of his
own age around Glenhill, Jeff had developed a strong friendship with Pete
Dawson, a farming man, who made his living from a small share on Mary
Crawford’s estate. Known locally as ‘Big Pete’, at six
foot five and broad as a barn, Pete was a colossus of a man, given to
losing his temper but always available to assist with any of those jobs,
that required his mammoth stature. Jeff had first met Big Pete when he
was seven. He was at the river, fishing. After a fruitless hour of catching
only spricks and one pounders, his arm near pulled out of its socket,
as the line took something that to seven-year-old Jeff was as big as a
whale. He laboured with it for a while, nearly going in himself on one
occasion. Along the bank sat Big Pete, drawing on his pipe, noticing,
with some humour, the struggles of the boy and ‘Moby Dick’.
He went over and instructed the fledgling fisherman in how to land it.
From there their friendship grew, when not at school, Jeff sought out
Big Pete, who taught him the greater things in life, fishing, making rabbit
snares and books, Big Pete was fond of a good read. He told him stories
from the war, tales and legends, one time he even let him drive his car
around the enclosure around his house, Jeff was only eleven. He was close
to Big Pete and on his return; Pete came first in the pecking order of
people to see.
“
I think I’ll go up to see Big Pete, Mam,” Jeff announced.
The conversation stopped and they both looked at him as though he had
blasphemed, that the mere mention of the name was some kind of sacrilegious,
profanity in itself.
“
You mean, Sad Pete, Jeff, son,” his father started. “You’ll
find that he’s changed. He didn’t want to get on with us,
took himself away, locked himself in, must have made him a bit mad in
the head. Anyway, you’ll not get too much out of Sad Pete; don’t
even see him around anymore. I wouldn’t even bother if I were you.”
“
Is he alright. Is he sick, he always had that thing with that injury he
got,” Jeff asked, the worry obvious in his tone.
“
Oh we don’t really know, son,” his mother replied. “All
we know is that he took himself off, locked himself in and nobody seen
him after that. Good riddance, I say. Charlie didn’t like him anyway
and you know Charlie. Eh! Dad!” They smiled at each other, that
same gratified smile they always seemed to have when speaking about Charlie.
“
Well, I’ll go up anyway.” He rose from the table and put on
his coat and wellies.
“
What ever you like son, we’ll see you later, then,” his father
replied and he left them, engrossed in their organisation. Big Pete’s
house was attached to the gable wall of Mary’s stable building,
half a mile up the hill and was accessed by a narrow lane. Overnight the
snow had deepened, although it had stopped sometime during the night,
he saw that there were no tracks in and around the house. At this time
of the day Big Pete would be well on his feet and have cleared the drifts
back to the wall, but the lay was undisturbed. He went to the door and
went to knock, the door was ajar, snow had blown through the gap and he
could see that drifts had formed up against the far wall and the furniture.
He pushed it open and went in.
Big Pete’s was a two-room house, a main kitchen come living room
and the bedroom; the necessities for use of a toilet were performed outside.
The kitchen was empty; the temperature inside the same as out, cups and
plates of half-eaten food littered the table and floor. The snow must
have blown in hard, it had piled high in every corner, he could only just
make out the form of the couch below. He poked around, called out, no
answer. He went to the bedroom door and opened it, the snow was worse
in there. A window had shattered, allowing the heavy downfall to drive
straight in; everything was buried under a blanket of snow. A crust of
ice had formed on the top; stalactites of ice were hanging from the ceiling,
the mirror on the dressing table opaque, with frost.
He made his way through, searching out where the bed should be; a sharp
pain shot up his leg as he found it, stubbing his shin on the iron bed
frame. He scraped away the snow, the bed was empty and he thanked God
that Big Pete wasn’t in it. He backed up, turned to leave, Big Pete
wasn’t here. His foot struck something, the leg of a chair that
was hidden by the snow; cautiously he pushed his hand through, touched
something cold and pasty. Frantically he swept the snow away and sitting
there, looking up at him, was Big Pete. His head lolled to one side, his
eyes had sunken back into his head, his face caught in a grimace, lips
stripped back, displaying two full rows of teeth. His skin was emaciated,
a greenish, yellow, a stream of saliva ran from his mouth and had frozen,
in a thick, milky, icicle from his chin. Jeff took him by the arms and
shook him, a shock reaction; Big Pete creaked as he broke from the grip
of the ice. The body was rigid, a solid, frozen mass. He dropped him,
the slab that was Big Pete landed with a thud; a finger snapped and fell
to the floor. Jeff looked down, paralysed by the image that was before
him, panic gripped him, he ran from the house. He stopped at the top of
the lane, to catch his breath, his stomach gave in and he threw up.
Jeff burst through the door, disregarding the wet shoe-prints he was leaving
on the beige, carpeted floor. Mam and Dad were seated at the table, pouring
over George Campbell’s full collection of ‘Scenes of the Hunt’.
“
Oh, Father, they’re perfect, Charlie will love them. Great decision.” His
mother kissed his fathers cheek. “A lot better than that silver
rose bowl that Pauline Mc Ivor brought with her, last night and those
plastic, hanging things that Dave Davies took with him, when it was his
time. Well, I know he doesn’t have a lot of money and the wolves
might be at the door, but that was just down right cheap. He’ll
have to do better than that on his next turn.”
“
Big Pete’s dead,” Jeff announced his pitch feverish. His mother
turned to him slowly; his father remaining ignorant of his presence, meticulously
inspecting the array of ornaments that lay in front of him.
“
What was that you say, son?” She asked, non-committal.
“
I said Big Pete’s dead. I found him up at his house, he must have
frozen to death, there was snow everywhere. We’ll have to ring someone,
the police, someone.”
“
Ah, son, don’t be bothering yourself about him,” she said,
dismissive, her attention returning immediately to Dad and the figurines. “Come
over here, son, look and see what we got Charlie.”
“
What do you mean, Mam? Big Pete’s dead, don’t you understand,
we have to tell someone.”
They ignored him, vacant and oblivious, his father showing his wife the
cute duck hanging from the dogs’ mouth, with the tip of his finger
and a beaming smile.
“
Fuck this, this is shite,” Jeff said and bolted out the door again.
He rushed up the street and into the Post Office, he slipped on the ice
on the door saddle, grabbed hold of the doorframe, his arm gave a painful
jerk as he regained his balance.
“
Mary, quick, you have to ring the police, Big Pete is dead!” he
demanded.
Mary was sitting behind the counter; her head thrown back, her eyes rolled
up, moaning gently, her breath had fogged up the glass of the partition
window. He approached, gradually, nursing his arm. When he got a clear
view across the desk, he could see that her skirt was pulled up; her knickers
hung around one ankle and planted firmly between her legs, the head of
John Grimes, in full uniform, twitching, in a rapid up and down motion.
He felt nauseous; Mary Flynn was seventy-two, John Grimes only six years
out of the police training school. She had one breast exposed, it hung
limp and flat underneath her armpit, her false teeth had dropped forward
and dribble was running out of her mouth. He retched, it stung, a sharp
cramp gagged the back of his throat, anything that he could bring up was
already gone, from the episode at Big Pete’s. He ran out on the
street; he called out, choking, to anyone who would listen. “Big
Pete is dead! Can’t you’se hear me, he’s dead! Anybody!” Across
at ‘Kyles’ the group had gathered, they stared at him vacantly
then looked away.
He spent the rest of the day in hiding, sitting in the old boathouse at
the river. He used to fish from here as a kid and he felt a relative safety
from the madness that had gripped Glenhill. Everything was upside down,
his parents were strangers, Glenhill had turned into a ‘Moonie’ convention,
sexual promiscuity knew no age limits or moral boundaries and was going
on in broad daylight. Most of all, Big Pete was dead and nobody could
give a shit.
Night had closed in by the time he had plucked up the courage to return.
When he arrived at the town, the only illumination was the streetlights;
the houses and shops were in darkness and the street empty. The open fire
in ‘Logans’ bar would usually cast a reflective warmth on
the frosted glass of the window, but it too was in darkness, empty. He
wandered round, squinting through windows for signs of life, there were
none. He noticed a faint glow, snaking out from behind Brian Major’s
car showroom; he went over and peered round into the yard that used to
be the playground of the old school. Through the gap in the door he could
make out a hazy, incandescence, in the background a low murmuring sound.
Jeff approached the building, with easy and deliberate steps, he placed
his eye to see through the crack in the door but his vision was obscured
by the doorjamb. He remembered that the old school had a small sky light,
at the back near the roof. He went round, picking his steps carefully,
the murmuring sound getting louder as he neared the window. He jumped;
to see if he could get a handhold and pull himself up, it was too high.
At his feet were a pile of cement blocks, leftovers from repair work,
he placed them three high and stepped up. His eyes could just about see
over the ledge, but what he could see was enough.
The whole town of Glenhill was there. The room had been decked in candles,
at the side wall, what once would have been the teachers desk, had been
converted into a shrine. Ornaments, clothes, valuables, gold and silver,
T.V.s, videos, Hi.Fi’s, children’s toys, all sorts of personal
items had been neatly displayed around and about the desk. The assembly
was adorned with candles, lit and placed deliberately so they painted
a spectral, glow onto a picture that hung on the wall. At the back of
the room, lying face up on the floor, naked, arms outstretched were Billy
Smyth and Nora Cardew, with her two children laid between them. Symbols
had been carved into their abdomen, the characters produced trickles of
blood, which ran in rivulets down their sides and pooled on the floor.
The rest of the congregation stood, swaying, in a semicircle around the
shrine, arms raised before them, intoning to the picture on the wall that
was void, image-less. His eyes moved to the area right in front of the
shrine, lying on the floor, faced up and naked was his mother and father,
their bodies covered head to foot in symbols, blood dripping from the
freshly made wounds, their faces blank and glazed.
The chanting raised in pitch; the swaying increased in intensity, as the
congregation moved in unison, hypnotised. A dark shadow rippled across
the picture, they called out in words Jeff couldn’t understand,
the candles on the altar flared in time to the hymn. A spiral of black,
ethereal, vapour drifted out from the frame, even through the window he
caught its pungent odour, he recoiled as the smell stabbed his nostrils.
The umbra moved out and round the room, wisping, swirling in and out the
occupants, the chanting increased to fever pitch. It stopped, clouded
above his mother and father and descended, slowly to engulf the two reclining
figures on the floor.
He shouted out, “Mam! Dad!” The gathering broke from their
trance, glared at him through the window; their teeth bared, snarling.
He fell back, cracking his head on the ground, a gash opened up on the
side of his head, warm blood trickled down the back of his neck. He staggered
to his feet, as the door of the old school flew open and the people of
Glenhill spilled into yard and drove towards him. He went for the street,
using the wall of the showroom to pirouette out, the cloudiness in his
head and the slippery surface, making his footing unsure. Rob Roberts
caught up with him, grabbed hold of his collar, nearly had him but slipped
and went down, hard. Jeff heard a dull crack, as he landed on the ice.
The jolt made him fall, but gave him the break he needed. He slid down
the hill, on his back, stretching the gap between himself and his assailants,
who were colliding with each other, in a state of confusion and crashing
down one by one on the ice. He came to a stop just short of the town road,
got to his feet and dashed back up the street towards his father’s
car. He opened the car door, Dad never kept it locked, didn’t need
to in Glenhill. He rummaged under the seat, found the keys and tried the
ignition. He had to grind it a few times and by the time the engine kicked
in, his attackers had surrounded the car, their faces scratched and bloodied.
They shook and battered on the car, the side window smashed through and
Pat Gormley grabbed for him. His foot slipped of the clutch and the car
took a lunge forward, then stalled. Fighting against the grip Pat had
on his throat, he managed to get it started again, put his foot down and
ploughed through the crowd, breaking Pats arm at the elbow. His wheels
spun as he veered out onto the town road, taking a clump out of the hedge
and trailing it behind him, skating in the direction of the junction with
the main road.
For four miles, he hadn’t dropped much below fifty, as he arrived
at the junction with the main road; he checked the mirror and saw that
he hadn’t been followed. He dropped speed and turned out, leaving
Glenhill behind him.
* * * *
He reached the city early in the morning, stopped by his digs and slept
up until late afternoon. He hadn’t slept well, waking often; as
fits of panic gripped his troubled sleep. He dressed and went down stairs
to the Halls cafeteria, stood in line and served himself a salad and a
bread roll; he was hungry but would only be able to manage something light.
He paid the cashier, took his tray and sat down beside James Gibson.
“
Woho, Jeff man. What’s the cráic, Jack? Thought you were
heading up home for the holidays?” James asked, a slice of bacon
half in - half out of his mouth.
“
I did,” Jeff replied, noncommittal.
“
So decided to come back for the Christmas bash then?”
“
Not really, can’t really talk about it.”
“
Know what you mean. It’s going to be some wing-ding, three live
bands, disco and all the booze and birds you can drink,” James asserted. “Make
sure you wear the bag, though; don’t want to be waking up with a
pebble dashed cock. Know what I mean,” he said laughing and pointing
to his groin.
“
No, it’s not that. It’s just, well…” he hesitated. “It’s
nothing.”
“
Okay Dokey, then, I’ll be seeing you later, me old mucker! No excuses.”
“
Maybe.”
“
Maybe, nothing, son. You have to make it, biggest one of the year.”
“
No. It’s not that… It’s just…”
“
Sorry to cut you of there, Jeff, me old china,” James interrupted. “Have
to go. I’m the man setting up the P.A., so I’d better be getting
on with it. The last thing I want to do is to make a bollocks of the whole
thing. No P.A., no gig, know what I mean.” He stood to leave. “And
you know… Charlie would be right pissed off if there was no gig.” |
