Ruined

The icy gusts of wind made her tremble uncontrollably. Miriam drew her beanie down over her ears and tried to rub the ache away. She longed to just be at home – with her homemade pumpkin soup, her knitting, her books, her cat Tiggy and her cheap heater she could barely afford to run. She waited at the bus stop – a solitary figure – and tilted her head to the menacing, grey sky to try to blow smoke rings with the condensation of her breath. I wonder if babies conceived out of love grow up to be happier, more prosperous adults than babies borne from a one night stand… How could we obtain the empirical data for this research? Would the study group…? She shook the musings from her head and slumped.

The bus was late, she checked her grandmother’s antique silver watch against the timetable on the post. A paper flapping on the other side of the post ensnared her attention and she moved around to inspect it. ‘MISSING: Anne Le Brique.’ Miriam took in nothing further of the words – her eyes locked onto those staring right back at her. It filled her with sorrow.

The bus turned the corner and pulled up at Bus Stop 14. She smiled and nodded at the bus driver and took a seat. Her face was turned toward the frosted window and she rubbed a porthole with the blade of her gloved hand – but she didn’t take in one tree, one house, one car or anything else the bus passed. She rubbed her hands to warm them up and her mind started spiraling around and around with questions – What happened to you Anne? Are you okay? Are you missing or did you disappear? Why did you choose to disappear? What are you running from? Is Le Brique French for… This is my stop!

Miriam alighted from the bus and was, as always, confronted by the ruin of the old shop. Faded, painted signs advertised both ‘Music Lessons’ and ‘Framing’ and she wondered: Did these businesses operate at the same time? When did trading for both cease? Why? Miriam was a deep thinker. She could be physically present but her mind could be in search of water on Mars and if any flowers grew there. Miriam tried to explain this to her few, close friends – That there were surface thinkers and then there were the deep thinkers. Take the surface of the sea. Some thought at that level only and their minds never took them deeper, below the surface, but Miriam’s did and her life was richer for it. She felt sorry for all the places and spaces and magick the surface thinkers missed out on. The bottomless, under world of the surface.

Miriam knew the old shop well as she had made a new study of each part of it when she walked passed. To her left, an old fountain with what looked like a black marble tombstone behind it – with Violin, Viola, Cello, Piano in gold. Behind these, dirty windows. Someone had scratched: 'I miss you XXOXX.' She could make out a few violins hanging, pegs, books on the floor, smashed porcelain figurines. Utterly abandoned and left in such disarray. The mess wasn’t caused by being somewhat exposed to the elements with the cracked glass. Once upon a time – someone cared. One day – they stopped. The old shop had a tale to tell. Why didn’t the owners pack-up before moving on? Did they die? Did they join the Witness Protection Program? Why didn’t their family clean it up? Don’t they have a family? How come it’s permitted to stay like this on a main road? Where’s the owner?

Miriam moved deliberately on to the corner where the front door stood desolately. A printed table was still adhered to the front door:

Music Lessons

– Suzuki, Traditional and Modern.

Books $16. Cassette tapes $20.

All fees cash in advance with enrollment.

Missed lessons by students are charged.

Missed lessons by Tutor are credited.

Tutor to be addressed as Mr Prescott.

The timetable ended with a landline number Miriam had dialed before, but the line was dead. A smashed window had been boarded up with rusted, corrugated iron. Someone had scribbled ‘Vivian was here’ in the grime on the window.

Miriam could tell the old shop was once clean and neat and orderly. Something happened – it became cluttered with hoarding. Something happened – someone stopped taking out the rubbish. What started all of this? Or were there squatters? Burglars? Why didn’t they steal the violins? Someone looking for something? A bookshelf occupied the entire left wall and ‘The Roman Empire’, ‘The Aztecs and Mayans’ could still be read on the spines of books precisely packed from tallest to shortest. Magnificent paintings of magnificent stallions galloping were hung on the back wall. Golden frames were filed into a rack on the floor on the right.

Again Miriam trembled uncontrollably – but it wasn’t another icy gust of wind. The old shop was creepy but she also found it fascinating, more than that, spellbinding. She removed her beanie and gloves, warily stepped closer to a window that had a hole smashed through it and placed her face inside. There someone stood. Miriam jolted back and cut the top of her head on a tooth of cracked glass. She apologized to the occupant and pressed her hand on her head. She waited for profanities, yelling, a threat to call the police. The old shop lay soundless and still. She looked back into the room. That someone was a mannequin looking out toward the road. It had no legs and sat atop a table. Nude but for a floral bra. It once had arms but they had been ripped off.

Below the mannequin another board with gold writing advertised: ‘Prescott Music Gallery’ with a tangled monogram. On the table beside the mannequin were tea cups and vases and pornographic magazines. Broken fine champagne bottles beside torn cartons of wine. Why did a music school or framing business need a mannequin? Classy possessions amongst junk. Elegance had met with vulgarity. Refinement had danced with wickedness. A cyclone had swept up all of these apposing things and dumped them into these rooms. An uneasy feeling sat in the pit of Miriam’s stomach. She started feeling the old shop belonged to someone of an unsound mind.

Miriam stood fixed to the spot, motionless but for her eyes darting around the room. Another icy gust of wind swept dirt into her eyes and a stench into her nostrils. She turned away affronted and repulsed to dry-wretch. She knew what that stench was after sitting beside her dying grandmother. All day and night. Until a nurse came in one morning to ensure her grandmother’s pillows were puffed, she had suffice morphine and enough oil was in the burner to mask the stench. There was no oil. The nurse called the doctor in and the doctor announced her grandmother had passed – some hours ago. That stench was the foul odour of a rotting corpse.

Miriam didn’t know what to do. She was oblivious to the blood trickling down her forehead. Phoning the police wasn’t a factor as she didn’t have a mobile; she had a landline at home. She didn’t think – she reacted like a cockroach. She didn’t have infinite scenarios swirling around her head. She thought that someone may need her help, that she must find a way in. She tried the front door but it was locked shut and the piled rubbish behind was a barricade anyway. She raced around the side of the shop – seeking an entrance – be it built on purpose or not. At the back of the premises she spied a door. Miriam hurled herself up over the fence, twisted through mounds of decaying and damp newspapers, tree stumps, a chandelier. Her hand grasped the back door. It opened with little effort and the old shop woke up and yawned it’s putrid breath.

Miriam stood rooted to the spot. She summoned all her might to not pass out with the sinful stench. Her wound had stopped bleeding but all her blood-crusted eyes could see were curtains of cobwebs violently to-ing and fro-ing in the icy gusts. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark room. She waited for her grandmother’s voice to caution her. She waited. She thought she could hear something. Like a raven’s caw springs up from the bottom of a valley, a weak and dry voice called up and out from behind the warren of rot. Swarms of dead flies were trampled underfoot as she turned primitive and hunted down the source of the sound.

Miriam was confronted. It took some moments for her eyes to pass on the image to the brain, which in turn took some moments to figure out what it was she beheld. An old man lying at an unnatural angle. A flannelette shirt that seemed it had never been taken off since it was put on years ago. Dark navy trousers. His hands and face gnawed away by rats. Bone exposed. His teeth in a sickening sneer that sent chills down her bone marrow. His black, mangled scalp lying a few metres from him. A little black book clasped to his chest as though for dear life.

Miriam stepped closer as her sixth sense ordered her to. She unfastened the little black book from it’s death grip. The front cover – more gold writing: ‘Mr A. Prescott.’ She flicked to the first page.

Vivienne Avon.

26.

Blue eyes.

Brunette.

5 ft. 7.

A navy dress with white flowers.

Soprano.

'Queen of the Night?'

Outside the library.

Off Stream St, after the look-out.

Anne Le Brique.

43.

Hazel eyes.

Brunette.

5 ft. 6.

Floral blouse and blue jeans.

Alto.

'Stabat Mater.'

In the park.

Off Stream St, before the look-out.

Miriam Loveday

34.

Blue eyes.

Blonde.

Floral beanie.

Mezzo Soprano?

'O Mio Babbino Caro.'

Bus Stop 14.

The grimace dropped from Miriam’s face. The little black book dropped from her hands. The corpse groaned. A blood-curdling scream was heard and it came from the depths of her soul. She ran and ran. Her ginger cat meowed as she barged into her flat and he moved to the background as he sensed something was afoot. She called the police. She informed the operator what happened. She repeated what happened slowly, intelligibly as instructed. She hung up, switched the little heater on and fell asleep as it chugged away. Tiggy found his way to her lap and purred.

***

Miriam woke up with a start. Her landline was ringing.

“Hello?”

“Yes hello. Is that Miriam Loveday?”

“Yes. Yes. I’m Miriam Loveday.”

“Miriam – it’s Detective Rory Wishart of the CIB. I have two things I need to tell you. Mr Prescott is currently in surgery. He fell and broke his hip. He’ll need skin grafts. Looks like he’s going to make it which is what we want. He will be charged with six counts of murder. Possibly more. Plotting to kidnap. Secondly, Anne Le Brique’s family offered a reward for the location of their daughter. We found her. Because of you. Obviously that’s not what anyone wanted but they can now bury her and have closure. Hopefully. Hopefully, one day, find some kinda peace. At a later time, they will organize to deposit the $20,000 into your account. I will call you tomorrow as you’ll need to come into to give a formal statement. I can pick you up – the wind has been so icy cold. Any questions Miriam?”

“No… thank you… Sir.”

Miriam glanced around her room. Six counts of murder. Six. Possibly more. $20,000. Six. Miriam Loveday. Floral beanie. Plotting to kidnap. I don’t want that money. The Le Brique family can keep it. I have all I need - my homemade pumpkin soup, my knitting, my books, Tiggy and my cheap heater.