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Slow Poison - Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

By David Philip IrelandPublished 3 years ago 11 min read
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...damn their souls...

Chapter Sixteen

Stonehouse. January 22nd

“Well, Mister Hudson, we don’t have too much on our books for rent at the moment. It does rather narrow your choices, I’m afraid.”

Alan leafed through his files, lifting out pages of properties to rent as he came to them.

“Debbie, will you fetch us some coffee. You would like some, Mister Hudson?”

“Yes. Black. No sugar. Thank you.”

“Look. There are five or six here. Sit down and we can go through them. How long were you thinking of renting?”

“A year. Maybe a little longer.”

He was obviously wealthy. A subdued elegance. Alan had watched him park the Mercedes in the Woolpack car park. A current registration number. Hand stitched Armani. A manicure.”

“These are a bit remote, I’m afraid, but if you see something you like, we can run up now if you have the time.”

Trim looked over the details sketched out in Becky’s descriptive prose. Any one of the remote cottages would have suited his purpose. He chose a restored seventeenth century cottage bordering one of the royal estates.

“Now, that one is a remarkable property. We were lucky to be able to include it on the books. The owner is in software. Doing a lecture tour of the States, before taking up a post there. If it’s peace and quiet you’re looking for, this place could be perfect. Beautifully restored too. And one of the finest views in the county, when the snow lets up.”

Debbie brought the coffee. There were digestives nestling on a saucer. Trim had not yet breakfasted. Was tempted to take two. One for now, one for the pocket.

“Please have a biscuit.”

Trim took one and bit into with pleasure. Alan took one and snapped a half moon from the edge.

“This one. I like the sound of it. I have time to view it now.”

The Mercedes followed the Range Rover along the Cainscross Road into Stroud, leaving the B4070 the other side of Painswick. There was snow piled high all along the hedgerows. White everywhere. The grey cloud cover was oppressive, with no promise of sun. The signposts too had a sullen ring about them, dour names embossed black on white; Miserden, Sudgrove, Duntisbourne Rouse. Drab, dirge-like names. Old Saxon encampments razed and rebuilt. And from The House, griffins glowered out across the Park, willing the unwelcome intruders away.

Alan’s mood was bright, the prospect of an unexpected sale boosted his spirits. He whistled Sting tunes as he manoeuvred the Rover around the narrow lanes, made narrower by the banks of snow. Trim filled his journey with the deranged music of Schulman, trailing the taillights of the Rover, just out of reach of the throw back of snow from Alan’s wheels.

They drew to a halt with the village still out of sight in the dip beyond. The squat church tower was barely visible against the snowy backdrop. The house was set back from the lane behind a high Victorian red brick wall.

“See what I mean about the privacy?” Alan said. He led the way to the front door. The air inside was cold, but dry.

“The owner chappie installed solar panels a year back. It’s quite a place.”

Alan turned on a tap in the small, well-fitted kitchen. Water gushed into the sink.

“This will be one of the few properties around here to still have running water.”

Trim looked around at the oak beamed living room. There was little furniture; low leather seating units, a marble coffee table, a stripped pine dresser, a few water-colours around the walls. He felt comfortable, felt a sort of affinity.

“I’ll show you the bedrooms.”

A stairwell behind a door, cramped and curving, almost a priest hole.

“Charming feature, isn’t it.”

The first bedroom was sparsely furnished like a cell, the roughcast plaster walls thrown into relief by the light from a small window set high under the beams. The second bedroom was fussier; the walls covered with a tiny floral print wallpaper with curtains and quilt in the same design.

“The bathroom is through here.”

Alan opened a door in the second bedroom leading to the quite spacious bathroom. A circular black bath had been set into the floor like a quasar, the tile work a glittering black. The window, floor to ceiling, looked shamelessly out across the huge garden and wooded valley beyond. The view, from within and without was screened by four glass shelves set at intervals across the window. Each shelf held a large variety of coloured glassware in deep jewel colours. Mostly ornamental, but some containing exotic oils and essences.

“He obviously enjoys his bath-time. Only the rubber duckies are missing.”

“You said there was an attic. I would like to see it.”

“Well, it’s not much. Water tank, the solar panels. It’s fairly small, you know.”

They reached the attic by means of a drop down ladder, which Alan pulled down through a small aperture in the ceiling of the first bedroom. The room ran the length of the house and was more of a loft than an attic. There were no walls, just the tent like roof sloping down, allowing standing room at the apex only. The loft had a distinctive odour; the peppery dusty smell of a crypt in the bowels of a cathedral, or the pages of a leather bound book. Trim knew the words by heart.  

How well we covered our tracks, how definite our departure, the house alone witness to our breath, left hanging in whispered pockets of condensation around the stem of a blemished apple in the winter loft.

There was little light. What light there was came from a small triangle of glass set in the far wall just under the eaves. And from the opening in the floor. Dust floated determinedly in the shafts of light.

“Yes, I like the house. If you have the paper work with you, we can settle everything here and now.”

“Fine! Yes, I do have the lease with me.”

They sat on the leather units, Alan waiting, holding a pen in readiness as Trim leafed through the contract, studying everything.

“There is, of course, a deposit due. A cheque will be fine.”

“How much?”

“Three months up front.”

Trim was already counting out the money in fifty pound notes when Alan looked up.

“If I may ask - what plans do you have while you’re here? Are you a writer by any chance?”

Trim laughed.

“Right first time.”

He did not elaborate.

“Well, as far as the paperwork is concerned, you are now the tenant. I’ll leave the keys with you.”

Trim handed Alan his signed copies of the lease, plus the roll of notes.

“There is a General Stores in the village. That I do know.”

“I know the district. I’ll find my way around all right.”

“Oh, the telephone is connected. Ex directory.”

“Good.”

The two men shook hands. When the Range Rover was out of earshot, there was nothing else to hear. The birds were sheltering where they could, ruffled and plump, waiting for spring. A dog barked. An echo followed. Then nothing.

 

Trim walked to the phone. He lifted the receiver and pushed the buttons. He laid the receiver on its back like an upturned beetle. He sat very still, breathing lightly as the connecting number rang. A voice, annoyance, suspicion and then finally, the dead tone.

“Oh, not again.”

“Well if it was, he didn’t say anything this time.”

“You’ll have to have that number changed.”

“Becky. About yesterday...well, I said a lot of unkind things. I just want to know if you can forgive me?”

This was the last thing Becky felt like.

“Just forget it, Jan.

Why did she sound so complacent, even when accepting an apology. Janet wanted more.

“Glyn and I think the world of you and Sarah. We would hate anything to come between us and spoil that.”

“Jan, I know. It’s been a hell of a time. I think I felt it the hardest the night it happened. In the hotel afterwards. When I went back there. When I was alone. Since then, I feel numb. I don’t know any other way to describe it.”

There was an underlying sense of freedom and relief that she could never put into words. Janet’s outburst had forced Becky to put her entire life into perspective. Fred had been a mistake. Silk purses and sows ears. Had their marriage been like that?

 

 

 

Veenhuizen. January 22nd

“Cheers for looking me up.”

“This is not a social call. I have maybe some question for you.”

“Yeah. I thought it must be summat like that.”

Koning handed Den a cigarette. He snatched it greedily.

“How are they treating you here? Good, I hope?”

“Yeah, it’s fucking brill! Just like being on fucking holiday.”

“Good.”

“Wos up, then? Wot d’you wanna know?”

“The night of the stabbing. Was there anyone else in the Piano Bar? Anyone besides the couples?”

“Oh Christ, we’ve been over that. I dunno. I was pissed”

“Does this photofit mean anything to you?

Koning held up a photocopy of the assemblage that the flamenco waiter had put together. He seemed to have an unerring eye for detail. The photofit looked a lot like the man in the camel coat.

“Hang on! I’ve seen this geezer before!”

Koning felt his hair stand on end. He could not believe his ears.”

“You have seen him before? Where?”

“I don’t fucking know. Could’ve been anywhere.”

“Please. You must try. This might be vital.”

“I dunno. Oh Jesus. Have you got another fag?”

Koning handed him the pack. He lit up and inhaled. Koning looked him over. Den’s hair was beginning to grow back. It was redder than Koning remembered.

“Hang on a bit. I remember. We was in the street somewhere an’ I seen him. I remember coz I seen him again. Not in the Vic. Not there. I know. Up by the prossies.”

Koning listened. The boy looked like a G.I. from a movie. He didn’t sound like one.

“I only remembered him the first time ‘cause I seen him a second. He banged into us when I come out of the prossies place.”

“When?”

“The night the bloke got cut the lads an’ me went to see a fuck show an’ I went to some chink bint for a blow-job. He banged into us when I come out an’ he limped off like he shit himself.”

“Are you sure it was Trim I showed you? Is this Trim you saw on those times?”

Den looked again. Might have been. He couldn’t remember whether he had seen him in The Victoria or not. He could barely remember being there himself.

 

The Cotswold Cottage

The silence woke him, splintering his dream with the force of a pile driver. He could see his pale skin reflected in the black tile. The water had cooled and the bubbles had drifted to the edge of the bath. Through the oily film on the surface of the water, the long scar glowed lividly like a streak of summer lightning, or the vapour trail of an invisible jet. He traced the scar with a fingertip and could still feel pain running from his groin to his shin. So many stitches. The scar tissue ribboned down; parallel tracks, sleeper stitches, the rush of blinding pain welling up with the force of steam escaping from the whistle of the Bristol express roaring underneath the grey iron bridge.

But it had not been the Bristol express. The rush, the roar, had been a Norton coursing down, coursing down the uncharted asphalt of Midland Road. From eighty-one to seventeen. Damn their souls to hell. Fred and Lenny. Damn their souls.

Minutes more and the skin would become bloated and puffy, a Titanic corpse weighted down with opulence. In the window each bulbous bottle held the far tree line in its lens. Across the fields, blanketed with snow, the window was visible, its glass fronting the coloured orbs, strung like beads. Trim stood naked, gazing out at the frozen silence. He saw no one. There was no one to see. Anger rose within him and he felt the urge to sweep the bottles from their shelves, to rain them down in a glass symphony, grazing his flesh, firing the fury, bleeding the frustration out of his system. Time for the drug. Time to kill.

The cottage was warm, the bathroom humid, but he shivered, his armpits squeaking uncomfortably, the hairs lying in the wrong direction, the roots raised and painful. He pulled a thick black bath towel from the heated rail and draped himself. He faced the mirror, a demonic Caesar, cruel and detached, aloof and insular. King of the city that ruled the world. A world empty and despairing, riddled with disease. Damn their souls. Bastards. Break down the high creosote walls. Break loose the bicycle chains, still the boiling Singer oil, claw free the tacks from rayon shrouds and splinter the withies, gnaw the sinews, taste the bitter green sap, brave with shaded eyes the sticky sunlight pouring like resin through the knotholes of the unplaned pine. Damn their souls. Damn them. Curses - written in fragrant oils, with charcoal sticks and coalhouse soot, tattooed with pin and ink across the thigh, each prick a heartbeat, each inky point a curse. Damn their souls. ‘Jew’ they sneered. Buttons loosened. ‘Jew.’ They saw. They knew. They spat out the word. ‘Jew.’ Damn their souls.

His balance faltered as he opened his eyes. He saw the reflection of a pale and terrified face, the dark eyes ringed as if with kohl, the hair plastered wet against a sweat-drenched brow. A fine mist of condensation hid the snowy fields. The black towel slipped to the wet tile as he rocked gently to and fro on the balls of his feet, hovering between light and darkness.

fiction
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About the Creator

David Philip Ireland

David Philip Ireland was born in Cheltenham in 1949

David has published work in music, novels and poetry.

To discover David’s back catalogue, visit: linktr.ee/davidirelandmusic

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