Slow Poison - Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

Stonehouse

“WHICH OF YOU SODDIN’ LITTLE BUGGERS BIN GOIN’ THROUGH MY FUCKIN’ POCKETS?”

Both boys felt the drunken hand. Fred held his ground, but Lenny fell heavily against the kitchen cabinet.

“YOU LITTLE SODS. I OUGHTA FUCKIN’ THRASH YOU!”

Lenny howled in the corner. Fred stood defiantly and kicked out at the big man who stared at him through rheumy eyes, his vest hanging loose outside of his unbuttoned trousers.

“YOU FUCKIN’, LITTLE BASTARDS. I”LL FUCKIN’ KILL YOU IF YOU DO IT AGAIN.”

Fred lashed out with his foot and hit his target, bringing the drunken giant crashing down to the grimy linoleum floor, clutching the windowsill milk bottle as he went, covering himself in sour milk globules. Fred kicked out again and caught him full square in the groin. The drunk almost fainted with the pain.

“YOU FUCKIN’ CUNT. COME BACK YER.”

But Fred had scooped Lenny up and they were across the track and heading through the poppy field toward the pub before Trim had regained his feet. breathless they hammered on the shutters of the off-license window.

“Hello, young Farthing. Your dad just went home. What d’you want?”

“He forgot his fags and he wants a bottle of cider and some crisps.” Fred blurted out between gulps of sweet air. The landlord was just drunk enough to believe them.

“Dad says to put it on the slate.”

“I’ll have to start a new one, tell him.” the landlord laughed.

“Can we have a bag?”

“I’ve only got a paper one. Will that do?”

He clutched his prize and headed Lenny back toward the wasp orchard on the far side of Standish. The sun was sliding down behind May Hill, but the air was still warm.

“I aint goin’ back. I aint. I hates it thur.”

Fred unscrewed the cider bottle and took a deep swig, followed by a loud belch. He passed the bottle to Lenny who drank until Fred snatched the bottle back from him. He pulled the packer of Senior Service from the paper bag and ripped the cellophane wrapper open. He handed Lenny a cigarette and took one himself. Lenny lit them with one of the England’s Glory matches he had not used from his pyrotechnics at the kitchen table. There were just a few unused matches left.

“I aint bloody goin’ back.”

“Nor me never, not never!”

Francis opened his eyes suddenly, feeling sick, as though under the cocaine drowse of a dentist’s chair. The blur that was the room at dusk disturbed him. There were shapes that moved across his range of vision, muffled sounds that buzzed in his ear, so alien, so foreign.

“It is like a curtain, like an invisible curtain of silk and the aeroplanes tear through the fabric. The sound you hear is the tearing.”

And with the force of an implosion, the outside world burst into his consciousness. He had never been more aware of his being. He sensed the soreness, the tearing, as though his entire body had been split asunder. He could see the thick opaque tubing snaking out from under the sheets, from under the gauze bindings around his arms. He could smell semolina pudding. He felt the rush of nausea again, and squeezed his eyes tight shut until the feeling passed. The muffled sounds cane from beyond the door, the shapes were the shadows of gulls that flew near to the window throwing their shadows across the crayon drawings.

“Oh that’s lovely. You’re back with us, Francis.”

The voice had a soft, lilting Wye Valley sound.

“Would you like a little drink of something!”

Francis attempted to speak, but his tongue felt as though it had been bound with twine. The sound that came might have been a yes or a no.

“I’ll go and fetch Doctor. He will be pleased.”

The nurse padded out along the corridor and returned a few moments later with a tall serious older man.

“Well, young Francis, you’ve certainly been in the wars, now haven’t you? You’ve had us all a little bit worried. Now. How are you feeling?”

The doctor sat down on the side of the bed and took Francis” wrist. His hand felt cool and strong as he felt for the pulse, his eyes on a large steel pocket watch. Francis tried to see the time, but his vision slipped in and out of focus. He had no idea of the time, or the day. Or even where he was.

“You’ve been asleep for a long time, but that’s just as well. Now all you have to do is get better.”

Francis moaned. The doctor looked at the nurse, exchanging concern.

“Now. Just you take it easy, my boy.  I expect nurse will bring you something nice to drink. Some sweet tea? How would you like that?”

The nurse nodded inanely and disappeared from the bedside once more.

“Now, I’ll be along in a while when you’re feeling stronger. Then we’ll have a proper chat. And your Mummy and your Grandpa will be coming in to see you again.”

He leaned forward and studied Francis pupils. His breath was warm and smelled of tobacco.

“I’ll see you later, my boy. Keep your pecker up! That’s the spirit.”

The nurse returned with the tea, barely warm, in a plastic cup with a spout. It looked like a miniature watering can. Bill and Ben. Bill and Ben - which of those two Flowerpot Men. was it Bill? Or was it Ben? It was Ben! It was Ben, said the Little Weed. bob-op Little Weed. Where did the sound come from? There was a side Bellamy for the more mobile patients. A place for tea and biscuits and television. Watch with Mother. Afternoon. But it was neither Bill nor Ben - it had been Fred. And Len. Bob-op Little Weed.

The tea tricked down his parched throat and spread its life giving warmth throughout his entire body. Grey beads of tea ran from the spout and lodged in the chapped skin of his lips. Where did the sound come from? Bill and Ben? Mondays - Picture Book, Tuesdays - Andy Pandy and Teddy and the stupid Looby Loo, Thursdays - Rag, Tag and Bobtail, Fridays - The Woodentops and the biggest spotty dog you ever did see. eyes as big as tea trays. Wednesdays - Bill and Ben. It was Wednesday! It was Wednesday! Bob-op Little Weed. Time came flooding back into his life. Now, fix the hour, fix the moment. Fix Lenny and Fred.

“That’s right. You drink it up. It’ll make you feel as right as rain, you mark my words. Now, you’re not alone in here. We’ve got Jeffrey and William. They’re both in to have their tonsils out. They have ice-cream for tea. Every day! Doctor’s orders! We’ll see if we can get some for you. Would you like that? Hmmm? We’ll see what doctor says.”

Sleep was calling. He did not fight the call. For now he would cope with the shock and the pain of recovery from the far side of consciousness.

The tortures ceased with the cider hangover, the dew soaked khaki shorts and stiff muscles in the musical dawn of the wasp orchard. Nothing was ever said, and the summer ended swiftly with thunderstorms and for Fred and Francis, the bus ride to the red-brick Technical School along the Downfield Road.

Francis, comfortable in his first long trousers. Fred and others grubby kneed in flannel shorts. School held no attraction for Fred and it seemed part of his character that his grimy exercise books should be forgotten, that his brown paper covered text books should be mislaid just before the lesson.

“I dunno, sir, I had it in me bag this morning.”

That in the first year, several sets on encyclopaedias should arrive by special delivery at the Farthing’s damaged door was no real surprise. Just an added annoyance. Lenny was blamed for filling in the coupons in the People’s Friend. Fred was blamed for the greenhouse that arrived, to be left leaning against the wall, rattling inside its flat boxes as the trains rumbled past.

“It weren’t me! Honest, Dad.”

The greenhouse earned Fred a thrashing with the leather belt. Fred, in with the rough crowd, heading the gauntlet, still pointing the finger, somehow never managed to make the connection.

“Farthing, you are a disgrace! I want to see you after school.”

  The scar remained hidden, the limp shielding the boy from the worst of the high spirited games. So gym found him high, in the book lined library, peering down at the white shorted boys hurling themselves around the yard to the whistle and cajoling of the gym master. Fred’s shorts were blue, one of the few. Old and worn, straining against his thighs. And then they were gone. The shorts. The ashes scattered over the railway bridge in the steam cloud of the Bristol Express. And from the pages of Titus Alone, the boy looked down at the milling group, where Fred ran too in yellowing, billowing underpants, his face red, his movements stilted, the giggles of the other boys hurting like a Chinese burn. The boy returned to his book, but the words blurred and he found himself staring down once more, a smile fixed upon his face.

It had been you in the dark, a hundred miles from home. A million miles from Fred. Hot jets and peeling skin. It had been you in the stinking darkness with the echo of the drips running from under the viaduct. Poppers and twine. It had been you, years later, falling in lust and crashing into love. Cut and uncut. Finding out only when the wallet had been borrowed. Spit and Vaseline. The dole card threw the name into the light of the mirrored ceiling. And there had been the honeymoon of sorts in the Peebles hotel. And the slow disintegration of souls and cells as the snaking wound hissed out its pain in the first autumn frosts. And at four in the morning, after love had exhausted, he knew that there would be an end. A resolution. A summation of all the hate, of all the hell that had been conjured up, leaving the scars more vivid, more painful than the tracks that ran from eighty-one to seventeen. The room shivered with damnation. They would pay. Pay for the sins of the world. Someone would have to. Damn their souls. It was at that point his heart turned to stone.

Stonehouse, Little Australia

  “Well. Hello stranger! You’d better come in. Your Mother’s upstairs getting ready.”

“What for?”

“She’s going to the pantomime. She’d rather watch the film, mind you, but somebody’s got to pick the bairn up.”

“The bairn?”

“Sarah. Anyway. I thought you’d be snowed in wherever you are. I wish you’d phone her a bit more often, son. She worries about you, you know.”

‘Bastard! I’m not your son!’ Trim screamed silently.

“Francis! Well, this is a treat!”

Mrs. Trim came down the stairs and ushered Trim into the living room. She smelled of Devon Violets.

“We were just talking about you, your Dad and me. ‘He is NOT my father!’ We thought you’d be stuck up there. Well, wherever you are.”

“No. I’m back in Cheltenham.”

“Well, I’ve got to go out.”

“He told me you were picking Sarah up. Well, I can do that. I’ve got the car. I’d enjoy it.”

“Would you? Oh, that would be lovely. Just tell her I didn’t feel well, or something. Will you recognise her?”

“I know what she looks like.”

“Have you ever met her Mum? Lovely girl she is. Sad what happened.”

“What happened?”

“You know. I told you. Her husband was killed.”

“Where will she be?”

“Oh, the Community Centre.”

“Do I bring her back here - or to her mother’s?”

“Here. Her Mum is stuck up on the top. Snowed in, poor kid.”

“Would she like chips afterwards? I could treat her. What do you think!”

“Oh, that would be nice. If she’s okay with you.”

“What time does it begin?”

The Husband looked at his watch.

“You better get yer skates on. It begins in ten minutes.”

Mrs. Trim rummaged in her handbag and pulled out a pink ticket.

“You’ll need this. Now, you’re sure you don’t mind?”

“No, I’ll enjoy it. You watch your film. I’ll see you later. Shall I bring back some chips for you two?

When he had gone the couple looked at one another in amazement.

“I don’t know! You don’t hear from him from one year’s end to the other, then there he is, all sunshine and light, bringing us chips for supper. I don’t know. He always was a funny kid. Even before the accident.”

“He doesn’t like me.”

“0h, he does in his way.”

“If you ask me, he hates my bloody guts.”

“Oh, love, don’t say that. It’s just his way.”

“Do you want some coffee!”

Mrs. Trim nodded, deep in thought. She followed the Husband into the kitchen.

“You know, I don’t think he ever forgave us for not marrying. He used to talk about it when he was little. Said he didn’t want your name. Said the other kids teased him. That’s why he never calls you Dad.”

“It wasn’t his decision, was it!” said the Husband under his breath.

“Do you think it would have made a difference!”

There was a pause long enough to fill with doubt. This was a relationship nearing its conclusion. Nothing that either of them could say would alter any aspect of the past.

“Come on.” he said cheerfully, “let’s have that coffee and watch the film.”

Trim parked the Mercedes in The Woolpack car park and pulled his coat around him against the cold snowy blast that swept over the High Street. The alleyway that led to the Centre and the park was unlit and narrow, thirty or so steps long. On either side a sheer red brick wall rose up ten feet or more that deformed any sound into Doppler echoes. Trim took the thirty steps slowly, willing the show to begin. He needed the cover of darkness both within and without.

The Centre had the ambience of a Nissen hut, bleak concrete and glass, its half tubular shape forlorn against the backdrop of the amorphous park shapes. He would be noticed. He would stand out. If only for the coat, the hair. But few would recognise him. He knew them all.

“You’ll have to be quiet, me dear. They’ve just begun.”

There were others entering the hall, as late as he. Familiar faces, old children, grey haired permed infants and toddlers with beer guts. The overture was beginning, the piano and bass strident, the rich electronic wash of a synthesiser promising an unexpected professionalism. Trim waited as the other latecomers shuffled between the rows, searching for their seats. He waited until they were seated, until his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. He could see his empty seat, like a toothless gap in the centre of the front row.

The first bars of ‘Poor, but happy’ had begun, and the curtains swept back dispelling the snow beyond the windows with a brilliant facsimile of a summer day. In the atmosphere of the hall it was breathtakingly realistic. Trim felt a shiver run through him, for the blue might have been snipped from that summer day in 1956. Oh, god, the soldier was the Farmiloe boy. He strode from the wings to centre stage and looked out at his audience, peering with a shading hand as though from dawn-facing battlements. The music took on the air of a soft shoe shuffle, and he began a little dance to accompany the opening number;

“I may be thin and down to heel,

a threadbare sort of chappie,

but I can say quite honest-lee,

that though I’m poor, I’m happy.”

The tune reminded Trim of ‘Pop Goes The Weasel’. He watched the lined face of the boy-that-was belting out the jolly song. He felt the urge to scan the other faces for Brother Bernard. But Brother Bernard was dead and gone, the mother and father hanging on to marriage by the skin of its catholic teeth, the deep-rooted decay capped and polished for the estate to remember. They were seated in the fourth row.

Fifteen minutes into the show had taken the soldier through the hollow tree and into the depths below. The little troupe of dancers tiptoed on-stage, their sparklers aloft, their piping voices melting the stoniest hearts. Almost.

“We are little sparks in the dark.

We are little stars in the sky.”

And the dogs that hid in the darkness of the wings bounded out, their eyes luminous and fearsome in the spotlights.

“He’s late, isn’t he?”

“He was taking her for chips first. That’s what he said.”

“Well, I know he did, but it’s almost nine.”

“They’ll be here. Everything closes at ten anyway.

“I know, but it’s way past her bedtime. She’ll be exhausted.”

“They’ll be here.”

“What if Becky calls? What shall I say!”

Mrs. Trim went to the window and pulled back the curtains. The snow was still falling heavily, the Mercedes tracks had long since disappeared. There were lights on in most of the houses, as far as she could see, but no sign of her son.

“Come away from the window, love. It won’t make them, come any quicker.”

Mrs. Trim let the curtains fall reluctantly.

“I’ll put some plates on to warm and butter some bread. The bairn will be exhausted though.”

“It’s probably the snow. You know how difficult it is to drive in this weather.”

The Husband settled down to watch Newsnight. More snow stories. The entire country blanketed and iced from one end to the other.

Amsterdam

“There’s a phone call for you, Inspector.”

Kramer looked across at the Desk Sergeant. He had been day dreaming, drifting away in the stuffy reception area of the station house. He pinched his nose and felt his cheeks flush with the first hint of influenza.

“Who?” he rasped, almost inaudibly.

“Someone from forensics.”

Kramer rose from the bench with difficulty, his joints stiff and aching.

“You should be in bed, sir.”

“You’re right.” he whispered.

He took the phone from the Desk Sergeant’s hand.

“Hello? Kramer here.”

“I’ve traced those prints you were so anxious about. At least I think I have.”

No answer. She continued.

“A couple of days before the murder, there were reports of two separate thefts, shoplifting, in two antique shops in the Spiegelstraat area. The prints have only just been entered into the computer files, so there was no way of tracing them until now. Inspector?”

Kramer felt as though his body was burning up. Outside there had been a heavy frost, but it might have been a spring evening, so hot he felt. The phone was dead. Kramer leaned heavily on the desk.

“Take a couple of these.” said the Sergeant, handing Kramer two Paracetemol.

“Thanks. Can you call me a car? I have to get over to forensics. Mine’s in the garage.”

Adrenaline began to pump through him, pulling him together faster than the Paracetemol. By the time the car had arrived Kramer was feeling quite clear headed. Only the nagging ulcer hinted at illness. 

Stonehouse

The heater blasted hot air around the hide upholstery and rustled the deep pile carpet. The heat and the gentle rocking of the journey had lifted Sarah over the last barriers to sleep. She snuggled under a thick car blanket on the back seat of the Mercedes. The meal of chips and hot chocolate had joined with the exhaustion of the dance, the exhilaration of the applause and the brief emptiness of the unfamiliar face to put her at her ease, drowsy and trusting, in the giving comfort of the car. Little explanation had been necessary. Miss Butt thought she remembered him, thanked him profusely for stepping in, was too preoccupied with praise and questions to bother too much.

“Well, I never. Mrs. Trim’s little boy.”

The snow, though, was far heavier than he had anticipated. The news stories had not been exaggerated. He kept to the busy routes, hoping for a clear run up to the top, up to the solar fired cottage. There was a road, but the road, even at the halfway point of Painswick, was treacherous and difficult to manoeuvre, sometimes difficult to see. There would soon be a fork in the road. A choice to be made. The fork could be seen. The signpost all but invisible against the white wall. He had set his mind on the rented cottage. He had discovered the shotgun in the loft and wanted to be there. He needed the distant growling of the farm dogs to comfort the night. Cheltenham would mean grey slush. Imperfections and too many distractions. Vengeance deserved solitude.

There was a deep gully, which could only be the disguised road to Miserden. The Mercedes ploughed on. Sightless stone eyes watched them past the Hall. Into the black hole ahead, trees bowing and scraping a chilly welcome. The child remained asleep until the car shuddered to a halt in a bank of hard packed ice. The motor purred on, the lights burrowing a luminous resting place for the night. The slow journey along the lane had made it difficult to gauge how far had been covered, but Trim estimated that the cottage was no more than a quarter of a mile along the lane. He hoped he was right. He was wrong. The cottage was closer. The Gucci were finished, the suede could take no more.

The child remained silent as Trim stepped warily toward sanctuary. The child was as light as a snowflake, but an experienced tracker would have learned much from the footsteps in the snow. A tall man. With a burden. And a slight impediment. The goddamned limp. The child breathed softly, clinging trustingly top Trim’s neck. She smelled of smoke and soap. He had not taken his eyes off her from the moment she had danced on to the stage until the final curtain swished across the final scene. Her eyes were so like Fred’s. So like Lenny’s. Damn their souls.

There were inches of crisp snow clinging undisturbed to the top of the gate, but the gate was open. The path, the garden, the surrounding fields were indistinguishable from one another. The snow had brought equality to the villages. With deft fingers he opened the front door and carried his slight burden into the relative warmth of the cottage. He lay the child down upon the leather unit. She was covered in snow, contrasting strongly with the dark blue of her duffel coat, the chestnut of her hair. Her skin was very pale, as though exposure had already taken her. Trim unbuttoned her coat and removed it. He was suddenly lost for words. The child looked around her with Fred’s eyes, Lenny’s eyes.

“Where’s Mummy? You said you were taking me to Mummy.”

“It’s almost ten. I’m really worried, love.”

“I’ll try the Woods” number. Oh god”

The Husband dialled the number.

“It’s ringing.” he reassured the Mother.

Janet picked up the phone. The envelope with the diamond lay upon the telephone table.

“Hello? Stonehouse 3099”

“Mrs. Wood? It’s Mister Trim. I’m sorry to bother you so late, but I wondered if Sarah was there!”

“Sarah? Well, no! She’s supposed to be staying with you. It’s ten o’clock! Where is she, for goodness sake?”

“It’s all right. Our boy was picking her up from the pantomime. I just thought they might have stopped by.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone. A man’s voice took up the panic.

“Listen Trim, where’s the girl? Where the bloody hell is she. My god, man, it’s getting on for eleven. The kid’s only five! What were you thinking of? Where’s Hannah?”

“There’s no need to take that tone. The girl is with our boy. I’m just worried something happened to the car.”

“I’m hanging up. I’m calling the police. What is the make of the car? And the number?”

“It’s a Mercedes. I don’t know the number. I don’t. Look, he’ll turn up soon. I just thought…”

“Oh Glyn. I had a feeling. We shouldn’t have gone tonight.”

“She’ll be all right, it’s just so late.”

“I am worried though.”

“I’d forgotten they had a boy.”

“He’s hardly a boy. He’s our age. You remember him? The one with the limp. Haven’t seen him for years.”

“Oh yes, I remember.”

Glyn remembered. He remembered hearing how the boy had been run over by one of the Teddy Boys that used the estate as a race track. He had missed the excitement, had been convalescing at his Gran’s in Barafundle. He had been glad to get away. The adventures with Fred had become a little too close to the edge of madness. The bear hugs hurt. The excitement had passed by the time school began again. And Fred was out of his life, on the far side of Downfield road. Glyn joined the chess club and played rugby on the sloping pitch, played tennis on the gravel courts, played cricket on the manicured lawns of Marling School. A world away from Fred.

“You can’t call the police. I expect the pantomime ran late.”

The Trim boy. Yes. Glyn remembered him vaguely. He too attended the Technical School, but no face sprang to mind.

“I suppose you’re right. I’ll give the Trim’s a call later. No luck getting through to Becky?”

“No, the lines are still down, I suppose.”

They looked at one another helplessly. They both felt uncomfortable knowing that Sarah was not asleep in her own bed. There was a hysterical edge to the evening that both of them had experienced before - a feeling nameless and ethereal.

The Kings Arms

“Old George reckons we’re up here for a while longer.”

“What do you mean - a while longer?”

“Four days! Maybe more.”

“Oh god, Sarah!”

“George reckons that when it snows up here, they expect to be cut off for at least three or four days. Every year. The phones are still out of order too.”

Becky sat silent. She sipped the brandy, and set her thoughts in motion. Janet knew where she was. She would not approve, but she knew exactly where she was. Sarah would be fine with her, always enjoyed staying with her ‘Aunty Jan’ .  

The bar should have closed long ago, but no one seemed in any hurry to call for last orders, least of all George. He had been joined by Dot, who leaned on the bar exchanging dirty jokes with the old men. Alan reached over and took Becky’s hand in his.

“I’m sorry. I know how much you worry about Sarah. I feel so bloody useless.”

“It’s not your fault. There’s nothing you could do. We’ll just have to make the best of things. I just wish I had a change of clothes. ”

“There’s Dot. I’ll ask her.”

Alan took up the empty glasses and returned to the bar for a re-fill. Becky picked up a couple of old newspapers that were lying in the window seat. A Sunday Times and a copy of the Guardian. An article caught her eye; ‘BBC marks 50 years TV with repeats.’ There was a photograph of a stern woman with hard make up, Beaton lips. She was seated at a grand piano, wearing a dress of silk, with fussy beadwork. The dress was grey and grainy. The woman was being kissed on the cheek by a clumsy marionette, the thick strings visible even through the raster dots. It was character Becky did not recognise. She read the caption and let the newspaper fall from her fingers to the floor. The caption read; ‘Muffin the Mule with mentor Annette Mills.’

“My god, Becky! You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

Alan regretted his choice of words. He placed the drinks on the low table and sat close beside her, his arms around her, holding on tight. She felt tears, pushed her head into his shoulder. The locals gave them a knowing, mildly curious glance. Eleven forty seven. The bar glowed warmly, with cheery lights through scorched parchment shades, through display units, with the glowing tips of cigarettes and cigarillos. The entire male population of the village seemed to be in the bar. They would balk at the prospect of sweeping the front garden path, but little short of hell freezing over would stop them beating a path to the door of the King’s Arms. Old and young had left their women to plain and purl, to black and white flickering re-runs of weepy movies.

Alan placed the brandy glass to Becky’s lips and she took a small sip of the liquor.

“Can we go upstairs, Alan. I need to talk.”

The locals nudged one another as Alan helped Becky past them and through the door leading to the stairs.

“Goodnight, all!” Alan offered.

There was laughter as they rounded the corner, a pause, then more laughter. Upstairs on the groaning bed, his arm still around her, she poured out her questions and fears and suspicions, painting a picture of her man, her life, the marriage, the open chasms that open when death is not sweet release, but brutal theft. Alan listened sympathetically, barely beginning to understand the ragged trail of events that had led them to this point.

Alan too had questions he would never ask. He remembered a brother. There had been no sign of him at the funeral, and Becky never mentioned him. It was as though he didn’t exist. Alan had been inside the shed. A brief, hot blast. His dirt roads had been disfigured by their scuffed boots, his Matchbox lorry lifted high, beyond his grasp. He was five. He had run after them, into the sun, into the shed, into the jet of water from the pistol Fred held, and the door had slammed, his little lorry tossed into the privet hedge of seventy-nine. ‘Bugger off, nipper!’ Nothing more. Even so, he had never forgotten.

“Did you know him when you were younger?

“No.”

“I don’t know if I ever really knew him. There are so many dark corners. I don’t know if I want to know.”

“Look, we’ll be back down soon. T

his place is turning us cabin crazy.”

The thought of washing out their smoky clothes was beyond her. Alan’s promise of home put the thought far away. Alan rubbed her arm, she knew where it was leading, but all she wanted was sleep. Dreamless sleep. But the soft brush of his lips persuaded her. She gave in so easily. Maybe this was love.

The Cotswold Cottage

Sarah was deep in her own dreamless sleep long before the Gucci tracks had disappeared. A cutting wind blew over the Easterly ridges, hurling snow before it, wailing and moaning in agony. The Mercedes too had all but vanished from sight. At midnight there would be no trace of it at all. Trim removed the damp duffel nervously. He had never handled a child before. A girl. He lifted her. She was lighter now. There was a sigh as he lifted her, deep breathing. She would not recall this, the first night. The deep sleep offered safety. Trim laid her down in the single bedroom, its close floral prints a fitting place for the fairy child. He would sleep in the master bedroom, between the child and the stairs. He would hear each breath, each turn her sleep took.

He had avoided the mirrors in the cottage, but could avoid them no longer. There were beads of perspiration clinging to his brow, his hair, no longer damp from the snow, now damp with the sweat. His throat muscles were tight, thirst upon him, the fresh grapefruit juice little comfort. Fever burned him in the chilly rooms. The drug. Time for the quartet. The lines. White. So much white. Other drugs. He headed softly for the bathroom. He was startled to see the small child lying asleep in the second bedroom. He had forgotten.

There were tablets and creams in the small cabinet inset in the bathroom wall. Among the ointments and tablets he found a foil bubble pack of Paracetemol, three missing. He pressed three more into the palm of his hand and put his hand to his mouth. The tablets were bitter as he ground them between his teeth. He felt a curious numbness spread over his pallet. The odour of the sodden Gucci suddenly repulsed him. He moved quickly toward the stair, down to the drug. Music. There must be music. The CD player lay on the low coffee table, several discs splayed out, fingerprints in oily relief. Eno. That would do it. Nothing. No sound. Damn. The batteries were empty. Damn! The Paracetemol had refused to take hold, and his head banged with a heartbeat, clouding vision. With a wild sweep he sent the discs and the player grinding to the floor, hitting the rough stone wall, chipping the hard plastic case, spilling the batteries over the flags. Damn!

The drug. The ritual abandoned forever, the plastic sachet split and snorted from the back of a hand, cutting a clean line from the top of the skull to the seam of the testicles. He unzipped his fly, pulled out his penis, peeled back the foreskin and rubbed the residue of the drug into the glans. He was hard at once, the ache-line running from ball to brain. He turned inside out, nerve ends snaking wirily, pushing against the smooth glass walls, circling back, welding one with another in a cascade of molten tissue. Trim lay on the leather unit, his knees tucked under his chin, his hands everywhere. The sensation was of nakedness, of intrusion, of each pore opening wide, drawing in the cold fire of the snipers. Snowflakes left a filament tracer spinning out like protein under water. Nylon. A spider’s thread. Lenny. Closer. Oh, that’s right. Gently. Push. Inside. Too fast. You’re too thick. Uh. Spit. Yes. The sensation was of losing hold, almost a swoon. Oh yes. Lenny. Don’t stare at the sun. Through the smoky glass.

The gums oozed blood, the salt taste causing his stomach to heave, bringing the hard shells of bitterness up into the back of his throat. Turpentine. When. Not yet. The bear hug. Too thick, too fast. Fred. Oh, Lenny. Lenny. Lenny and Fred. Oh god. Yes! Lenny. Oh please. Oh god! Lenny. No, not there! Don’t touch me there. Not there. Not the scar. No, Len, no! Lenny. Fred and Lenny. Damn their souls to hell.