Red Stains as the Sun Sets

It had been a beautiful late autumn day, but the sun was now setting fast and throwing a livid red glow across the thin clouds near the horizon. This was the view that Albert was privileged to enjoy from his clifftop home whenever the weather conditions allowed. I envied him that at least.

However, given his advancing years, I often worried about how safe he was on his own, at least a mile from his nearest neighbour. That was why I called round frequently to see how he was. I had told him many times about my concerns for his well-being, but he always shrugged them off. I had nothing to worry about, he said, but that did not stop me from doing exactly that.

Albert did not even have a telephone, mobile or landline, so what was he going to do if an emergency arose? “I’ll be fine”, he kept telling me, “I’ve been fine living here for more than 50 years, and I’m sure I’ll be fine for as many years in the future as the good Lord chooses to give me.”

On the day in question I knocked at the door of the old one-floor coastguard cottage but got no reply. This was strange, because Albert was always there when I called round, which I did at least once a week, and sometimes more frequently. I assumed that he must have gone down the rutted track to make a call from the telephone box on the main road. Hardly anyone used that phone box these days, apart from Albert, and another of my worries was what he would do when it was taken away, which was surely bound to happen before long.

But what if my assumption had been wrong? I therefore thought it best to check all round the cottage just in case Albert had had some kind of accident. I peered through the windows and had a shock when I looked through the window of Albert’s lounge. There was a pure white woolen rug in front of the fireplace, with what appeared to be a sizable dull red stain on it.

The first thought that came to my mind was that this was a large bloodstain. The second thought was that I was being ridiculous, and it was probably nothing worse than the result of spilled red wine or red paint.

The third thought was to dismiss both these possibilities, on the grounds that Albert never drank wine and there was no evidence of any part of the room having been painted red.

My fourth thought therefore reverted to my first, namely that Albert had indeed had an accident and was lying somewhere in the cottage having been seriously injured – or worse. I had to get in and find him.

I reckoned that Albert belonged to the generation that keeps a spare key under an overturned flowerpot next to the back door. I was not wrong. I was therefore soon able to make a thorough search of the cottage, looking for Albert, but he was not there. I went back to the lounge to have a closer look at the red stain, and was still trying to work out what it was when a key turned in the lock of the front door and Albert came in. He was a bit surprised to see me there, but welcomed me all the same.

“Hello, John”, he said. “I see that you’re looking at my new rug. I had it delivered today, but I don’t think it’s the same as the one I ordered at the shop. It’s got this horrible red mark on it – I wonder what it is?”

I said that I had also had the same thought, but I did not tell Albert that I had just searched the cottage looking for his mangled dead body.

Albert explained that he had just come back from the phone box, where he had phoned the carpet shop to complain and arrange for the correct rug to be delivered the next day.

He then had some more news for me.

“I’ve been thinking over what you keep going on to me about – whether I’m safe here”, he said. “I’ve done something about it. Wait here a minute and I’ll introduce you to my new friend.”

Albert then left by the back door and returned a minute later, holding a large rottweiler dog by its lead.

“I reckon that Buster here will keep me safe and protect me from any intruders. What do you think?”

I had no choice but to agree, this being because Albert promptly let go of the lead and Buster leapt into action to protect his new master from an unrecognized stranger.

Buster’s particularly sharp teeth were soon embedded in my hand, which later needed eleven stitches at the local A&E to close the gaping wounds. Needless to say I bled profusely, all over Albert’s white woolen rug.

So when the rug was collected by the man from the carpet shop the following day, it did indeed bear a deep red stain caused by blood, as I had suspected. I just never imagined the blood in question would be mine.