Seas of Snow Page 7

  The moment an earthworm would give up wriggling its puny fight in the face of the bigger, stronger force, a knife-wielding boy. Seconds away from slicing its body, delighting in the visible tension and helplessness of his pathetic plaything, he would smirk a scornful smile and harden his eyes in a glassy stare, his whole body savouring the thrill – la petite mort.

  The moment a mouse would cease to quiver as it submitted to its fate. Drowned noisily, thrashingly, sucking its last breath through bubbles of hate-stirred water.

  Creatures were there to be played with, ripped apart, experimented on and forced to suffer. Why let a spider have eight legs when there was so much delight to be had slowly and carefully dismembering them, bit by bit. Why let a bunny rabbit keep its tail – or its life – when a few bloody tugs of a rusty knife would relieve it of its fluffy white pom-pom, and its last breath – far better the boy adds to his collection of death tales.

  Of course the cat incident wasn’t his finest hour. Couldn’t believe it when bloody Finnegan bleated on about sparing the kitty-catty. Crap to that. Whine, whine, whine – it was bad enough dealing with the squeals of the creature without the blethering whining of a lily-livered bastard. So – a choice then. The cat or you? Ha! Thought so, you weak little toad. I’m coming for you instead …

  Ahhh, that delicious moment when Finnegan stopped in his tracks and looked at him in horror. You wouldn’t! Surely you wouldn’t! I damn well would. No, Joe, no! You’ve gone too far …

  The small boy’s all too human face was frozen in a kind of rigor mortis, colour absent and eyes fixed with fear. Joe raised his fist and held the moment, just a little, breathing in the panic and anxiety he was inspiring in his friend.

  And that was the moment he realised that playing with creatures had been his dress rehearsal. Playing with people could be far more intoxicating.

  He watched and waited as Finnegan’s shaking body, cowered backwards, then stopped. That waxen face with the hunted eyes begged Joe to stop, to think, to stop.

  But Joe didn’t stop. He lashed into his playmate and felt the judder of a collapsing jaw. Scarlet spurted from the slash that had once been Finnegan’s mouth. His eyeballs rolled back and his whole body followed. A slow thud broke the silence as Finnegan landed in the hedge. Small green leaves scattered around him, splashed with syrupy red ribbons. A lump of red squishy something landed half a second after him, on his thigh. He brushed it away only to realise that it had once been part of his face.

  Joe looked at his handiwork. Nice! Finnegan was laid, sprawled in a sticky mess half in and half out of a hedge. A stillness hung in the air.

  Joe thought back to the moments before and felt the deep rush of blood through his own body as the moment of impact hovered in his clenched fist. To his surprise, he found the stirrings he usually felt when he tortured creatures had strengthened into something preternaturally pleasurable. His cock had hardened and was straining at his trousers.

  He was familiar with this feeling, of course. Ever since he was little he’d enjoyed stroking his private place, and he’d experienced a groaning dart of something every time he killed or warped a creature. This time was different. The sheer animal energy he’d used to pound his friend had released something deep in his core.

  He undid his belt and pulled the evidence out, admiring himself. He glanced over at Finnegan, still passed out on the floor, and began to stroke himself, softly. Then harder, harder, feeling the tension build and strengthen, an almost unbearable twinge of pain-pleasure as he gripped himself with both hands, thrusting with jerks and pulls. He felt the veins coursing with his own blood and virility, and never had he felt more of a man.

  Twelve-year-old Joe continued to tug, hard, for just another few moments then felt the release of something immensely satisfying. His back and thighs stiffened and he found himself howling inwardly, allowing just a long, low groan to escape his lips.

  The smirk that spread over his face was dark and slow. He had driplets of sweat on his brow and his heart was pounding with a new and delicious pleasure.

  Finnegan, blinking back to consciousness, looked at Joe for half a second, his eyes blackening shadows.

  Joe wiped his hands on his trousers.

  He didn’t know then that he would be arrested later that night, slammed in a cell for his first spell inside. He didn’t know then that he would end up spending a few months in a correction house, a residential institution for young offenders. He didn’t know then that this would turn out to be a pivotal night in his methodology, how being caught would teach him to learn from his mistakes, and would help him hone his craft. How he would get better at covering his tracks and hiding in plain sight.

  ‘You tell a soul about this and your Ma’s dead.’

  Finnegan then slipped out of consciousness, and Joe stomped homewards, without a backward glance. As he sauntered away, he heard the faint mewling of a stray cat, picking its way through a thicket.

  A few minutes later, the sound of a dog yelping out of someone’s way was the only noise punctuating an otherwise peaceful summer night. An hour or so later, Finnegan stirred and began his own slow crawl back home.

  Stitches

  Gracie was beginning to succumb to the nausea of memory. Joe’s thick, bitter essence was creating a wall of stench that permeated upstairs like a physical force, and she could feel it.

  She could also feel the urgency in his black stare, and to her horror saw him begin to caress his belt buckle.

  She felt rigid with fear, feet leaden, throat tightened, heart beating so fast she thought she might just die there and then. His long, dark coat had a sheen like armour. His hands looked like talons with thick, dirty nails and his hard, stern face made her think a monster had crossed the threshold.

  She knew her Ma had popped out – Mr Harper had offered to drive her to a hardware store to get some supplies for some jobs that needed doing. They were going to be a couple of hours, they said, because the shop was a bit of a way away. A fleeting thought popped into Gracie’s mind when Mam told her they were going out, but she wasn’t quite sure what it was. She vaguely thought of the new scent bottle that had appeared on her Ma’s dressing table – a glass sculpture of two birds intertwined for a stopper. Fancy French words on the front. A gift from someone special, her Ma had said, dabbing her wrists with the fragrance and, smiling, breathing in.

  As usual, no one knew when Joe was next going to show up but it had been months since he’d fled that dreadful night, and life had begun to feel slightly happier again. Gracie knew the baby was living in Heaven now and all that mattered was that she had Billy, Billy had her, and everything was beginning to be better for Mam.

  Billy was supposed to be calling on her soon – they had arranged another playtime around at the Harpers’ but Gracie first had to finish up a sewing project she had to do for school the next day. She was embroidering a flower onto a piece of calico. It was a little bit rough round the edges but the colours were pretty – she had picked spring-like yellows and pinks. She was finishing up the word ‘Mam’ across the bottom because she hoped a little present might make her smile.

  She had just begun working on the second ‘m’ – when the door blasted open.

  Embroidery cast to the floor, all Gracie could do was look at the scene unfolding below. That familiar feeling of the air being squeezed out of her chest and a sense of foreboding, which seemed to be red-black in her eyes, was swamping her very being. She couldn’t move, that was for sure, and she couldn’t speak. Like a fly caught in a web, she stood, trapped, quivering, waiting.

  Shoes

  The white rose lay lifeless at his feet. Petals mostly scattered across the floor, now just a stem with thorns. Gracie tried to focus on the detritus on the floor to try to avoid seeing what Joe was doing now.

  She became aware of the heavy sound of his breathing and drew a glance at his face. Eyes blacker than viridian black, and the sound of metal thudding against leather.

  He took a step tow
ards the stairwell, smiling at her but saying nothing. Menace hung in the air. The wall of stench overwhelmed her and she found herself beginning to retch. It was the trigger that broke the spell – that guttural wrench helped her uproot herself and run madly for the bathroom, where at least she knew there was a lock. Her heart carried her into the familiar space and she slammed the door behind her. She fiddled with the lock, trying to make it work, then realised to her dismay that the key wasn’t there.

  Behind her, thumping shoes pounded the steps, two at a time, and moments later the door was thrust open behind her, fierce light flooding in. He eyed her with his usual sneer, something like mild amusement playing across his face.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he asked. ‘Run a bath, go on bairn. What’s keeping you?’

  Gracie had no idea what to do. The only other time they had been together, the two of them, was here in this bathroom. She remembered the sense of not knowing, and it felt the same today.

  He was standing there, belt removed, waiting. He looked strong and tall. But he wasn’t steady on his feet – the drink will get him one of these days, her Ma always said. Could this be the day the drink got him? Can I run past him, can I escape?

  Mustering all her courage, she put the plug in the bath and began to run the water.

  ‘Don’t forget the bubbles,’ he said, eyes glinting like coal.

  She reached for the bottle of lemon liquid soap and poured some in. The froth began to dance in the light. Light and airy and free. Everything she was not.

  She glanced around the room, urgently. Could she slip past him? Could she?

  Only one way to find out. She picked her moment carefully – he was half-lidded, gazing at her, but looked less alert than before. She dashed forwards and ducked under his left arm. Hot breath, fire in her heart, legs soft and useless.

  ‘Not so fast, bairn.’ He seized her, hard, and forced her back into the room. He closed the door, carefully, slowly, and fished a key from his pocket. He held it up for her to look at.

  He turned the lock and smiled at her. A trace of something lingered in the air.

  He gestured to the bath, which by now was filled with the familiar soft, white mounds. It seemed he had decided that was enough conversation for one day.

  He gestured again, indicating she should get in.

  Gracie once more felt herself thinking about God. What would God want her to do? But why was he putting her in this position in the first place? Was it a test? That was it! A test! If she passed it, perhaps Joe would leave her and Mam alone forever, and maybe they really could have home together, something warm and inviting, safe and cosy. Hearth and heart, home, sweet home.

  She stood there in silence. She was already barefoot but wearing her pretty white tunic dress with the pale blue bow around the waist.

  She stepped into the bath without removing the dress. It was the only thing she could think of to do.

  ‘Are you stupid or something?’

  His voice broke the silence. She always remembered her Ma would say what a gorgeous voice he had. It didn’t sound very gorgeous now. More like the kraaa of a raven, it was deep and guttural and wasn’t taking no for an answer.

  She looked at him, apprehension hanging in the space between them. Of course she wasn’t stupid, but after all he hadn’t specifically said she had to take off her clothes. Come on God, she pleaded inside, tell me what to do.

  Puddles

  It was days like this that the lavender walls crowded in. Her mind was aching with forgotten memories. But part of her wondered how much she had forgotten and how much she had suppressed. She simply wasn’t sure anymore.

  She glanced around her. The comfort of books, of course, would bring her what little joy she could feel these days until she breathed her last breath. She suspected that wasn’t too far away. There was a birthday card from Billy. A picture of daffodils in a white, china vase in a sunny, happy kitchen. She seemed to remember there was a place like that, once. A thought passed mistily through her consciousness.

  Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

  Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

  A piece of embroidery had been framed and placed carefully on the bookcase alongside a photograph of a little girl. The little girl had soft, blonde curls swirling around her face and she was laughing, prettily. There was such innocence and joy in that face, such young, vital energy and such hope. She must have been about five or six.

  She pulled the pale blue cardigan around her, tightly. There was a slight chill in the air, and for some reason the photo made her feel uneasy. Once beautiful and brave. That was the girl in the photo, once beautiful and brave. A brave, beautiful princess.

  The line lingered in her thoughts for a few moments, and she returned to the subject that most occupied and disturbed her. Has life forgotten me? she wondered. Do I deserve life? My husk of a body, being kept alive with chemicals – for what? Do I have some other purpose I haven’t discovered yet? At what point are you going to reveal it, if there is one? And if not, can I please just whisper into dust. It’s just too hard, too hard …

  And she thought of the other line … If a restiveness like light and cloud shadows, passes over your hands and over all you do …

  Yes, yes, she thought, shadows dance in and out of my thoughts all day every day, obscuring my memories and diminishing my sense of self. I feel regret, and sorrow, and profound sadness. I’m not always sure what stirs my emotions but I know they run deep, and they run true.

  All I have is the books …

  And that piece of embroidery, which ached for her and at her.

  She bent down, slowly, and placed her fingertips carefully around the frame. Her old, gnarled hands were bent out of shape with raised veins pulsing bluely, criss-crossing the surface. She pulled the frame out and peered at it intently.

  Outside, the rain had started again, intermingling with the apple blossom so it looked like a blizzard of white. The soft pounding of the water against the glass felt like a familiar refrain. Rivulets of water wound their way downwards, a slow inevitability of purpose. Puddles were collecting in patches across the lawn. Beyond, petals blurred into flurries and twilight began to fall.

  The door opened, brightly.

  ‘Hello,’ Billy said, in a jolly apple-cheeked way unique to the Harpers. She glanced up, distracted. He realised that in that instant, she was lost in a memory and took a moment to reorient herself with today, with reality.

  ‘I brought you some of those chocolates you like, you know, those rose and violet creams. You always did like those, didn’t you?’

  She looked at him with a gentle, wise expression.

  ‘Oh, Billy, you are so terribly kind. Thank you.’

  She searched her memory for having ever tasted rose and violet creams before and honestly couldn’t place them, but she appreciated the gesture and knew he meant well.

  ‘So how have you been the last few days?’ he asked with a broad smile twinkling across his eyes.

  ‘Oh, you know, Billy, there’s so much going on here, it’s hard to keep up.’

  He had become accustomed to her usual response and waited to see if there was anything more.

  ‘But I do think my memory may be coming back a bit, at least in fits and starts …’ He couldn’t help but see that she was holding the framed embroidery. She handed it to him.

  He took it, and exhaled deeply. Pinpricks of tears stung the back of his eyes as he looked at the old piece of calico, lovingly made by a child’s hand. Yellow and pink springtime flowers and the word ‘Ma’ untidily worked beneath.

  It had been a while since he had allowed himself to look at this, let alone hold it. The memories it brought back for him were heart-wrenching.

  He looked at the old woman in front of him and wondered how much she could really remember. He hardly dared ask her.

  Billy glanced at the picture of the blonde child and a surge of warmth and happiness washed through him. His Gracie, his perfect, lovel
y Gracie. A world apart from here and now.

  Then his eyes alighted on another photo, a quaint, old-­fashioned picture of a little toddler girl grasping trustingly the chubby little hands of her slightly older friend, a boy. The photo was taken from behind them, and they were wombling away from view, into a pale clearing. There were leaves and trees framing the pair, and light was flooding the pathway and beyond. The little girl was wearing a smock dress and the little boy was striding manfully along, feeling important with his charge. They were walking onwards, purposefully, for a life of adventure and fun. Dragons and Princesses.

  Billy looked at the old woman and felt hot tears begin to flood down his cheeks.

  He looked again at the little girl and the little boy, and found himself drifting back to another time.

  He came over, as always, and as it often was, the door was already open. ‘Gracie?’ he called. Was she already outside, he wondered, had he missed her? ‘Gracie?’ No sign. He pushed into the hallway and saw the console knocked over, the yellow china vase smashed onto the floor and the lonely, broken rose laying on its side.

  ‘Gracie? Princess?’ He wasn’t sure whether to go back home and grab his Ma or to try to find out what was happening. Instinct kicked in and all he could think of was to find Gracie, his little Gracie.

  He saw a belt lying on the ground at the foot of the stairwell and wondered, helplessly, whether this meant Joe was back. Gracie had explained that Joe frightened her, and that he would hit her Ma. Joe was a bad man and no one knew why Gracie’s Ma put up with him. But they say blood is thicker than water and everyone knew Joe was Gracie’s uncle and that there was nothing anyone could do about it. Billy secretly hoped that one day Joe may go back to jail, where he belonged, and out of harm’s way.

  He listened on the staircase, but couldn’t hear a thing. He looked outside again – nothing.

  There was little else he could do. So he began to slowly climb up to the landing, listening attentively in case there was any sign of his lovely friend.