The Scribbler

by Iain Maitland

  “Is she on her own?” asked the old woman looking at the smart brother. “Did she say?”

  He looked across at her, wide-eyed, as if shocked into silence by what she had said and how he had reacted without thinking. Fear and panic and Mother’s orders had made him do it.

  “Listen to me. Is she on her own?” the old woman repeated. “Be quick.” She gestured the smart brother towards the body. “Check her pockets, take her keys … and the gun … Sonky, give it to him … go and check she’s alone. Move her car into the outhouse for now and lock the doors. Give me time to think.”

  The smart brother, almost in slow motion, turned to the slow brother, holding out his hands for the keys. “Hurry,” he said finally, as the slow brother struggled endlessly to get the gun out of his pocket. “Hurry.”

  The smart brother turned to the old woman as he was about to leave.

  “What shall I do, Mother …?” he asked, sounding like a lost little boy, “… if there’s someone else in the car? She said she was with a man and a dog.”

  “Do what you have to do … God permits the taking of a life if one’s own is in danger … go, go now.”

  “But Mother …” said the slow brother, suddenly finding his voice. He paused, looking down at Carrie on the floor. “We do not do bad things. She is a lady. We do not hurt ladies.”

  “Don’t do bad things?” the old woman laughed sourly. She looked at him through watery eyes. “I know everything that happens here, Sonky. Everything.” She raised her voice, crackling with fear and anger. “I sit at my bedroom window and I see it all. All of it, do you hear? You bringing everything back here to my home.”

  She raised herself up with her stick as the two brothers stood there watching and listening to her in shame-faced silence. “You did all of this. The two of you. You brought this trouble to our door.” She gestured towards the lifeless body of Carrie laying by their feet. “Now you deal with it.”

  “The Lord’s curse is on the house of the wicked …” she sobbed suddenly, angrily. “He blesses the dwelling of the righteous … This is my home. My home, do you hear me? I was born here and I live here and I want to die here in my own bed … you’ll not put me into a home … or worse.”

  She paused, her voice seeming calmer now, but still urgent. “We must do what we have to do. Chopsy, go and find her car and do whatever you need to. We have to hope she’s on her own.”

  She stood silently for a second or two, in the utter horror of the moment.

  “Sonky,” she gestured towards Carrie’s body, “take her and put her in one of the barns … the barn up … nearest to the fields … do what you have to do if she’s still breathing … take a shovel from the outhouse with you. Chopsy, you go and help him when you’re done.”

  “And you, Mother, what will you do?” the smart brother asked as he moved to open the door.

  The slow brother stood still, looking from the smart brother to the old woman almost reproachfully. Then he spoke, calmly and with certainty. “Mother will think, and she will tell us what to do for the best. For her best boys.”

  She answered them, after a moment or two’s thought. “I’m going to sit here and pray this doesn’t bring all of the police to our door. I don’t know what we’ll do if …” she stopped for a second, seeming lost for words. “Go,” she added angrily.

  The smart brother nodded as she moved to sit down in a kitchen chair. Slipping the gun into his pocket, he left through the kitchen door, leaving it ajar for his brother.

  The slow brother reached to lift Carrie, her head hanging back over his arms. He looked at the old woman, as if to say something more, some simple words of regret and sorrow, but she had already sat down, her head bowed, and ignored him as he followed his brother out into the yard.

  The old woman sat there, in an ancient, high-backed corner chair, thinking things through in her mind. Eventually, she sat up and spoke out loud as if someone were there listening to her, “Those who bring trouble on their families will have nothing.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “And nor will I …” she added sadly and then sobbed.

  * * *

  The slow brother walked, with Carrie in his arms, away from the farmhouse and up towards the main outbuilding and fields. He knew what he had to do but did not want to. Not really.

  This is not right, he thought, what his brother had just done. What he was now doing. What Mother had told them to do. It was not right at all.

  They were super-heroes. They killed bad men. They saved little children. They did not hurt ladies.

  He stopped on the other side of the outbuilding with the cesspit and looked down at the lady. She was a pretty lady, he thought. She had a kind and friendly face. He laid Carrie out, gently and respectfully, on a grassy stretch of ground and then straightened her legs and folded her arms neatly across her chest. He said a few words quietly to himself and then added, “Amen”.

  The slow brother wanted to think about things. He sat down next to the body and reached into his pocket for his tin of tobacco, papers and matches. There were no ready-made cigarettes left so he carefully took out a piece of rolling paper and dropped tobacco into it, rubbing it back and forward with his big clumsy hands.

  He knew he wasn’t very good at this, the rolling of hand-made cigarettes. It wasn’t his fault, his brother had said. He had what his brother called sausage fingers. Like Father. His brother had slim fingers, like Mother. He wished he had thinner fingers. It would make it easier to roll a cigarette. One end would always be fatter than the other. His brother was better at it. Always was, always will be.

  The slow brother finally managed to get the tobacco spread as evenly as he could. He lifted the cigarette to his lips, running his tongue along the edge of the paper, half on the paper, half on his fingers. They tasted sharp and bitter. He did not know why. He lit the cigarette and inhaled the smoke. He liked this part the most, tasting the smoke for the first time, feeling it in his mouth and then blowing it out. His brother could blow smoke through his nose and make smoke rings, too. He could not. He wished he could.

  He looked around as he sat there, thinking about where he was going to put the body.

  He did not want to put it in the cesspit with the bad men. That would be a horrible thing to do. It would not be respectful.

  He wanted to put her somewhere nice and clean. He searched for the word he meant … special. Yes, that was it. A special place for a lady.

  He thought about this as he smoked his cigarette. He did not want to put her in among the trees. He knew that next year when the men came to chop down the next lines of trees, they might come across the mound of earth. He did not want to put her in the fields behind the trees and out towards the forest. That was not right in the wind and the rain. And he knew what the animals of the forest would do.

  The farm had other unused, rundown buildings from when Father was alive. A cow milking shed full of old machinery. Two storage buildings that were once a sawmill and a workshop. Two barns, one larger, one smaller. An air-raid shelter from the Second World War. He had not been in some of them for years and wondered whether they’d now be over-run by mice or rats, maybe even foxes.

  He wished he had the gun on him that he had given to his brother. He liked to shoot vermin. Knew he was good at it. He was what was called a sharp shooter. The best, his brother had said. The sharpest shot in town. When he went back to the farmhouse to get the shovel, he thought he’d get the old spare gun from the upstairs cupboard at the same time. Keep that on him so he could use it later.

  He decided, as he finished his cigarette and pinched the tip with his fingers, that he would put the lady in the smaller barn. He had always liked the small one. It was, what was the word, ‘cosy’. Yes, that was it, cosy. He would lay her down on any straw that might still be in there. He would clean the barn up and make it nice for her. He would then come back down and get the shovel and the gun and, well, he would do what needed to be done. He did not like the thought of it. Not with a lad
y. A nice, good lady.

  The slow brother looked up as he heard the sound of a car engine.

  At first revving and then more steadily, more slowly.

  The smart brother bringing the lady’s car into the outhouse with the cesspit.

  He wondered, suddenly, whether his brother had had any trouble. The lady had said she was with a man and a dog. But he did not know if that were so. He did not think a lady would lie about something like that, but he remembered that mother had thought it might not be true. It may, he thought, have been what was it, a little white lie. Yes, that was it. Not a proper lie. Not a bad thing to say. Not properly bad.

  He wondered a moment or two longer. Then realised that there had been no gunshots. If there had been a man and a dog there would have been shots. At least two. One for the man and one for the dog. His brother was a good shot. Not as good as him. But he was fast and he was accurate and he would have needed only two shots.

  One to the man’s head. And then the other to the dog’s. He did not really care about the man. But he felt sorry for the dog and wondered what type it was. They had had a Jack Russell when they were boys, but Father had made them kill it when it got old. “Too old and too useless,” Father had said.

  Take it outside and shoot it. One kill. The other watch and bury it. Toughen you up. Make men of you. Proper men. That’s what Father had said. He had cried tears of anger. His brother, his face set, had shot the dog and helped him bury it. The dog was just ‘dog’, it never had a proper name. Father had said it was soft to give a dog a name. A dog was just a dog, that is all. He would have liked to have given the dog a name. He would have called it Bernard. When it was a puppy it looked like a Saint Bernard.

  He thought he had better hurry. That his brother would have parked the lady’s car by now, hidden away in the outhouse with the cesspit. Cleaning it over. Making sure he had not left any fingerprints anywhere. His brother always wore gloves for this sort of thing. Because of the fingerprints. He would then be striding up to make sure the lady was buried properly. Somewhere safe. Where she would not be found. Somewhere proper, though. Then they’d have to go back to the farmhouse and see what Mother had to say and what she would tell them to do next.

  He reached for Carrie, sliding his arms beneath her.

  Lifting her up as he got unsteadily to his feet.

  Her head lolled back and, suddenly, she groaned.

  * * *

  The old woman was down on her knees scrubbing the floor when she heard the kitchen door creaking open.

  “Sonky?” she said, glancing up. “Oh, it’s you,” she added, looking at the smart brother. “Good.”

  “You don’t need to do that, Mother, I’ll do it.” He reached to help her up, taking the brush from her hand. “You sit down.”

  She made her way painfully to the high-backed chair and sat back in it. She wiped her hands absently on the armrests, distracted by the horror of what was happening around her.

  “We need to clean this place,” she said, her voice cracking. “From where she came in the door to where she stood to where she fell.” The old woman thought for a moment. “Fingerprints on the door handle … on that chair … hair, skin, blood … where she fell.”

  “I know, Mother, I know,” he answered. “I’ll finish cleaning the floor and then I’ll wipe …”

  “There’s some Dettol under the sink,” she added. “Wipe everything over with that. Then pour the dirty water away in the outside drain and burn the cloths round the back.”

  She watched as he reached into the cupboard.

  Cloths. Dettol. Some sort of antiseptic spray. Sponges.

  He set about cleaning everything thoroughly.

  “When you’ve done that, go up and find Sonky, make sure he’s done a proper job of it … that he’s buried her somewhere no one will …” She stopped, close to choking on her words, and then was silent.

  “I’ve moved the car into the outhouse; there was no man or dog,” he said matter-of-factly as he continued cleaning.

  “I put my gloves on and wiped the seat and the pedals afterwards. I did it carefully and thoroughly,” he added.

  “It’s now in the outhouse and I’ve locked and bolted the doors.” He stood up and arched his back.

  “Eighty-four years I’ve lived here,” the old woman said, finally. “Eighty-four years. I’ve buried my father, God rest his blessed soul. And my mother with her long, beautiful hair. And two dear brothers. Wallace and Charles. Good boys they were, decent … your father. May God have mercy … and on yours, both of you, for all that you have done.”

  He bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Mother. Truly I am. I never meant to—”

  “All that you have done,” she interrupted, her voice rising, “you have bought it all to my door, to my home … and … suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll not see my days out here. Not now.”

  He nodded his head. “It will be all right, Mother, I promise. You just have to help us to get through this.”

  She sighed and then shook her head sorrowfully.

  “Your father, well …” she shrugged, as if to say ‘well, I understand, he was a monster’. “But the rest. You’re not … neither of you … you’re not normal. Like father, like son. God help me, what have I done to deserve this …”

  He shook his head. “Don’t, Mother, don’t. Please. I promise this is the end of it. Please help us.”

  “I have been thinking. You must move the car. It’s not safe here. If they come looking. Take it far away and hide it somewhere. Deep in the forest. Do it now in case the police come looking soon. Then walk back through the forest and sweep the road up to the outhouse.”

  He nodded then stopped, embarrassed, as he heard his brother at the kitchen door.

  “That was quick,” the smart brother said. “What did you do with her?”

  The slow brother shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another on the doormat.

  “She is in the barn.” He looked from the brother to the mother. “Like Mother said I was to do.”

  “Have you buried her? You’ve not had time to dig a proper grave. It needs to be done properly. Dug deep.”

  The slow brother bent to take off his boots. Pulling first one and then the other. He struggled a little with the second boot.

  “I forgot to take the shovel. I will take it up later.” He crossed slowly to the sink to wash his hands.

  “Did you do what you had to do, Sonky?” The old woman looked towards him as he finished at the sink and turned towards the larder. “Did you deal with it?”

  “Yes, Mother.” He looked away. She did not notice, distracted. And he had his back to the smart brother, who simply echoed his comment, dig her deep, you must dig her deep, so she’ll not be found.

  “Go now, Chopsy, you must move the car far away, like I told you to do.” The old woman looked at the smart brother and then at the slow brother. “And you must go back and bury her properly. Say a few words for her soul. And ours. For this terrible thing that we have done.”

  She hesitated and then bowed her head and clasped her hands. In a quiet but crackling voice, she spoke, “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul.”

  Both brothers stood quietly where they were, their heads bowed, listening and waiting for Mother to say what she needed to say.

  The old woman searched for the words.

  The brothers waited patiently until they both thought that she had finished. Then she carried on.

  “He guides me in the path of righteousness. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me. Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.”

  She stopped again, her head still bowed, her hands clasped together.

  This time, the brothers shifted uneasily.

  It seemed to them that Mother
was crying softly. Then she finished what she was saying. It was if she were talking now about herself.

  “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil … my cup overflows. Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  The two brothers stood waiting for Mother to sit up and tell them again to go, to hurry. After a moment, a minute, maybe more, she opened her eyes and loosened her hands.

  The smart brother looked at her, despairingly. Not sure what to say.

  The slow brother stood there waiting patiently.

  She sat up. “And then …”

  “And then, Mother?” the smart brother asked.

  “And then we have to sit and wait and hope that the police didn’t know she was coming here. If they didn’t … you must solemnly promise me that you will bring no more trouble to my door.”

  “I promise, Mother,” said the smart brother.

  “I promise, Mother,” echoed the slow brother.

  She mused for a moment, looking from one to the other.

  “But if they did know she was coming here … If they did … it’s only a matter of time before they come to my door. Police in cars. And police with guns. We need to be rid of the car … and the girl … and be ready for them.”

  20. SATURDAY 17 NOVEMBER, EARLY AFTERNOON

  Gayther sat by the portacabin table, feet up, leaning back in his chair, eating a Pot Noodle with the only utensil he could find – a badly stained teaspoon with a serrated edge. He hated Pot Noodles, usually, but it was all there was to eat, what with the canteen being closed and the local petrol station stuck in the 1970s food-wise. And he was really, really hungry.

  Even so, he didn’t particularly like the gooey mess he was spooning carelessly into his mouth. He checked the outside of the pot to see what it was meant to be. Beef something or other. He’d never have guessed. Had assumed it was something spicy, that’s all. But it was warm and filling and so he finished it before starting, without pause, on a bag of cheese Nik Naks.