Fiona

by D Attrill

  Fiona appeared to have her back to her. As she turned, the merriment seemed left behind.

  “Is something up?” Becky was brushed by that deadly unease again.

  “Nae to do with you this time, love… don’t worry.”

  “You just had me going for a second, that’s all.”

  “You just widnae believe the shit I’ve had to put up with. You remember my fella’s wee brother got busted? Turns out they already had it in for hisself.”

  “Oh my god. What’s happened?”

  “Knocked on his door this morning; wis about nine-thirty. He agreed to go down the station with ‘em. They get him down there; they’ve started throwing the book at him. Makin’ out he’s kelt someone.”

  “That’s dreadful. Did they find anything?”

  “Not for now. They’re letting him come home, but he’s had the car taken off him - they’re saying it’s no fit for driving. Gone turning it inside out too, even though he’s in the clear.”

  “That’s disgusting. If he’s not done anything, why don’t leave him alone?”

  “Guilty once, guilty forever, I said it tae you already. Wis like a motto in Glasgow. Ye dee anything worse than littering , you’re down as a face. Seems Sheffield’s turned out as bad.”

  “I understand. Jo says herself it’s very much like that with one or two police officers you get nowadays.”

  Becky paused with a ping of terror at what she’d so nearly just given away. Thankfully, Fiona hadn’t looked round in time to catch her face.”

  “Aw, look at ma wee planties.” she was almost crying at a couple of old yoghurt pots on the window sill.

  In one was a pitifully withered African Violet. The second was something that had shriveled beyond recognition.

  “Me guy’s gonnae be affy heartbroken when he sees that’s gone out the windae. You know -I shouldnae let you give them a wee splash, each day that you’re here. Never crossed my mind tae.”

  Becky watched as she lifted the dead plant away from the pot and walked to the pedal bin. The impression that the defunct shrub had been something illegal, was strangely inescapable.

  “Shall I see if I can revive the Violet one more time?” Becky offered a favour. “I hate to see men crying, especially when it’s over a flower.”

  “Aw, you great Jessie, it disnae matter, heh, heh, heh, heh.” Fiona almost cracked up. It was as if she’d been waiting for Becky to ask all day “Would be great though if you’d just nip over my shed. There’s a wee bag o’ ‘Miracle-Gro’ in there, right hand side of you - has an orange peg on it. That should do the trick.”

  Becky set out across. She savoured this new rung on her ladder of responsibilities.

  The wedge-shaped garden rose up towards the sturdy-looking shed at the end. Becky was unable to stop herself studying the scenery on her way across. None of the furniture she saw appeared to be of Fiona's rightful ownership. A bench stood to the right, weighing down the weeds beneath. Its fading green-brown blend told of a last creosote job that had never been undertook.

  Further on up, plastic parts of a child's swing lay stacked against the fence - the last occupants, or their offspring had evidently outgrown it. Hedges stood high on the left, except just before the shed, where it was growing back from scratch and currently guarded by low level mesh. She suddenly found herself right by the shed, having bumped into it sideward whilst distracted. Trying not to switch off again, she turned the small door knob, but didn’t achieve much.

  “Hey,” Fiona called from the house. She was waving a large silver key. “You’ll find this opens her a wee tad easier, heh heh.”

  “Yep,” Becky chuckled back, taking it before resuming her trek.

  Turning it tightly, the lock slowly gave. The door opened outwards, almost straight into her face. Stepping inside, Becky found the floorboards soft, even for such a modern-looking shed. She took each step very slowly, sidelong toward where the ‘Miracle-Gro’ supposedly lived. Stabilising herself against the shelves, she fumbled amongst a selection of bags and tubs at the window.

  Fiona’s items were awful to tell apart: they all boasted the same bright green labels. She sifted through the full row, hoping not to spill or split any of the packets. An amber peg peeped out from the back.

  “Ah, here you are, you little beauty.” she wobbled the sack carefully out.

  A further creak turned her from the task, connecting her worries back to the weak floor beneath once again.

  However, it turned out to be the door that had provided the offending sound. She rose up and revolved fully, to find Fiona towering in the doorway.

  The Scotsgirl was standing spread legged, her arms folded like a club doorman. Her facial expression appeared equally as stony and grim.

  “Hi…” Becky began, answering her unnerving frown “Something wrong? Fiona…are you ok?”

  “What’s this?” Fiona asked, sternly. She was waving a familiar red plastic bowl.

  “Its…Izzy’s dish.” Becky answered, startled.

  “I can see that. Where’s her food?”

  “She’s eaten it. Hungry isn’t she.”

  “There wasnae anything there.” Fiona could be seen seething from ear to ear.

  “There…there was, just a few minutes ago. I fed her just before you came in.”

  “Dinnae lie. A kid his age cannae eat that much - no’ just in five minutes.”

  “The last half of the tuna and Sweetcorn, and a couple of those carrot things…”

  “You know this?” Fiona had lowered her volume again, her eyes momentarily shutting “I can live with you moving toys about. I can live with the flour you spilt. Just about put up with you watching me breastfeeding. But letting him starve the whole day, whilst you’re sitting there watching the sheep? That’s one bridge too far, dearie.”

  “Look, it’s ok,” Becky felt prepared to reason this time, bearing in mind what she’d learned “I’ll go and sort it out now, don’t worry. He’ll soon be munching away in no time.”

  She made to exit, back to the house. As she gestured to be let past out of the shed, her employer grabbed her by the front of her cardigan, spitting.

  “You’re not gonnae be feeding my kid ever again.” Fiona snarled and pushed her back into the shed. “Nor anyone else’s.”

  Becky fell hard onto the floor. She felt her elbow graze on the dust-ridden ground. As she sat up, the door was closed in front of her. Fiona could be heard turning the key then walking away.

  Chapter 9

  (i)

  It seemed like five hours before Becky showed the bravery to stand once more. Yet it turned out that just a single English hour had actually elapsed.

  The darkness reminded her where she still was - in Fiona's shed.

  Fiona was definitely deadly serious this time - she would have otherwise come up to let her out and tried appealing to her… once again. Not feeding the baby on time, even on just this one occasion, was obviously one over the mark in Fiona McGrogan’s book. The crazy bit was: Becky HAD fed Izzy today, and numerous times, including just seconds before Fiona walked in.

  Becky eased herself up one foot at a time, whilst minding out for her bruised left shin. A stinging prod on her right forearm made her nearly lose her bearings once again. She realised she was leaning on the inside bolt.

  Oh, hello. While this quite obviously added to her physical and emotional pains, it also perked up her primary instinct: to try and get the hell out, and as far away from that twisted bint as she could manage.

  She pushed hard at the shed door but her hunch was to no avail. It moved about two millimetres ajar, only to be stopped by the lock’s shiny tongue. Peering through the keyhole, she had a fine view on the back of Fiona’s house though sadly because there was no key in the way.

  Becky looked round for anything hook-like that would feed into the mechanism. This also proved as futile as before. Everything in Fiona’s shed appeared round, plastic or red. Her runner bean canes seemed kept up by economical means
too: old rocket sticks and shoelaces.

  Her last possible avenue was to remove the entire lock, whilst a slither of light still supported her skills.

  She tried rummaging in a drawer at the back for a screwdriver. There turned out to be one lying right at the front.

  Sweeping it up, she pirouetted back and plunged it into the first screw.

  To her amazement, the tool turned very loosely round.

  However, as she looked closer, she could see it was not taking the actual screw along.

  The bloody thing hadn’t even moved by as much as a millimeter.

  She reattempted, applying the most excessive possible force.

  The screwdriver started to move. It dragged about two or three degrees but then slipped out right away.

  Her hand was sent forward, jarring it nearly.

  “Shit,” she rasped, realising she’d not taken time to position it properly in the head.

  Becky tried again. She waggled the screwdriver about until she felt it connect then turned hard with both hands. It still achieved little.

  On checking the head again, she saw to her despair why - this one was a Philips.

  She slammed it down then set her head in her hands for long seconds.

  Looking through the side window, she could just see round to the rear patio door and a brightly lit lounge within. There was no sign of Fiona in there - obviously in the kitchen, fixing Izzy the dinner she’d accused her of neglecting. Becky could hear a TV somewhere inside, turned up fairly loud. Hopefully it would be loud enough for Fiona to miss a garden shed window being put through.

  Becky only had so much time to trace a tool hard enough for the job and escape, before her employer- turned-kidnapper re-entered the lounge. There, Fiona could sit and probably see everything.

  It had to be something that would crack the pane substantially but not shatter it. She’d then push the two halves onto the lawn with little sound being made.

  The only object she saw capable was a small lump hammer propped up in the corner, although that was hardly likely to do only light damage. She picked it up and pondered the outcome. Only two ways occurred as how this would swing.

  Fiona could stay inside the kitchen, not hearing a thing, watching whatever rubbish was on TV at that time, whilst Becky tiptoed past her front door and out of Firth Park for good, OR… Fiona could hear her, yet maybe delay to make sure Izzy was safe, then follow her down to the bus stop again… hopefully she’d catch up too late this time.

  Muddled as her own instincts were, Becky had to make a move either way. After another brief pause, she plumped for the first option.

  She aiming the hammer steadily at the pane and applied a couple of practice swings. She counted to three with each one. As she drew back further for the final, she stopped in her steps.

  A door was being opened.

  She dropped the hammer onto the peat bag then peeped down towards the house.

  Fiona had stepped out of her kitchen door and was opening her recycling bin.

  After discarding a heavy amount of what appeared were old newspapers, she dropped the lid and then disappeared back inside. The indoor light did not appear to diminish again, spelling a hopelessly discomforting notion: Fiona had kept her door open.

  The TV seemed louder though so Becky’s escaping sounds could still yet drown out, which left getting past the door unseen to negotiate.

  The light from the kitchen faded heavily. Had the door been shut again? It turned out to be Fiona still standing inside the doorway that was the cause.

  She’d stepped out of the house again, except this time, turning right, out to the front. She could be seen clutching two bagfuls of what looked like waste.

  Fiona was still in her denim jacket, so did not look like settling down for the night, as yet. Neither did she seem concerned as to who was still shut inside her shed.

  Becky saw all her hopes having disappeared, like some chef’s special getting rubbed off a chalkboard . She backed away, ruing her useless efforts.

  Treading tearfully into the shed, she felt the wood beneath become suddenly tender.

  Two of the shed’s floorboards suddenly sunk beneath her, just like a trap door. A splintering crash cancelled out her yelp as she plunged sideward into the gap that had been left.

  Becky was however surprised to find her fall broken by something less flat than a paving slab support base, below. Yelping with horror, she helped herself back up again.

  She practically repeated the scream as she saw what it actually was she had landed on.

  (ii)

  Becky lifted herself up, this time even more carefully.

  She hauled herself as far back from the horrific find as she could.

  In the shallow hole lay the body of a middle-aged woman, caked in dust and dirt. Her eyes seemed partly open, placid but redundant. Trickles of what looked like dried saliva could be seen below the mouth, although it had been browned by brick dust.

  Becky might not be a detective but she knew a few items from her old friend; this death looked to be recent. The body seemed to have maintained most of its natural flesh. Its ghost-like skin showed up against the scarce evening light that seeped in.

  The recess it lay in was shallow enough to suggest a rush job as it had only been dug two feet deep.

  Becky held her breath before another scream could get out in the air. She’d seen enough.

  Fiona McGrogan was a murderer!

  Becky, aware that her flash stood a chance of being spotted, declined to photograph. She tried Leyton’s number instead, and prayed the signal was strong enough to allow whispering. As the phone glowed, she kept her eye on the signal. Four bars had lit up, by the time she was answered.

  “Hello-o?” Leyton’s voice broke in.

  “Hi, it’s Beck....god, no-o-o…” the signal bars suddenly dropped to two “It’s Becky... Jo, you there?

  “Yes. Yes I am. Bex, what’s going on?”

  “It’s Fi...Fi...oh no-o-o...” whispering quickly, she watched out of the window “It’s Fiona.... Fiona…”

  “I thought we sorted all that out this morning. Come on, Bex.”

  “She’s mad.”

  “Are you sure that isn’t you mate?”

  “She’s locked me in her shed.”

  “I can’t blame her,” reacting cynically, Leyton seemed no longer to care “Perhaps she’s got sick of you too!”

  “She’s kill...oh no...no, please.” she hissed as her signal shrunk completely down then out. “No, please don’t.”

  Leyton had put down.

  Becky sat there for ages, silenced by the disillusionment she felt at having made her best friend cut contact.

  She had little time right now to rue her failed attempt for help. She heard a key being inserted and turned. The door swung sharply open. Fiona’s figure hung over her, as cold and relentless as earlier.

  “What’s all the noise?” she asked, like an angry schoolmistress.

  “What noise?”

  “No gi' me that.” she lunged at Becky, almost putting a foot into the hole behind her. She screamed, having obviously realised. “You nosey fuckin' bitch, ye!”

  Becky found herself being dragged out onto the lawn. She lay shivering as Fiona went back inside the shed. There was audible swearing and noise.

  She edged up the lawn silently, eventually getting from her knees. She dreaded what else Fiona might see.

  Her friend-turned-enemy then stopped - she’d obviously noticed Becky’s shadow blocking the light.

  “Get down there. Get right down by the house.” She was pointing venomously.

  I’ll do more than that, Becky thought.

  Having got back her senses, she saw her immediate chance for release.

  She set off, aiming directly for the side gate.

  She set off, aiming directly for the side gate. Her delicate leg couldn’t concern her less any longer - getting out of here did.

  Just as she made the patio, she found herself b
eing pulled from behind by both her hair and right arm.

  “Ye mist think I'm so stupid.” Fiona was forcing her head to look as she pointed out a padlock.

  “Git down against the wall. Face the bricks, y' hear?”

  She was now waving a hammer, the same one Becky had used to attempt her getaway.

  Ice cold with intimidation, Becky backed down next to the French window, which was also shut, and turned around as told. Doing whatever this delirious bitch said seemed the only way she might survive right now.

  "Away from the windae!” Fiona again commanded “Two more steps, the right.” She obviously knew Becky would see her reflection. “Another one further... aye... there... Right, stop where you’re stood now.” Becky obeyed.

  “Face the wall.” Fiona ordered “THE WALL, I SAID. Shift the slightest, I’ll smash ye apart using this.”

  Becky gasped, with helplessness.

  She felt like a bank clerk caught up in an armed robbery. Another five minutes went by, in which she nearly got used to the pattern of peeling bricks and wet moss clusters that she stood nose to nose with.

  Fiona had become far quieter, apart from the occasional creak - she was obviously finding putting the boards back quite a job.

  Becky tried to relax. She then heard the door being locked. She glued her face to the wall.

  Fiona’s footsteps were pretty inaudible as she came walking down the lawn. Her breathing grew louder as she got behind Becky’s ear.

  “I got to head out the front, two moments. Stay right where you’re stood... right now.” she was still waving her hammer. “Any attemptin’ at hidey-hidey, I’ll right hurt ye. Do ye hear?”

  Becky nodded very slightly.

  “You hear?” she asked again.

  “Yes....” Becky snivelled.

  Fiona finally backed away, though she’d still be staring at Becky until she’d gone round the corner. She could be heard closing the gate.

  Talk was audible at the front .

  It was difficult to pick up between Fiona and who.

  Becky eventually heard a car starting outside on the street. It seemed fairly close. As the motor moved audibly away - and possibly not to return - she curled up, burying her eyes beneath her arms. She’d established it was not somebody coming to her rescue. Joanne Leyton was the only one who knew she was here, though her oldest chum seemed past caring by now.