The Tallow Image

by J. T. Brindle

  Maria had woken with a strange mood on her. It was almost as though she sensed her life might too soon be over. Always aware of her vast age, Maria had recently smelled the Angel of Death close by. It was not a pleasant thing, yet she was not afraid of death itself. In fact, there were times – when her mind gentled back over the years, and the loneliness became too unbearable – when she was almost impatient for that long, final peace. But she was afraid… of how quickly the days, weeks and years seemed to rush by. Time was the enemy! Time was fast running out, and she still had much to do. There were those, younger and more deserving than her, who were in mortal danger. These innocents were already under the influence of an awesome and terrifying evil. And only she, Maria Hinson, the one remaining blood kin to Matthew Slater, might hold the key to his salvation. Somehow, there were things let loose against that young man… ageless, vindictive things that were hell-bent on destruction.

  Gradually, and with the help of a secret outside source, Maria had begun to fit the jigsaw together. A closer inspection of those artefacts which had once belonged to Ralph and Maria Ryan told her two very important things; one which had not occurred to her before, and another which she could not have been aware of until Matthew Slater took his bride to Australia.

  Firstly, nowhere in Maria Ryan’s diary was there any mention of a particular tallow doll – nor indeed were there any entries whatsoever that referred to a doll of any kind. This had intrigued the old lady. Day and night she had agonised over it. One thing she could tell right away from her grandmother’s beautifully kept diary was that Maria Ryan never missed a single day without entering every detail, however trivial. Why then was there no mention of that doll?

  Deeply puzzled, she had churned it over and over in her mind, irritated because she had not noticed the omission on the one occasion, long ago, when she had read her grandmother’s diary. But then, it had been little more than a hurried glance. Peering into something so precious as a woman’s private thoughts was somehow repugnant, and yet how else would history be passed down through generations, if it was not primarily through the written word? All the same, the old lady had long ago secreted the diary away, together with all of her grandparents’ treasured things.

  When she saw Matthew Slater’s picture in the paper, though, and realised with a mingling of pride and horror that he just might be the last living male link to the past, curiosity and a sense of impending danger had obliged her to take out the diary. It was then she saw that there was no mention of the tallow doll… the same doll which Maria Ryan’s dearest friend, Elizabeth Manners, had assumed was a gift to Maria from Ralph. Down the years, the assumption was never questioned. Until now! Could it be that the tallow doll had not been a gift? Or even that it had not belonged to Maria Ryan? And, if not, then where did it come from? And why did Elizabeth Manners tell Agatha she had ‘found it lying on the floor of your mammy’s parlour’? If it was not Agatha’s and not Maria Ryan’s, then where had it come from?

  Maria had learned to her cost that the tallow image was evil; created by evil, and emanating evil. All these years it had lain dormant, quietly brooding beneath the earth. She had at times been tempted to make sure that it was still there. But she was too afraid. Instead, she watched from the window, keeping vigil, being at last convinced that what she had put deep in the ground remained trapped there all these years.

  Yet, she had recently discovered, from the detective she hired, that Matthew Slater and his young wife were plagued with troubles. Maria suspected it to be the same dark merciless force which had plagued her… used her to conduct its awful, murderous acts. Was there a link between that demon which was buried out there in that black earth, and the demon that stalked Matthew Slater? Maria had come to believe that the two were somehow connected. And that the answer lay in the second discovery she had made in her grandmother’s diary.

  Shortly before the drowning of Ralph Ryan, and the tragic death of Maria, there was an entry in Maria’s diary which spoke of her fear ‘that my dear husband is in the grip of a dark and relentless depression which appears to affect his mind. It seems to stem from his work. The pending execution of a woman convict is preying heavily on his mind.’ Elizabeth Manners had described to Agatha how her mother, Maria, was greatly troubled by Ralph Ryan’s work at the Fremantle lunatic asylum.

  Maria absent-mindedly agreed when Emily insisted that she wear the long blue cardigan over her lightweight dress. She was too preoccupied to argue. It was all becoming much clearer now. According to her recent information, one of the places visited during Matthew and Cathy Slater’s trip to Australia was none other than the Fremantle lunatic asylum, the very institution where Ralph Ryan worked. There was the link! As yet, the deeper significance of it all had eluded Maria. But she would root out the truth of it. She must! For time was running out, and souls were in danger.

  ‘Will you be warm enough, Maria?’ Emily manoeuvred the wheelchair along the path to the front gate; the old lady walked carefully behind.

  ‘Of course I’ll be warm enough,’ Maria retorted, picking her way slowly along the crazy-paving. She kept her eyes down, afraid of falling, knowing how brittle were her bones. ‘You’ve got me trussed up like an oven-ready turkey! If anything, I’ll be too warm!’ She glanced up, her blue eyes blinking in the bright sunlight. She could feel its warmth on her face, yet Emily was right to make her wrap up cosily, because her old body was slow to warm these days. ‘My blood’s running thin,’ she mused sadly. ‘Thinning to water.’ Briefly, Maria’s thoughts returned to her grandmother’s diary. The more she thought on the entries there, the more anxious she became.

  It was a glorious day, with the sun beating down and a gentle breeze tempering the humidity. The many large flower beds all along the embankment were a blaze of colour. Ice-cream vans were parked at every bend with queues of people spilling over the footpaths. Excited children could be seen and heard running and skipping in and out of the benches. Youths sped up and down the broad walkways, proudly displaying their skills on bicycles and skateboards. Dogs chased and yapped, meandering swans and geese searching for titbits fled away, wings wide, necks stretched in noisy protest. On the river itself, manned canoes sliced through the water, their muscular crews bent forward in tense deliberation, and occasionally the harsh commands of a coxswain would spur them on. It seemed as though every man, woman and child in Bedford was congregated here on this day of leisure.

  Bill Barrington had finished his ice-cream and was leaning back on the bench, a look of contentment on his face as he tightened the rein on the two dogs, who were eager to be away. Now, as he turned to Cathy, his eyes squinted against the sun as she leaned forward to plant a kiss on his cheek.

  ‘Thanks for inviting us out today, Dad,’ she murmured.

  ‘That’s right, Bill,’ Matt rejoined, his heart gladdened to see Cathy so obviously happy. ‘I’d forgotten how relaxing the river is.’

  ‘I love it here,’ Bill confessed. At heart he was a lonely man, more so now that Cathy was no longer at home. He often came to the river, just to sit, and to remember a time when he was not so lonely. ‘It’s peaceful here.’

  ‘Not so peaceful today, though,’ Matt said, glancing up and down the embankment. ‘Seems like everybody had the same idea,’ he observed. ‘But I know what you mean,’ he admitted, ‘there is still something uniquely peaceful about the river.’ Sliding his arm round Cathy, he drew her into him. For a while they remained so, she with her fair head against his broad shoulder, and he with his arm crooked about her neck, his head bent to hers and his lips parted in her hair, his senses filled with her gentle fragrance. The way it should always be, he thought. Since he and Cathy had returned from their honeymoon, so many things had transpired to threaten their happiness… wicked, inexplicable things. It had been a bad time.

  Now, with Cathy content in his arms, he felt at peace with the world. Life was good. While Cathy stirred against his body, exciting his deeper instincts, the urge to make love was strong i
n him. He had the irrepressible feeling that Cathy would come back to their own bed tonight. Suddenly, all was well with his world and the bad things seemed as though they had never happened.

  ‘Shall we wander on?’ Bill’s arm was aching from restraining the two dogs. He was loath to let them loose before they crossed the footbridge which would take them away from the road and on to the broader playing fields.

  ‘Yes. Let’s make our way to the lock,’ Cathy suggested. She sprang from the bench and began straightening the creases in her white culottes. Bill smiled to himself. Even as a child she was always fascinated by watching the small cruisers go through the lock.

  At the bottom of the arched footbridge that spanned the river, Emily and Maria were finding difficulty in manoeuvring the wheelchair. Recognising the women as the ones he had seen crossing the road some time back, Bill, along with Matt, hurried forward to lend a helping hand, giving the dogs to Cathy and leaving Emily to support the old lady as she went slowly to the other side.

  ‘Thank you so much.’ Emily had one hand on the wheelchair and the other on Maria. ‘She would insist on crossing the footbridge. She so much wants to see the bandstand,’ Emily explained to Bill. ‘I’m sure I couldn’t have managed on my own.’ She flicked her grateful glance to Matt and Cathy. ‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ Matt told her.

  ‘None at all,’ Bill rejoined. ‘I’m just glad we were on hand.’ He smiled down on Emily, entranced by her pretty brown eyes. He had noticed her slight limp, and the dark blemish on her face, and he thought how neither affliction detracted from her loveliness. He guessed her age to be somewhere between forty and fifty years, but there was an innocence about her that lent an air of youth. Now, as she smiled up at him, he wanted to know her better.

  ‘Emily! Don’t stand there daydreaming!’ Startled, Maria had recognised Matt and Cathy from the newspaper picture. Confused and afraid, her first thought was to get away from them; get right away. She had to think. Her mind was in turmoil.

  ‘All right, Maria,’ Emily told her, but she kept her gaze on Bill’s face. ‘Thank you again,’ she murmured, quickly turning away when his smile intimately deepened and she felt the rush of colour to her face. In a matter of minutes she had helped the anxious old lady into the wheelchair when, with only a brief, hesitant backward glance, she went on her way, following the path which would take them to the bandstand. Beyond that was the lock. Emily felt the small party following behind. The memory of Bill’s tender gaze stayed with her, making her feel warm and pleasant. No man had ever looked at her in that way. She suspected no man ever would again.

  Maria was remembering too, but hers was a different memory, and she was neither warmed nor pleased. Instead, she was greatly agitated. Seeing those two in the flesh had raised all kinds of fear in her. For so long, she had been forced to guard her most inner thoughts from that malign influence. It was never far away. Time and again it had tried to infiltrate her mind, to use her as a means by which it might escape the grave to which she had committed it. But, always, she resisted. It was a battle of wits, a constant struggle for supremacy.

  Now, though, Maria had done the unforgivable. In that moment when she had recognised Matthew and Cathy Slater, she had been so riveted with shock that, for an instant, for the briefest instant, her guard was down. She wondered at the possible consequences, and was panic stricken. ‘Take me home!’ she insisted now. ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘But we’ve only been out a short while,’ Emily protested, being cruelly forced from her contented reverie and now anxious to convince Maria that the weather was, after all, ideal. The sun was less intense now, and the breeze decidedly pleasant. Besides, up to a moment ago, Maria was enjoying her outing; she had said so herself. Maria, though, was adamant. Nothing Emily said could persuade her to stay out any longer. So, with one being reluctant and the other secretly frantic, they began their way home. The easiest and shortest route was back along the same path and on towards the footbridge. Maria’s big old house was almost directly opposite.

  The two women did not go unobserved. The man had parked his hatchback not too far away. Lounging on a bench which overlooked the river, he was feeding his half-eaten sandwich to the ducks, his attention seemingly taken by their noisy antics, but his shifty, watchful eyes were on the wheelchair, following its every movement. Neither Emily nor Maria had been out of his sight since the moment they emerged from the footbridge. Occasionally he would raise his head and look beyond, to another small group who had turned loose the two playful black Labradors and were now strolling in his direction, heading for the lock.

  The man aroused no suspicion. He was merely a middle-aged fellow clad in dark trousers and white open-necked shirt, his face neither handsome nor unattractive, but altogether ordinary. One more hardworking ‘ordinary’ man, seeking a peaceful few hours by the river. And so he watched and waited, biding his time, pursuing a purpose.

  There were others whose interest had also been aroused by Emily and Maria. Bill Barrington had been inexplicably drawn to Emily. Some deep, latent need in him was touched by her sincere brown eyes. After they parted company, he had watched her all the way along the path. He watched her now, as she returned, pushing the old lady in the wheelchair, her head occasionally turning to smile at the many laughing, excited children all around. As she came closer, he wondered how he might speak with her again. There was an irritating nervousness in the pit of his stomach. He silently laughed at his foolishness.

  Cathy was another who watched, discreetly observing the approaching ensemble, a strange sensation taking hold of her… almost as though she was observing not through her own eyes but through someone else’s. She was elevated above it all, observing everything around, yet not seeing… aware of the noise, but not hearing it. Suddenly there was a great calm in her, yet she was also restless and possessed of a tremendous, frenzied energy. She was strolling with Matt, holding his hand, yet whereas it had been warm, it was now shockingly cold, his fingers seeming not to touch her. Just ahead her father was playing with the two dogs. They were bounding after him, loudly barking when he dodged behind a tree. And all the while the wheelchair came nearer. Now Cathy could see the women’s faces clearly; soon she would see the whites of their eyes. Already she could smell the fear – she could even taste it, bitter on her tongue, creating delight in her heart. Closer they came, closer and closer. She could hardly breathe. Now! Now! The wickedness surged through her. Be still, Cathy… be still, Cathy! The dogs were silent now, ears pricked, wide eyes staring at Cathy.

  Even before she looked up, Maria knew. In her heart she knew. It was just a feeling, unreal but all-consuming, a feeling like no other. So long… it had been so very long. Yet she knew the sensation of old. It was there when both her parents had died, when she had seen her own brother crushed to death, and on that day when her husband was thrown from his horse. It was there when the news came of her sister’s horrific death. It was here now. Stronger than ever! She tried not to look up, willing herself to stare ahead, trying to concentrate on the noises around her, mentally grasping at anything that would create enough chaos and confusion in her mind to drive away all else. But it was powerful. Too powerful. She could hear it now, murmuring inside her, whispering, ‘Look up, Maria, look up.’ Tremulously she raised her sorry eyes, her reluctant gaze drawn to Cathy. Their eyes met. Long-ago witchcraft fled between them, sending a chill through her. She saw it then, darkly evil, malign, unbelievably exquisite. Like so many times before, she fought against it. Long ago she was no match for it, but that was then. Before she knew, before she had seen it.

  ‘No, curse you!’ The cry broke from her, shattering the spell. But it was too late! In an instant the dogs were on her, toppling the wheelchair, tearing at her flesh, bent on ripping out her heart; because she knew. She knew! All around the screams echoed, piercing, like the agony that speared through her, and still she fought like the very devil, but beneath the onslaught her streng
th was slipping away. Her hands reached out; warm red blood ran down her face into her mouth. It was oddly comforting.

  ‘Jesus Christ! They’re killing her!’ Matt battled to drag the crazed dogs away. Bill was there… and the man – the ‘ordinary’ man – who had rushed to the scene and thrown himself into the furore, forcing himself between the savage beasts and the old lady.

  Cheated and incensed, they turned on him, showing him no mercy. Maddened beyond all restraint they lunged at him time and again, incisive teeth splitting into him, his anguished screams spurring them on. For him, for the old lady pinned beneath his bloodied, writhing body, there seemed no escape from the killing space.

  Amidst the uproar, the oar sliced through the air, smashing into bone, spattering the deranged brains beneath. There were no yelps, no lasting pain, only an eerie silence when the two beasts crumpled to the ground. The body of the man was soaked in its own blood, a twisted, grotesque thing not easily recognisable, insides out, hideous chunks of raw flesh torn out and still wedged between the dogs’ teeth.

  For the briefest instant after the attackers were felled, the silence was uncanny, shocked, disturbed only by the soft, horrified murmurs, and the sound of broken sobbing. Emily came forward on shaking legs.

  ‘No.’ Bill slid his arm round her shoulders, gently drawing her back. ‘Don’t… please.’ She glanced down, looking beyond the man’s remains. Just an ‘ordinary’ man; a brave and foolish man. Restrained by Bill’s strong arm, she resisted, then something made them both jerk around. A small, whimpering sound, feeble, but alive.

  ‘God almighty, she’s still alive!’ the cry went up. They moved quickly. Soon the police were there, and the ambulance. The old lady was badly mauled, but still alive. Tenderly they placed her on the stretcher, the ‘ordinary’ man’s blood dripping from her skin, staining her clothes. In pain, she half-opened her eyes, not so blue now, not so vivid, but haunted. First they looked down at the one who had lost his life to save her. The face was mangled, but she recognised it – the thick brown hair, the unusually green eyes, stiff with shock. She knew him and she mourned his loss. He had paid the price. Somehow she had survived.