The Tallow Image

by J. T. Brindle

  Thoughts of Cathy filled his mind. Cathy, out there somewhere. Alone and frightened. He felt so damned helpless. They would find her, though, he felt sure, and they knew where to contact him. ‘For a while,’ he replied now, ‘I can’t say how long.’

  She nodded. ‘I understand.’ She touched his arm lightly. ‘I’ll get someone to bring you a cup of tea.’

  ‘Thank you. Oh, and I would like to see the doctor before I leave.’

  ‘We have only one doctor on duty, I’m afraid,’ she told him, ‘but I know he will spare you a few moments. I’ll make sure he’s aware that you want to see him. Just come to the desk when you’re ready to leave.’ She smiled and her features grew surprisingly lovely. When she pushed the door wide open, he silently brushed past. Behind him, the door slowly closed with a soft rushing sound, and suddenly he felt incredibly alone. A great sadness overwhelmed him.

  Advancing towards the bed and the familiar figure of Matt so still and white, Bill had the feeling that he was not alone, that they were not alone, that there was someone else in the room with them. The feeling was so strong it made him call out, ‘Who’s there?’ His head jerked sideways, his eyes scanning the room, widening to a fixed stare when the overlight suddenly flickered low. ‘Cathy? Is that you?’ His furtive glance was drawn to the window, to the curtains fluttering in the incoming breeze, wild grass and a profusion of multi-coloured blooms coming alive on a parchment background. Uneasy, he went to the window, thrust back the curtains and shut out the night. He shivered, a chill rippling through him, the flesh on his back was crawling yet his hands were clammy, the air unpleasant, cloying. Going to the bed, he stood over Matt, gazing down on the silent handsome face, his thoughts murmuring of things that were lost for ever, his every nerve-ending shrieking inside him. When the door was suddenly flung open, he almost clawed up the wall. Realising who it was, he made a noise, a sigh of relief, a distorted laugh. ‘You gave me a fright,’ he told the intruder.

  ‘It’s the quietness,’ the nurse replied, coming into the room and placing a cup of tea on the bedside cupboard, ‘it gets to you, I know.’ Brushing shoulders with him, she took Matt’s wrist between her finger and thumb, lapsing into a meditative silence while with her other hand she plucked out the fob-watch pinned to the breast of her apron, her head bent, her eyes following the tiny hand as it ticked away the seconds. Presently, she gently covered Matt’s arm with the bedclothes and carefully checked the monitoring equipment. ‘Don’t let your tea go cold, Mr Barrington,’ she said, thrusting both hands into her apron pocket as she brushed past him.

  ‘Nurse.’

  She stopped and turned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Matt.’ He swallowed hard and stole a glance at the bed. ‘Does he know I’m here?’ It would mean so much.

  She made a wry face. ‘Possibly,’ she said, ‘it’s hard to tell.’ When he looked away, she quietly departed, closing the door behind her.

  Disillusioned, he pulled the stiff uncomfortable armchair nearer to the bed. Collecting his tea from the side cupboard, he sat with it cupped in the palms of his hands, its warmth permeating his skin, and with it a sensation of pleasure. Suddenly his arms felt like lead weights. He leaned forward, resting his upper body on the bed, his legs stretched out beneath, and his gaze carefully regarding Matt’s face. ‘Like a child asleep,’ he murmured. Other than the features being thinner, more deeply chiselled, Matt was the same as always, the thick mop of earth-coloured hair darkening the pillow, tumbling attractively over his forehead. The same muscular neck and straight classic nose, the strong wide mouth. It was so easy to imagine him smiling in that familiar lopsided relaxed manner he had, so easy to see the dark eyes sparkling with laughter, so easy, too impossible. ‘Oh, Matt… Matt, if only prayers could save you. If only I could take your place,’ he murmured, the after-sigh rising from deep inside. He shook his head and closed his eyes, the tears spilled over. He was not ashamed to cry, only ashamed that he was so utterly helpless.

  Shh! What was that? He stiffened, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He listened, inclining his head to one side, discreetly glancing over his shoulder. Nothing. Only the uncanny stillness and the ticking of the wall-clock. But no! There! A soft, unintelligible sound, like the rush of wind across a moor, or the purring sigh of a woman in ecstasy. ‘Cathy?’ He was transfixed, held by a murmur of unearthly terror.

  His nervous glance inched to the door. It was closed, like the window, like the room. There was only Matt, and him, and… ‘Daddy.’ The voice was inside him, all around, trembling in the air, turning his heart over.

  ‘Cathy!’ The room was darker now. He strained his eyes towards the corner by the door. ‘Is that you, Cathy?’ He could hear his own voice quivering, could hear the tea cup shivering in his hands. Slowly, the apparition emerged, a spectral shape without substance, the awful sound of laughter, black threatening eyes locked into his. Mesmerised with horror, he stared as she came nearer, and nearer. He felt the sweat break out all over his body. He opened his mouth to speak but only the silence remained, brooding, violent, black merciless eyes mingling with his, the figure, tall and menacing, still far off, but growing in substance. Icy cold fingers touched him, making him slew round, sending the tea cup flying, the warm brown liquid spilling out to make an ugly stain on the bedspread. ‘CATHY!’ Her name was a scream from deep down inside. She stared down at him, madness, stark strident madness, grey-black eyes like hard dead things.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, pressing the knife-point to Matt’s throat. ‘I have to do this. You know that, don’t you?’ Her smile was terrifying to see. The knife-point pressed further home – in his mind it was like slow motion, creating a sinister pleasure, the sight of first blood seeming to excite. He felt himself being drawn in, becoming a part of her.

  ‘NO!’ He sprang to his feet, reaching out, his arms unable to touch her, as though there was an invisible barrier keeping him from her. She was only an arm’s reach away, yet he was on the outside looking in, watching her kill him, helpless. ‘Listen to me, Cathy.’ His voice was desperate, soft and persuasive. ‘For God’s sake, listen to me. I love you, Cathy. Matt loves you!’ When she turned, just for the briefest second he thought… he thought. He saw the tallow icon where she had laid it, on the pillow, nestling against Matt’s temple. Matt was stirring, uneasy, a look of excruciating pain on his face.

  Something clicked in Bill’s mind. Realisation dawned and he gasped aloud, his disbelieving glance darting to where the apparition had appeared. It was the tallow doll! Disturbing images rampaged through his senses… Cathy’s violent attack on Matt when they were driving home from the airport… The tallow doll! Matt had related how Cathy had been taken ill in Australia, soon after they had visited the old lunatic asylum, where she had found… the tallow doll! And see how Cathy had begged him to bring it to her in the nursing home, how she seemed frantic to be parted from it. The black unpredictable moods, the horrifying and bloody hallucinations, the strange way she idolised and protected the icon. Oh, dear God! Edna had sworn that she had broken it, and he had thought her senile when he saw how it was unharmed! What was it she had warned – ‘The bad things only started when that thing was brought into the house.’

  Excitement coursed through him, and fear, and a dark resentful anger. Snatching the doll into his fist, he spat the words out, startling her. ‘Think, Cathy, think! You told me once… you didn’t want to hurt him.’ He gripped the doll fiercely in his two fists, holding it up like a cross. ‘You said there was badness in you, and you were right, Cathy, you were right.’ He thrust his arms out, forcing her to look on the icon. In the corner of his eye he thought he saw a shadow, a substance forming, reaching out to him. ‘This is the badness, Cathy,’ he yelled, ‘not you! This… this is the badness!’ He had her. Grey bewildered eyes looking at him, but the knife-point still embedded in soft flesh, the trickle of blood meandering over the stark white pillow. ‘Don’t hurt him,’ he pleaded, ‘Matt loves you. We both love you. Put d
own the knife, Cathy. Don’t hurt him.’ His stark frightened eyes bored into Cathy’s, watching them soften, her pain and confusion tearing him apart inside. ‘You remember, Cathy, how happy you were? You and Matt, how much in love?’ Softly, oh so carefully, he began to steal round the bed towards her, pausing when she pulled back, the knife-point sinking deeper into Matt’s throat. ‘Think, sweetheart,’ he coaxed, ‘think about how it was, you and Matt.’

  ‘Me… and… Matt.’ Her eyes swam with tears as she shifted her gaze to Matt’s face, to the rivulet of blood creeping over her hand. Suddenly he groaned, his eyes opening to narrow slits, searching, searching.

  ‘C… a… th… y.’ Her name issued from his lips, soft and loving.

  Startled, she bent towards him. In that split second, Bill sprang forward, the doll tight in his fist and his free hand seeking to snatch the knife from Cathy’s grasp. Everything happened at once – the mind-splitting scream, the tremendous unseen force that sent him staggering backwards, and Cathy, laughing, shaking her head like a thing insane. Then the glow, the fiery blinding glow that encompassed her, the doll writhing in his hand, wailing like a soul in torment, burning his flesh, ebbing and glowing in a brilliant spherical light, the eyes scintillating, glaring at him, the hatred touching his very soul. Above the banshee screams he could hear his own voice calling out, yelling, growing desperate when no one came to shatter the madness. Dragging himself to the door, he banged his fist into it, over and over, each time louder than the last, his frantic screams rising above the mayhem. The voice was inside him, exquisite pain, burning, like Cathy, like the doll… ‘They can’t help you. No one on earth can help… you… now.’

  The voice was faltering, the image melting before his eyes, and Cathy, Cathy! He rolled his eyes upwards, crying out in agony when he saw not Cathy, but a wizened aged creature, like an old film flicking over before his shocked eyes. Cathy was there, then the doll, now the beauty, then the beast, and Maria… Maria. The room was on fire, the stench overpowering. ‘Cathy, CATHY!’ She was burning, he was burning, the pain was excruciating, and the laughter, a wicked heinous sound straight from hell itself. He glanced down, into the black tortured eyes, bitter, empty eyes, long-ago evil, the voice filtered into his senses. ‘They… can’t… help… you.’ He felt the fingers tighten round his throat, he was slipping away into the blackness, deep down, into the furore of an overwhelming peace.

  ‘It’s all right.’ He heard the voice inside his head, felt the strong hands urging him upwards. Like a drunken man he clung to them, his head splitting, the stench of fire still sultry in his nostrils. ‘Okay. You’re okay now.’ His senses were in turmoil, his mind emerging from the darkness. With big disbelieving eyes he searched the room. A nervous smile shaped his lips; there was nothing here to alarm him. But then he remembered!

  Beginning to tremble inside, he glanced down at the palm of his hand. ‘Strange,’ he murmured – there was no burn, no scorch mark, no indication of the intense heat that had melted through his skin. ‘Cathy!’ he gasped, struggling to clamber from the bed.

  ‘Lie still, Mr Barrington!’ The doctor was young, innocent. He did not understand. ‘Your daughter is quite safe.’

  ‘Where? Where is she?’ Visions of fury and torment were still alive in him.

  ‘When the nurse went back to carry out her normal checks, and found you lying unconscious with your daughter on her knees beside you, well of course she phoned the police. That was the instruction they gave only minutes before, to contact them immediately if we saw a young woman answering to your daughter’s description.’

  ‘The police!’ He scrambled from the bed, his whole body feeling as though it had been forced through a mincer. ‘The police took her? Is that what you’re saying?’ He desperately tried to gather his shredded thoughts.

  ‘They were gentle. She gave them no trouble.’

  ‘Was she all right?’ He looked up, his head bent forward into the palms of his hands, his dog-brown eyes half-hidden beneath a heavy frown. When the doctor was slow to reply, he urged, ‘For God’s sake, man! Was she all right?’

  ‘Distressed.’

  ‘Harmed? Was she harmed in any way?’ Try as he might, he could not thrust out the images.

  The doctor pursed his lips and lapsed into deep thought. After a moment he shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Did they take her back to the nursing home?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I want to see Matt. And I need to call the nursing home.’

  ‘Of course.’

  On unsteady legs he followed the white-coated doctor down the narrow corridor towards that same small room. He found himself trembling. What would he find there? Dear God above, what would he find!

  15

  ‘Is Matthew Slater here?’ The thin-faced, tight-lipped man sat upright in the chair, regarding Edna through serious eyes. ‘I would very much like to speak with him.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ Edna replied, politely offering the stranger a sandwich from the plate. When he gestured that he did not want refreshment of any kind, she went on in a small quiet voice, ‘There’s no one here but me, I’m afraid. You see, there’s been a sadness in this family.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ he apologised.

  She smiled wryly. ‘We’re all of us given a cross to bear,’ she said, ‘some crosses bigger than others… harder to carry.’ Her smile broadened as she added in a lighter mood, ‘But I’ve always said that if you trust in the Lord, you’ve nothing to fear.’ She frowned. ‘I’m sorry, too, about Laura. You say she was an old friend?’

  He nodded. ‘There was a time long ago when I had hoped we would marry.’ He looked away, gazing at the open blue sky through the window. ‘It wasn’t to be. Laura was always a free spirit, not the marrying kind at all.’

  ‘And now you’re here on the sad errand of taking her home to be buried?’

  ‘That’s why I am staying overnight in Bedford, yes. All the arrangements are made. But I could not leave without seeing you. I have been made aware of the circumstances of her death, but I wanted to hear the account first hand. Is there anywhere I can contact Mr Slater? The stables do belong to him? He was her employer.’

  ‘Oh yes. That’s right, sir,’ Edna agreed, ‘but it ain’t Matthew you need to talk to, because, you see, he weren’t here two nights ago when…’ She paused. The events were bright as day in her mind. ‘When Laura was killed.’ She might have added… ‘When the other bad things happened…’ but she chose not to.

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘Why, me, of course, and my husband, Joseph. We did what was humanly possible, believe me.’ She lowered her gaze to the carpet, unwilling to go on, not wanting to relive that awful night, a night like no other, a night when it seemed as though all the hounds of hell were let loose to wreak terror and carnage.

  ‘Please, go on,’ he urged. And, while she told him – of how she and Joseph were awakened in their beds by the unmistakable crackling and splintering of burning wood, when the wild leaping flames lit up the night like it was a brilliant summer’s day – the man remained silent, his face moved in turn by a myriad of emotions, his small blue eyes never once looking away, though they were heavy with pain. ‘Do you think she suffered?’ he asked.

  Edna shook her head, ‘No,’ she said gently, ‘don’t you go tormenting yourself with such thoughts. It was all over too quickly.’

  He sighed, the faintest of smiles changing his features. ‘That’s what they told me,’ he said, ‘that the smoke would have rendered her unconscious before… before…’ He could not go on.

  ‘Like I said, don’t torture yourself,’ Edna entreated. She finished his sentence in her head… before the flames burned her alive. But that was exactly the way it did happen, she recalled with a riveting sense of horror. It was all too real in her memory. Soon after the nursing home phoned to say how Cathy had run away and they needed to contact Mr Barrington urgently, she and Joseph spent the best part of an hour
just sitting and talking about so many things… how Slater’s Farm used to be such a happy place with everybody part of one big happy family… how Bill Barrington was a tower of strength to them all… how everyone prayed for Matt and Cathy, agonised for them, despaired that they might never again be the same lovely, carefree souls. Joseph had declared sadly that it was ‘as though a curse had been put on them’ – although when Edna quickly agreed and spoke to him about the tallow image, he grew angry, almost afraid, she thought, dismissing her fears out of hand, and warning her never to speak of such things. ‘Do you want folk to start thinking I’m married to a witch?’ he asked, his amusement veiled in a more sinister mood. Feeling foolish, she had gone to bed, and besides, she reminded herself, that hideous tallow doll was broken into a thousand pieces! She had not regretted doing that. She never would.

  Not long after, Joseph had climbed into bed and the two of them had fallen asleep. Some time later she was awakened with a start, thinking the house to be on fire, the dry acrid smell of smoke clogging her nostrils. Through the half-open window she was astonished to see the whole sky ablaze, illuminating the room, reflecting the crimson glow in the dressing-table mirror. Her shouts woke Joseph and the two of them threw their dressing gowns on, and ran full pelt towards the source of the fire. It was pandemonium!

  The smoke was billowing over the stables, terrifying the horses and whipping them into a frenzy. Joseph screamed at her to ‘Stay back!’ but she knew he could never do it alone. Together they rushed down the yard, throwing open the stable doors and sending the frantic horses out across the fields. The heat was stifling, oppressive, choking them, impairing their vision, the spreading flames bent on devouring everything in sight. With the last horse free and galloping to safety, Joseph roared at her to, ‘Get out! Get out!’ grabbing her by the arm and turning her away. But then the screams shocked them rigid. ‘Jesus Christ! There’s somebody trapped down there,’ Joseph yelled, pushing her on before swinging back to run into the thick of it. Undaunted and fearful for his safety, Edna followed, the comer of her dressing gown stretched over her mouth, her raw eyes streaming from the smoke and heat. The tack-room was hopelessly engulfed by the time they got there. Vivid red and blue flames leapt high into the air, the heat was intense, they could not come within ten feet of it. Dejected and realising how their own lives were in danger, Joseph hurried her away. Following a persistent instinct, Edna had looked back, just once, for the briefest moment, but long enough for her to see what would haunt her for all time. It was the face of a woman. A woman, trapped and terrified, her two hands stretched wide and pressed against the blistering windowpane, her mouth open in a silent scream, the flames licking at her all around.