Dead in the Trunk: A Short Story Collection

by Craig Saunders

  'Yes, I will.'

  After another minute of silence had passed, George found himself getting angry at her. She wouldn’t do what was good for her. Why wouldn’t she take her pills?

  'I’ll put dinner on,' he said, for something to say.

  'I’m not really hungry anymore,' she said. 'Sorry darling, but when I’ve got one of my heads I can’t really eat.'

  Well, then, take your pills and it will go away. They always work.

  He was getting worked up again. He tried counting. It usually worked, but the feeling, of slipping, was stronger now. There was a strange smell in the air. Perhaps she hadn’t washed today.

  'Please take your pills.'

  She just sat, silently. 'You know I can’t, George.'

  It was stronger now. The feeling. He turned to the cupboard above the kettle and took out the teabags. One by one, he took each out and began counting. One, two, three…the sickness in his stomach and the palpitations of his heart did not ease.

  'Don’t be angry with me, George. You know why I can’t take my pills. You understand. Tell me you understand.'

  That smell was there again. And smelling it, he understood. The feeling passed, and with it the understanding. His heartbeat slowed. His legs felt stronger.

  Then, he was fine.

  'Well, I’ll make some dinner for myself then, dearest. You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to.'

  'Thank you, George. There’s a reason why I love you. You’re such a kind man. And so successful.'

  George smiled, and kissed her on the cheek. 'You’re such a sweet talker. I love you.'

  Perhaps it was her breath that smelled. It would be just like her to forget to brush her teeth, especially these days.

  But then what were some bad odours between man and wife? He put it to one side. Sometimes she smelled bad, but then that was to be expected. In the heat, for some reason he didn’t understand, she smelled…well, almost rotten. Still, she couldn’t manage to bathe when she had one of her heads. It didn’t matter to him. He loved her anyway.

  Sometimes, love is all about overlooking the little things.

  *

  This story, too, was accepted. Never published, though, because the magazine requested a rewrite. I stuck to my guns. I never did want this to be out and out horror, which they wanted. I wanted it to be sweet. I write the occasional sweet story. Rare, maybe, but I do. Here it is.

  Sunday Night Séance Club

  A moody cloud passed over the moon and for a moment Martha was forced to pause and get her bearings. Suddenly adrift on a sea of darkness, her feet, which had travelled the street in every direction imaginable, forgot where they were and stopped dead. Feeling stupid, squinting into the night, Martha cursed herself for not bringing her torch on this journey across the road. The street lights were out, but Art, her husband of forty years, had poo-pooed the idea.

  'It’s fifty yards by the moonlight, Martha, and if you can’t do that then perhaps you’re really ready for sheltered housing.'

  'I’m only sixty-bloody-five, thank you very bloody much.'

  'No need to get shirty, dear heart, I’m just saying, is all.'

  But she had left without the torch, and now she was thinking up inventive ways to pay back her old man when she got home.

  Her feet were stuck on the pavement, unsure of where to go without input from her eyes, even though the path should have been drummed into them, well enough to do it in the dark. The power had been out for twelve hours, since eight o’clock that morning. It was just so like the power company to leave them hanging. It wasn’t unusual for them to take a few days to fix the problem.

  Feeling foolish for being bullied into leaving the torch behind, Martha carefully shuffled forward, one foot slowly checking the ground before her for the curb. She should go back, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  Thankfully, she wasn’t old enough to be worrying about a broken hip should she take a tumble.

  Eventually, advancing by small, careful increments, her foot found the curb, and her night vision started coming back. She could see candlelight peeking around Molly’s drapes not twenty yards in front of her, although she could not see the wall, or the garden, or the path, even. In short, she could see nothing useful.

  As she stepped onto the verge she had a horrible thought about slipping in dog’s muck, falling down and covering her Sunday best in dog doings. A fine picture that would be.

  But she made it to the wall, and the moon came out once more. Martha wiped imaginary sweat from her brow, and, more confidence in her footsteps, strode in to Molly’s front door and rang three times on Molly’s fancy electrical push bell.

  Martha only had a knocker. She’d been pestering Art to get a push bell, one just like Molly’s, be he called it a darn fool thing and refused flat out.

  She’d win him over though, just like she always did. As far as she was concerned a good marriage meant a little give and take. She told him what to do, and Art took it like a man. Sometimes she pretended to listen to him, just to spice things up some, while secretly waiting for him to forget what he wanted in the first place.

  Yes, indeed. He would come round.

  She waited in the eerie glow of the summer moon, the stars barely visible now the moon was unshackled in the sky. There was always a full moon when they had their best séances. Tonight, the moon was fat and lusty, a grinning, pale breast in the sky.

  Martha chuckled to herself. Breast. She always had the better imagination of the four. Molly would have called it a seer’s moon. To Peg, it would have been pale with the ghosts of the departed. For Anna, no doubt it would have been something out of that Harvey Potterer, a witch’s moon, or an ancient dragon’s milky eye.

  Martha stood staring up at it. Nope, she thought, definitely a big milky breast. Nothing magical or preternatural about it in the slightest.

  The door opened, and warmth crept out into the night. Suddenly she was aware of the chill of the summer night.

  'Evening, Martha, I’ve just got the kettle on,' said Peg.

  'Ooh, you mustn’t drink tea on a full moon, it makes you incontinent.'

  'Really? I’ve always been quite well controlled.'

  'Well, it gets you later in life. You ask around, anyone prone to dribbles drank tea on a full moon. Mark my words.'

  'I suppose I could go without,' Peg conceded, looking a mite unsure of herself.

  She was so gullible she’d buy teabag holes.

  'Not really, Peg. I’m just winding you up. It’s dandelions that make you incontinent. Just touching them is enough. They make you wet the bed when you’re just a girl, but there’s something in them, D-376 is its chemical name, that seeps into your blood. It takes a long time to have a permanent effect, but touch enough of them and once you hit eighty, well, bam! Or should I say splosh.'

  'No, really?' said Peg, obviously concerned.

  'God’s gospel,' Martha told her, and stepped past. 'Still, not to worry, what are you, seventy?'

  'Seventy eight.'

  'Oh,' said Martha with cheerful sincerity. 'Best make the most of the dry years then.'

  Peg shut the door behind Martha and stood for a moment, perhaps taking a moment to mourn the good old days when she’d been able to choose when she hit the lavs.

  Martha patted her meaty arm and walked past into the living room. Peg went to the kitchen, where the kettle was nearing its peak, already beginning to whistle.

  The house was quite well lit, despite the power cut, and warm from the stove which was tucked up in the fireplace, where an open fire would have been long ago.

  Stoves were all the rage these days. Martha made a mental note to tell Art he wanted one.

  'Wotcha, Molly,' she said cheerfully to her friend.

  'Hello, Martha, thank you for coming,' replied Molly. Molly was old enough to be excused from getting up unnecessarily. She remained in her favourite armchair, craning her head around to look at Martha, a smile on her face.

 
Molly wouldn’t admit it, but Martha was sure Sunday nights were the highlight of the old lady’s week.

  They were all old ladies (well, apart from Anna, but even she had reached the cold sweats in the night age. No more sprogs for her. It wasn’t like she didn’t have enough anyway. Four was more than sufficient to be going on with. Martha was surprised she hadn’t lost a few on the way to the supermarket), but Molly was the oldest. She said she was eighty. Martha knew she was ninety-one. Reg had whispered it in her ear one Sunday two months previously. She hadn’t let on that she knew. Molly wouldn’t like it. A man’s home might be his castle, but a woman’s age was hers.

  Molly looked her age. She was hunched, her hands were stiff, the fingers at odds with each other. On a bad day Molly couldn’t make herself a cup of tea, the kettle being too difficult to grasp. She had no aversion to asking for help, though. On those days Martha came across from number 10 and made her a pot of tea. The handle on the teapot was easier to manage.

  Years ago Molly had refused to drink tea from anything but a china cup, almost translucent pottery with a wafer thin saucer. Nowadays pride was denied the old lady. She could manage a mug, so a mug it was.

  Peg brought in three mugs, held in one stubby hand. No small feat, thought Martha. She took the first and Peg sat the next beside Molly. Molly nodded in thanks.

  'It’s nice to see you girls,' she said. The rest of her might be weakening with the ravages and indignities of age, but her voice was firm and strong.

  'Nice to be welcome, Molly,' said Peg.

  'Where’s Anna? Late as usual?'

  'She called to say she’d be late,' Molly said with some of her old sternness in her words.

  'You’d think she’d be able to get here on time, what with that new car of hers.'

  'Well,' said Peg, in Anna’s defence, 'There is a blackout.'

  'Nobody’s called a power cut a blackout since 1945, Peg,' retorted Martha. 'And, cars have headlights. They’re independent of the power grid, you know.'

  Peg was silent. Molly sighed.

  'She’ll be here.'

  And speak of the devil, the doorbell rang. The youngest always got the doorbell. Martha didn’t complain. It was just the rules. For some reason Anna always turned up late. Martha thought maybe she did it on purpose, just so she didn’t have to answer the door.

  Martha pulled the door wide, and Anna bustled in.

  'Oh, I’m so sorry I’m late. Paul was late back from his mum’s, and I couldn’t leave the kids.'

  The youngest was ten, although any of the other kids could have watched their brother. Martha didn’t say anything. It wasn’t her place to talk to Anna about parenting.

  'How are you, Martha? The power’s out all over Dunston. Is Peg here?'

  'One thing at a time, Anna. Come in.'

  She brushed past Martha and hung her coat on a hook by the door. Martha shut the door behind her and ushered her in.

  'Hello,' said Peg.

  'Hello, child,' said Molly, who treated Anna like the grandchild she never had.

  'Hi to you both.'

  'There’s a cup of tea in the pot, if you want one.'

  'I wouldn’t mind. I’m parched. I’ve been running around like the proverbial blue bottomed fly all day. Haven’t had a cuppa for hours, seems like.'

  Martha would have said ‘arsed’. Anna wore Martha out. She sat down on the couch, leaving a clear seat between herself and Peg, who had already made herself comfortable.

  'Help yourself,' said Molly, carefully taking up her own tea.

  Anna swished out of the front room into the kitchen. Swished, thought Martha. That was a good word. Anna had a penchant for long, floral skirts. Penchant. Now that was a good word. Now, where the bloody hell had that come from?

  A minute passed in amiable silence, and Anna came back in, bearing a cup of tea.

  'Well, how is everyone?'

  'My gout’s playing up,' Peg told her, pointing to her swollen feet. She’d taken off her left shoe, Martha realised. She wasn’t as observant as she’d been before she hit sixty. Going daft, she thought to herself.

  'I’m alright. Art’s my only cross to bear.'

  'Right as rain,' said Molly.

  'Oh, good,' said Anna, sensibly ignoring Peg’s gripe. It could take all night to talk about Peg’s various real and imaginary ailments.

  'Well,' said Molly, pushing herself up from the chair, taking up her stick to steady herself, and turning slowly toward the dinning room, 'Shall we?'

  'I’m game,' said Martha.

  Anna and Peg just followed, Peg’s limp now noticeable, but only because she had drawn attention to it in the first place.

  After much sighing and scraping of chairs on the tiled floor, they settled round the small table, each one of them taking up one whole side with elbows and tea, and in Martha’s case an ashtray and her constant companion, a packet of JPS black.

  A candle burned in the middle of the table, white wax pooling and congealing in the holder. Two more candles threw light from the sideboard behind Peg, throwing two intersecting shadows over the table.

  'Whose turn is it to start tonight?' asked Martha, lighting a cigarette from the candle in the centre of the table, as she always did. When asked, she had claimed it tasted better lit from a candle. In reality, it was a little superstition of hers. She wouldn’t let on, just as the others wouldn’t let on that they knew anyway.

  Smoke drifted toward the ceiling as Molly answered. 'I think the honour is mine tonight, girls.'

  'You’re welcome to it.'

  'Shall we?' asked Molly. Everyone answered in the affirmative.

  Molly closed her eyes – they all did – and took a deep, steadying breath. The only sound was the flickering of the candle, and the sputtering of Martha’s cigarette.

  There was no holding of hands. No crystal balls, Ouija boards, incense, or mumbo-jumbo. Straightforwardness was appreciated whichever side of life you were on, or so Molly claimed. She had never been wrong so far.

  'Is anyone there?' she asked in a firm voice.

  A minute passed. Martha tapped her ash out without looking for the ashtray. It was always in the same place. She didn’t need to open her eyes.

  Molly asked again, this time more forcefully. Unseen, the candle guttered.

  A chill wind snatched the flavour from Martha’s cigarette. Fey, thought Martha.

  Fey. That’s a good word.

  'I am,' said a man’s voice, strident and youthful.

  'Who are you?'

  'You know full well who I am. It’s Reg.'

  'Oh, not bloody Reg again,' said Martha.

  'Hush, Martha, don’t be ungrateful.'

  'Who said that?' asked Reg.

  'It was just Martha, Reg, you know what she’s like.'

  'Only too well.'

  'How are you?' Molly asked her dead husband.

  'Well, it’s funny you should ask…'

  'It’s not another one of your stories, is it, Reg?' sighed Martha.

  'Martha!' said Anna. 'Have a little respect for the dead!' Martha opened her eyes and squinted at the youngster. Anna’s eyes were closed though, so the force of her glare was lost on her.

  She bit her tongue and said nothing. Sometimes, she thought, it would have been nice for Harry to come through, Peg’s deceased other half. But then, Martha supposed, he had been a spiteful, petty man in life. No doubt he was withholding the comfort of a message from Peg on purpose. She’d lay money that the old bugger was listening every Sunday, laughing to himself and getting blind drunk in the afterlife. Perhaps Peg was better off not knowing.

  'No, Martha, it’s not a funny story. It’s more of a request.'

  'Go on, Reg. We’re listening,' Molly told him. 'Shush now, girls, let him speak.'

  The girls were respectfully quiet. Not for the dead, as all of them were secretly bored of Reg’s frequent visits, but because Molly would have been upset. They respected Molly far more than any spirit from the other side. She was the b
ase upon which their friendship was built, their crutch, crux and crucible.

  'Well, Molly, how many years has it been on the other side?'

  'You’ve been passed away these last ten years, Reg. You know that.'

  'A long time, I think you’ll agree.'

  'Yes it is, love. A long time,' said Molly kindly.

  'Do you think he’s gone senile?' whispered Peg in Anna’s ear. Martha peeked out of her left eye and kicked Peg under the table, eliciting an embarrassed cry from Peg. Martha saw her looking at her, and just raised her eyebrows innocently.

  Anna, as always, was quiet. Out of all of them she took their séances the most seriously.

  'Ten years for you, love, but an eternity for me. It gets lonely in the afterlife.'

  'I never would have guessed, Reg, from the way you come through every week.'

  'Martha!' blurted Anna, then realised she had spoken, and put her hand over her mouth with embarrassment.

  Martha smiled to herself. At least she was still good at something.

  Molly shook her head in consternation.

  'Sorry, Reg, you were saying?'

  There was a sense of discomfort from the spirit, as though he were about to try and borrow a tenner. 'Molly, dear, don’t you think it’s time we moved on?'

  'We can’t move on much further, Reg, now can we?'

  'Well, I was kind of wondering how you’d feel about something…'

  'What would that be?' asked Molly, patiently.

  'I don’t want you to get upset,' said Reg with apparent care.

  'It’s a bit late for that,' said Martha. Molly shushed her.

  'I won’t, Reg, I promise you.'

  'OK, if you promise.'

  'I just did,' said Molly, being far more forgiving with Reg’s spirit than Martha would ever be with any soul, present or departed.

  Reg’s otherworldly present coughed, as if embarrassed. 'I’m sort of seeing someone else.'

  'Eh?' said Peg.

  'What are you talking about, Reg?' asked Molly.

  'I’ve met someone else.'

  'How does that work?'

  'It just does. It’s not like it is on your side of things. There are people floating about all over the place here. We just sort of bumped into each other. I don’t want you to be upset, but I really would appreciate your permission.'