“But surely, ya ain't getting any younger. Don’t ya feel the urge to settle down, find a good woman to live out the rest of ya days with?”
He didn’t like this. Clayton was becoming pushy, and even at the best of times, Norton wasn’t comfortable discussing his personal life with anyone.
“I have a busy life. I work hard, and don’t feel ready to settle down.”
He allowed his irritation to show, just enough to give Clayton the hint that he was uncomfortable, but Clayton went on regardless.
“Now I don’t know about that, but ya seem to me like a man who would benefit from settling down with a good woman and maybe having a few kids whilst your seed is still good.”
Although he was still afraid, his anger took control.
“Look Mr Candy, I appreciate you putting me up and all, but I’m uncomfortable with this.”
“With what?” Clayton said, feigning surprise.
“With this entire matchmaking thing. I’m happy as I am, and as much as she seems like a lovely person, I have no interest in settling down here in Candyland with your daughter or anyone else.”
Christine’s lip began to tremble, and she stood and hurried across the room, ornaments shaking as she hurried out of the room and upstairs. Norton knew he had gone too far, and he looked at Clayton, who was gritting his teeth and glaring at Norton with the purest and uncompromising fury he had ever seen. In fact, Clayton Candy looked about ready to explode.
“Excuse me a moment.” He hissed, tossing his napkin down on his plate and following his daughter out of the room. He heard Clayton ascend the steps and attend to Christine, who was wailing loudly.
He made his decision then to leave. The entire situation was all wrong. And besides, he had heard those three words hissed by Candy to his daughter, and he didn’t intend to stay around long enough for it to happen. He glanced to the kitchen door, knowing that beyond was the back door and freedom. He could get to the road if he went straight across the desert, and he was sure that neither of the Candy’s was in any sort of physical shape to give chase. He got to his feet and hurried to the kitchen, pushing through the door.
His intention was to head straight outside, but what he saw froze him in his tracks.
Herb was in the kitchen. Or more accurately, what was left of Herb. His upper torso was on the counter, the lower half absent. The oven tray was on the kitchen table containing one of his legs, a huge chunk of the thigh missing which although he hated to acknowledge it, matched the joint that had just been served for dinner. He vomited, only just managing to get his hand up to his mouth, but his recently consumed meal still spattered on the kitchen floor. He realised then what Clayton had meant when he said the people of Candyland were self-sufficient.
They were cannibals.
He staggered across the room, those three words he had overheard earlier made him even more afraid than he already was.
Just kill him.
That’s what Clayton had said, but whether it was meant to have been applied to him or a precursor of what happened to poor Herb, Norton wasn’t about to stick around to find out. He charged across the room, almost slipping over in his own vomit, yanked open the door and charged down the porch steps. It was cooler now, and he ran, the exhilaration of feeling the air against his skin reminding him of being back on the road, before Candyland even existed. He was moving across open land, making for the road which was looming on the horizon. He looked behind, half expecting to see Clayton giving chase, but he was standing at his kitchen door, watching Norton run. He turned back to the task at hand. Keeping his eyes on the road and enjoying the physical exertion of running when his leg exploded in pain. He fell, screaming in agony, his calf feeling as if it were on fire.
The bear trap was locked in tight, its steel teeth embedded deeply into Norton’s flesh. Blood welled up and then spilled over, turning the sandy earth dark as it flowed. He had never known pain like it, and with shaking hands he tried to pry the jaws open, but even just to touch it sent waves of hot agony racing through him. He couldn’t move, and as he looked about him, he could see more of them. A minefield of bear traps set between Candy’s house and the safety of the road, all hidden and partially buried under the loose earth.
You ain’t never getting out of Candyland now.
Herb had been right. It seemed he knew well enough what happened in Candyland. Perhaps that’s why he was in a wheelchair; perhaps he had tried to escape from Clayton and had paid for it with a broken back, and eventually his life. Norton gritted his teeth and tried to drag himself across the desert, but movement of any kind reignited the fire in his lower leg, and he was forced to give up, lying there helplessly and watching as Candy strolled across the desert towards him. He was whistling and smiling, sidestepping on occasion to avoid one of his hidden traps. His shadow fell across Norton, and he was grinning that same lion’s grin, hands on hips as he breathed hard from the exertion.
“It didn’t have to be this way, Mr. Norton. I just wanted to make ma daughter happy. I know ya suspect what is happening here, but it ain’t like that. I love ma children, all of them. And you will learn to love ma daughter Mr. Norton. I can guarantee ya that.”
“I just want to go home,” Norton said, feeling light-headed from the agonising pain in his leg.
“You are home,” Clayton said with a sympathetic smile. “Ya will learn that eventually. They all do.”
***
Norton blinked, the memories of that day still fresh in his head. His leathery hands worked the grill, making sure the meat was cooked. He had long ago stopped questioning where it came from and tried not to think about it when he ate it. His eldest son, Jed, walked over to him, asking if he needed any help. He shook his head, watching as the fifteen-year-old returned to looking after his brothers. Norton’s other seven children frolicked and played. He wasn’t convinced that they were all his. At least two of them looked like their grandfather, Clayton. But that was how things worked here in Candyland, and he had learned the hard way not to question it. He stood and stretched, watching as his wife, Christine waddled towards him, her weight now over four hundred pounds, and the years doing nothing to help her looks. Norton’s youngest son was held against her flabby stomach, clinging to her dress and watching Norton with eyes which looked remarkably like Claytons. She was in charge now, and although Clayton was still alive, he was on his way out, and when that happened, he would return to the group. There were no funerals in Candyland because nothing went to waste.
He glanced down at his one good leg, then at the other, which was absent above the knee. That one was his own fault, he had tried to escape again, and that time when they caught him, they made sure he would never be able to try again. He set down his tongs, picked up his crutches and limped out of the green, moving towards the rusted shell of his Cadillac, as he always did on the anniversary of his arrival in Candyland, he then stared at the road, which cut across the horizon and looked open and full of possibilities for those who were free. Every time he saw a shimmer, a flash of metal reflected by sunlight, he prayed that whoever was driving paid no heed to the signs or the demanding way in which they were written, and drove past Candyland and onto wherever they were heading. Christine stood beside him, and linked her flabby arm through his thin one, and helped him back to the barbecue, back to his life in Candyland, which was now all that Bill Norton would ever know.
WITH THESE HANDS
Helen was dead.
Brixton felt the scream coming from deep in his core and unleashed it into the warm December Tobago night. He had been thrown clear of the car when it had rolled and escaped with a few minor cuts to his hands and face. Some might call it a miracle until they saw the pulpy mess that still sat in the passenger seat of the mangled Mercedes. It was hard for him to believe that the lifeless pulped meat was once his wife. A woman he had loved, a woman who he had shown his innermost self, the one normally hidden away from people he knew. He sat in the road, vaguely aware of the growing crowds,
locals mostly, their rusty, old-fashioned cars abandoned as they surveyed the scene. It was a clear night, and glass shimmered on the ground, miniature diamonds of artificial light surrounding his dead wife and the remains of their hire car. He stood up, unable to believe the contrast in their fortunes and hating the bitter cruelty of the trick God had played on them. Christmas abroad, a way to try and repair the fractured foundations of the relationship. He looked into the car, blonde hair split, brains exposed to the humid night, and was dimly aware there would be none of that. No bickering, no compromises in order to find common ground. She was now a shell, a lifeless thing made of flesh. A puppet without strings, a marionette without its master. Everything that she had been was now gone. He clenched his fists, looked up into the cloudless star littered sky and screamed again.
***
“What happened?”
Brixton looked across the table, locking eyes with the police officer. His name was Peters, and he was a large man, narrow sloping shoulders giving him an apish appearance. His skin was dark, eyes curious and unsympathetic. Brixton glanced at the man's hands and the gold wedding ring on his finger. He, at least, would be going home to someone at the end of his shift. For him, it would be business as usual.
“Mr. Brixton?” Peters repeated
He blinked, and tried to focus his attention on the officer and his questions. There was a noise, an annoying buzzing that was starting to irritate him. He glanced at the strip light overhead, the foggy ghosts of long dead flies inhabiting its outer casing. “We were on holiday,” he croaked, forcing his attention back to the officer. “Christmas in the sun. We thought it would be good to leave the cold of home behind.”
“We recovered your passports from the car. You’re English?”
Brixton nodded.
“Mr. Brixton, I need you to verbally respond for the benefit of the recording.”
He glanced at the tape recorder on the table, then at the Peters, who was unreadable. “Yes, sorry. We – I’m from England. Both of us are. Were. This is so hard.”
“I understand how difficult this is, but I need to know what happened, Mr. Brixton.”
“I know you do. I’m trying.”
It wasn’t the answer expected of him, but it was the best he could manage. He was aware that he would have to discuss it, and as much as he was desperate to put it off, knew it would only work for a while.
"We were arguing," he said, placing his hands flat on the table, marveling again that the few grazes and scratches were his only injuries from the crash.
"Go on,” Peters said, shifting position.
"We'd been out for a meal on the other side of the island. We'd been having problems at home, and this was supposed to be us getting back on track. Funny thing is, she didn't even want to come here. She wanted to stay closer to home, go to the coast maybe. It's all-"
“Mr. Brixton.”
Brixton stopped speaking and stared at Peters, trying to make him understand how difficult it was for him. “Sorry, I’m getting side-tracked.”
“I understand. Please, tell me what happened with the accident.”
Brixton cleared his throat, and then stared at his hands. Unable to handle looking at how little pain he suffered from the crash, he moved them under the table out of sight. “We were arguing. I get jealous, paranoid sometimes. Anyway, I thought she had been having an affair with a guy she knows at work. That was why we came out here. A last ditch attempt to fix things. Anyway, I was sure she had been looking at this guy in the restaurant. I lost it and we were asked to leave.”
“Which restaurant?”
“I can’t remember the name. Does it matter?”
“We need to know. For the investigation.”
“I wasn’t drinking if that’s what you wanted to check. I didn’t have a drop.”
“We know. We tested you at the crash site. Do you not remember?”
Brixton frowned and looked at the table top. “Of course. Sorry, I forgot.”
“We can get the details of the location later. What I want to know is what happened that caused you to crash.” The officer said, still calm and patient.
“As I said, we had argued in the restaurant about her looking at this guy. We were asked to leave, and the argument continued in the car on the way back to the hotel. It got heated. She was screaming at me, I was screaming at her. I suppose I must have been speeding. Maybe because I was angry. Anyway, I lost control of the car on a bend. It happened too fast for me to react. I felt it start to flip over, then…nothing. Next thing I remember I was lying in the dirt surrounded by people.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“I don’t know what else I’m expected to say," Brixton muttered. "Will I go to jail?"
Peters shook his head. “No. You were sober, of sound mind to drive. This looks like nothing but a tragic accident. You are free to go Mr. Brixton.”
Brixton made no effort to move. He stared at Peters, trying to force out the words.
“Was there something else?”
“Can I see her?”
For the first time, Peters looked uncomfortable. He shifted position and looked at the clock on the wall. "I don't think that's a good idea, Mr. Brixton."
“Please, I just…. I need to see her.”
“Don’t put yourself through it. Perhaps it would be better to remember your wife the way she was?”
“I can’t,” he choked on the words, and felt the hot sting of tears. “Whenever I think about her, all I can see is her sitting the wreck, all broken. That’s not her.”
“Mr. Brixton-”
“I can’t remember her. Don’t you understand what I’m saying? I don’t remember what she looks like.” He wiped the palms of his hands under his eyes and stared at Peters.
“I understand, Mr. Brixton. But trust me when I tell you I’ve been doing this a long time. It’s better for you to remember your wife as she was in life, not in death.”
“Are you saying I can’t see her?”
“Legally I can’t stop you, Mr. Brixton. All I can do is offer advice. Will you please get some rest first? Go to the mortuary tomorrow? Much better to do such things with a clear head.”
Brixton considered for a moment, turning his attention inward. He was exhausted. The problem was, he couldn’t imagine where sleep might come from. “Okay,” he said, slumping in his seat. “I’ll go tomorrow.”
“Good idea. Would you like me to have someone take you to your hotel?”
Brixton shook his head. “No, I’ll walk for a while then get a taxi.”
“Are you certain?”
"Yes. I'm sure. Can I go now?" Brixton said. He couldn't breathe, was too hot. He didn't like being so close to Peters. He hated the shifty way his eyes moved like he was always looking for a lie.
“Go ahead, Mr. Brixton. We will need to speak with you again before you leave. Are you happy for me to hold on to your passport until we speak again?”
Brixton was hardly listening. He was only concerned with getting out of that tiny room. “That’s fine. I’m here for another two weeks anyway, or at least, I was supposed to be. I don’t know what will happen now, or where I’ll go.”
“It takes time, Mr. Brixton. Horrible things like this do get better. I know it’s a cliché, but it really is true. Go get some rest.”
Brixton was hardly aware of anything as he was led out of the police station. He stood outside on the pavement, the harsh white glow of the lights inside at his back throwing his shadow into a waif-like skeleton across the road ahead of him. It was a warm sticky night, and even though it was late, people still went about their business. People whose lives hadn't been destroyed in one crazy incident. He started to walk, aimless and without purpose. Staring at his feet and trying to untangle the knots in his brain. He didn't return to his hotel but found himself on the beach staring at the pale white moon, and listening to the gentle lap of the ocean on sand. It should have been beautiful, but for him such things would alw
ays be associated with horror.
He didn't remember moving, but when he next became aware of his surroundings he was standing outside a low yellow building with cracked and peeling paint. A tired door with a grubby window pane between him and the dark and shadow-shrouded space beyond. He stared at it, the ghost of his reflection staring back at him with just as little idea about what to do or where he was.
“Are you alright?”
Brixton blinked and looked at the boy beside him. He was in his mid-teens, dark skinned and skinny. He had kind eyes and an old faded scar on his right cheek.
“I’m fine," Brixton said or thought. He still wasn't sure.
“The mortuary is closed, sir.”
“I know.”
Brixton sensed the boy's confusion and felt obliged to elaborate. "My wife is in there.”
“From the crash earlier?”
Brixton looked at the boy. His gaze was met without fear.
“Yes. How did you know about that?”
“Everyone knows, sir. This is a small island. Also, my father owns this business. He attended the accident earlier.”
“What’s your name kid?”
“My name is Kendon, sir. Can I ask you why you are standing out here at night? I thought you were a robber, not that there is anything to steal inside.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not here to rob anything. It's just… This is the only place I feel close to her. I just wish I could tell her how sorry I am. How much I regret being so paranoid and causing the crash.”
“Guilt is not an easy thing to live with.”
Brixton looked at the boy. He seemed too young to deliver such a statement. “Not much I can do about it now.”
“What if I said I could help you?”
Despite the stifling heat, a chill swelled inside Brixton. He stared at Kendon, who was looking right back at him.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you have money?”
“What kind of question is that?”
"Just answer," Kendon said.
At The Edge of Night - 28 book horror box set - also contains a link to an additional FREE book Page 3