by Matthew Cash
“Hey,” she said in a small voice. She looked terrible and her skin was red and blotchy. “Can we talk?”
“I guess.”
She hugged him for the first time he could remember. Then she led him into her room and they sat on the bed. He clapped his hands together; the noise was unnaturally loud.
Once she started talking she didn’t stop. She said she’d spent all her money on pregnancy tests.
“What?” he said horrified.
But they were all positive.
He couldn’t believe she was pregnant.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” she howled.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” she broke down beside him. He handed her the toilet roll that was on the bed side table.
“Maybe you should tell Mum and Dad.”
*
Later that day, Shane was roped in as Catherine’s support. She grasped his hand in a vice-like grip so there was no escape. Even though he never said anything, he was furious; it should’ve been Jack here in his place. He should’ve faced the music like a man.
As soon as their parents found out, the date was booked for the wedding. Catherine didn’t get a choice and was probably too scared to argue. Neither set of future grandparents wanted to have a bastard grandchild. What would the neighbours say?
Shane watched, powerless, as the girl he wanted to be like had everything taken away from her. Even though it was insane, sometimes he blamed himself for making her tell their parents.
As soon as she took a break from college to have her twin daughters, his father and Jack went to work on persuading her to do the right thing by becoming a stereotypical housewife.
First, her head of red hair was bleached out.
Then, since Catherine couldn’t possibly work, money was tight. This gave the grandmothers the perfect excuse to help out, so they offered to buy clothes for the young mother. The floral dresses they returned from Colchester with were far from Catherine’s cool, punk tastes.
“You’re not going to wear that are you?” Shane asked her.
She looked at him with sad eyes; in her arms the babies gurgled.
“Don’t be rude,” said Mother. “Now get out, she needs to make sure they fit.”
Shane made himself scarce.
Apprehensively, Catherine tried them on, and the grandmothers told her that it was much more ‘acceptable’ attire than she would have bought. After all, they had been mothers for years and they knew what was best for her.
That was when Shane lost his beloved sister and was determined to get out of the village before he got turned. It was like The Stepford Wives.
Chapter Three
July 2006
The food wasn’t doing anything for him. He couldn’t eat in this heat. Shane placed his knife and fork beside the plate and picked up the glass of wine. He stared into the blood-coloured liquid. Why the hell did he order red wine on a day like this? The room temperature in the restaurant was stifling and the wine made him feel sick. He dabbed a napkin at the corners of his mouth. Not that he needed to, it was just a force of habit. Shane was used to dining with ‘important people’ who had high expectations so it was essential that one should maintain a respectable appearance. He downed the last of his wine and pushed his chair back.
“Excuse me.”
Catherine looked up from her food to see Shane walk by one of the waiters, his shirt clinging to his back. He always sweated considerably. He disappeared through a door in the back of the restaurant.
Catherine wondered whether he was in poor health. She would ask him if she thought he’d answer truthfully. She finished the last of her food, determined not to let it go to waste. It wasn’t every day she ate out, but she would have preferred it to be with her husband.
In the toilet, Shane looked at his reflection in the mirror. His face was red. The heat wave was driving him insane. He longed to be back in the confines of his penthouse office in London with his luxurious air-con and even more luxurious secretary. Should have brought her along, he sniggered to himself as He turned the cold tap on and cupped his hands beneath it. The instant hit of cold water didn’t have the a desired effect he hoped it would have. As he looked back up at the mirror he almost expected to see the water sizzling away on his skin.
He reached for the little black plug that sat at the top of the sink, jammed it in the plughole and filled the sink with more water. When it was almost full he plunged his whole head in.
Now this is better, he thought opening his eyes. He enjoyed the refreshing feeling as the fluid eased his fatigue. He could hear his heart beating in his head, in competition with the tinnitus.
Was it going too fast or too slow? Bubbles of air came from his nose and he watched them rise to the surface like shiny glass pearls.
An obscure image flashed across his mind’s eye; it was a woman with her eyes sewn shut. Blood trickled down her cheeks. It shocked him so much that he thrust his head up, catching it on one of the taps on the way. He gasped for air and put a hand to the top of his head. When he took his hand away from his head it was spotted with red. He took a few pieces of paper towel, folded them up and held them against the cut. As he checked himself over in the mirror he wondered what the grotesque image meant. He left the toilet with the image as clear as if it was before him.
He saw Catherine’s eyes widen at the state of him.
“What happened to you?” she said, looking at the paper towels he was holding to his head. She made to get up but changed her mind and sat back down.
Shane laughed, “I’m a clumsy oaf; I just hit my head on one of the taps!”
“You should be more careful.”
Shane gestured to the waiter and asked for the bill. Catherine stood up and brushed herself down, straightening creases that weren’t there.
They moved out of the restaurant and in to the early afternoon sunlight. The few hours had taken little of the day’s intense heat away, and Shane couldn’t wait to get out of it. He followed Catherine down the busy high street packed with shoppers all heading to one of two places; the bus station or the large car park that was now opposite it.
The cut throbbed dully as they walked through the rows of bus lanes. Shane cursed one piece of regeneration that had happened to the old station. Throughout his childhood a colossal multi storey car park had stood directly above the bus stands, shading them from direct sunlight. He squinted in the bright sunlight, annoyed that he would have to stand in the heat, waiting for a filthy bus to catch back to Manningtree. Furthermore, he knew they would have to get yet another one from that disgusting little town to Brantham. He doubted the public transport was any more reliable or frequent than it used to be.
“What’s that look for?” she asked, watching him. “Is this a bit of modernisation that you don’t approve of?”
“Do we have to get the bus?” Shane asked, ignoring her question. Already, hordes of hyperactive children and their mothers laden with bags of shopping were waiting for the bus.
“Yes,” Catherine nodded.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a taxi pull up outside the ancient greasy spoon café that still festered where he had last seen it. He waved his hand to the driver who shook his head.
“Sorry mate, I’m on me break,” he shouted.
“I’ll give you an extra twenty pounds!” Shane called back without hesitation. He was used to getting what he wanted and smiled triumphantly when the taxi driver beckoned him over to his cab. “Come on, Catherine, we’re getting a taxi.”
Catherine rolled her eyes and reluctantly followed Shane.
“I would have thought you would be familiar with public transport, what with all the underground and metro systems you must have been on.”
“Yes, I have been on numerous metro systems all around the world, New York, London, Paris, even Kiev, and all of them, even Kiev, are more frequent, comfortable, and reliable than the bus services around her
e!”
The taxi driver, a middle-aged man with brown-framed, thick-rimmed glasses eyed Shane with a hint of recognition.
“Do I know you mate? Wait– aren’t you famous?”
Shane wound down the window. The car smelt strongly of cigarettes. As he turned to answer the driver he noticed a ‘No Smoking’ sign.
“No, you don’t know me, and no, I’m not famous. Brantham village please.”
As they drove through the outskirts of Colchester and in to the Essex countryside, Shane thought about the image of the blind woman with her eyes sewn shut. He had a peculiar feeling it had something to do with his friends, but it was such an obtuse vision he couldn’t see why or how they fitted together.
Whenever he came home or thought about his childhood, he couldn’t help considering what had happened to his friends twenty years previously. He was curious about the repercussions of what would’ve happened if he could remember.
The story had been in all the papers years before he became a politician. Reporters swamped Brantham and quizzed the families of the missing boys but they only dredged up feelings of resentment and sadness.
These days, if he remembered what happened, he would have to suffer a tremendous amount of sceptical media attention. What if it turned out he was to blame for their disappearance, or their deaths? Would he be willing to incriminate himself?
The passing scenery didn’t change until they approached a village called Lawford, where long and tall glasshouses in rows upon rows, growing all types of fresh produce, filled almost every field. The only field they passed that didn’t have glasshouses in was covered in lettuces; Shane could make out the bright yellow waterproof trousers of a sole worker hacking away in the sea of green.
The taxi drove through Lawford and down Cox’s Hill towards the ancient train station. Manningtree station looked as if it hadn’t been improved since it was built by Eastern Union Railway in the nineteenth century. The small red-brick buildings with their decorative white verandas lined the two platforms, supported by elaborately gilded black and gold pillars which stood sentry, paintwork flaking with age.
The train station that time forgot, Shane mused as they passed through the minuscule underpass that went beneath the railway line; anything bigger than a single-decker bus had to drive up and over the tiny overpass that ran on the road beside it.
The taxi came out of the underpass; to their left were more fields. The fields carried on for several miles over what was known as Dedham Vale which covered the picturesque villages of Flatford and Dedham, the heart of Constable Country, named after the artist John Constable.
Sheep grazed lazily in some of the closer fields. He watched the horizon waiting to see if he could still make out the large square tower of Dedham church, almost six miles away. At first he thought he had missed it, but then he spotted its white stone glinting in the sunshine. He tried to point it out to Catherine, but when he looked over, she had her eyes shut.
The main railway line heading towards Ipswich ran at the top of a large bank that ran alongside the River Stour, part of Holbrook Bay. The railway line continued through a series of factories that had been built at the lower part of Brantham in the late 1800’s by British Xylonite Ltd, who purchased 130 acres of farmland to build their factory. They produced plastics and films and supplied most of the non-agricultural employment across the villages.
At the foot of the bank was a large field pocked with rabbit holes, where a herd of cows sat together in the shade of the hedgerows. A footpath ran from the road on a raised bank at the edge of the field and carried on under the railway line and through to Manningtree.
Nestled in the next field, Shane spotted the old stone pillbox that was left over from the Second World War. He and his mates used to play in there. To get inside, he remembered, they had to crawl through the small opening and along an L-shaped tunnel. Once inside, it was hexagonal in shape and about ten feet tall. The main part was about eight feet square, with foot long, three-inch wide slots cut into the thick stone walls. These slots allowed the soldiers to point their guns out and fire at the enemy. He remembered it being full of old rusted beer cans and smelling strongly of urine.
They’d just crossed over the river, which acted as the border between Essex and Suffolk, and entered Brantham when the buzzing in his head reached a crescendo, an intense shrieking high-pitched volume that felt as though his brain would explode. Shane yelled out and clutched his head in hands, his face reddened and veins popped up on his bald head, the cut he had started bleeding. The taxi driver immediately pulled the car over.
Catherine, frightened by Shane’s sudden outburst, could do nothing but stare worriedly. The taxi driver turned around to see what was wrong and saw Shane hunched over with his head in his hands.
“What’s wrong with him? Is he okay?” he asked Catherine.
Catherine snapped out of her trance and put an arm around Shane.
“What’s the matter? What’s happening?”
The taxi driver got out of the car and ran around to Shane’s door. By the time he got there Shane was sitting up. The seizure or whatever it had been appeared to have passed. He looked at Shane’s bright red face, his bloodshot eyes and dry lips.
“Are you alright mate?”
Shane merely nodded and ran his hands over his face, Catherine handed him a tissue for his cut.
“I’m fine honestly.” He smiled reassuringly at Catherine and he meant it. Whatever had caused his tinnitus to increase so rapidly had stopped. The taxi driver got back into his seat and the journey continued.
“So what was that all about? Do you think it’s something to do with you hitting your head?” Catherine asked, showing genuine concern.
“No, you remember after my accident I had something like tinnitus, that the doctors put down to my head injury as they couldn’t find anything on any of their tests?” he said, his face returning to a more normal colour.
Catherine nodded.
“Well,” Shane continued, “over the years I’ve hardly ever noticed, unless I have to concentrate extremely hard, but as soon as I got off the train at Colchester it got a little bit worse. And then, just now, it got so loud it felt as though it was going to split my head open!”
“It beats me,” said Catherine, perplexed, “Maybe you should go and see Doctor Marshall whilst you’re here? Even if it’s just to get that cut checked out. I’m sure he’d fit you in.”
Shane appreciated Catherine’s concern, but there was no way he was going to see the ancient village doctor who would simply tell him to take painkillers.
“I’ll be fine; I’ll go and see my consultant when I go back Monday. It’s probably nothing and besides, hopefully these few days will be all the medicine I need.”
Catherine smiled slightly at that.
“I hope so, it’s just a shame it’s taken you so long, and the circumstances aren’t better.”
“I know,” Shane said, ashamed. “It’s hard to find the time for breaks, no matter how short. I know I missed Dad’s funeral, but you know I would have been there if I could.”
That was the problem, Catherine thought, she didn’t.
“If it’s any consolation I do feel guilty about not visiting you or Mum, but ever since that night, you know the people here have shunned our family. My absence must have had an effect on that.”
“Yes, it did, but people don’t forget and I’m sure your appearance will raise a few eyebrows.”
“It’s my mother’s funeral for Christ’s sake, people should be prepared for the fact I may show up!” Shane said through gritted teeth. He was trying his best not to raise his voice as he didn’t want the taxi driver to hear their conversation.
Catherine fiddled with the straps of her handbag.
“Oh, they’re prepared alright.”
“What?” Shane laughed out loud, “Have they prepared some giant wicker man in Hammond’s field or something?”
Catherine laughed dryly.
“Not
quite,” Catherine laughed dryly, “But the reporters have been doing the circuits again, trying to find out if you’re coming back or not and dredging up bad feelings.”
Before Shane knew it Catherine told the taxi driver to take the next left and they were at her house.
*
A car door slammed. Jack and Vic looked at each other and then made towards the door.
“He’s here dad,” called Vic’s daughter.
“Thank god – don’t come in here love. Stay by the door,” said Vic. He finished wiping his hands clean and thrust the old towel at Jack.
Jack forced himself to stop gagging and followed as he rubbed his hands the towel. Vic’s wife and daughter were standing by the cattle shed door, where the air was clean. They looked anxiously out at the farm yard.
The vet strode into the shed. Immediately, he slapped a hand over his mouth and nose. The smell was awful.
“What the– What’s going on?” he said.
Jack looked dishevelled as he hastily pulled up his filthy coveralls. His hair was plastered to his face with sweat.
“It’s another Aberdeen,” Vic threw up his hands in despair. “The third bloody one this year!”
The Aberdeen’s were beautiful Scottish highland cows with long ginger coats. They were the pride and joy of the farm and the biggest money makers.
Jack’s stomach churned nauseatingly when he looked in the cow’s stall. The huge animal lay on its side breathing rapidly; its golden hair was matted to its body like it had been through a carwash. Its stomach bulged unnaturally. The rear end of the cow was a mangled mess; covered in dark blood and excrement. A foul rotting smell filled the stall.
The vet was a skinny man who didn’t look capable of the job he was about to do but he had delivered hundreds of calves in the village over the last ten years.
“Come on then let’s do this,” Jack said as he led the vet into the stall.
The vet pulled on some thick rubber gloves and crouched at the cow’s hind quarters.