by Неизвестный
“Of course, Holy Cardinal.”
“Very well, then provided you do penance I give you my absolution.”
“Thank you, most Holy Grace.”
“There’s one more thing?”
“Yes, supreme Grace?”
“Whose hand was it on the wheel when the man finally died?”
“Sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Come now Momcilo; answer the question.”
“Well Pedro I suppose but....”
“Thank you, Momcilo; that will be all.”
***
As usual, after their harrowing Auto-da-fe in the Plaza Mayor, the group of cowed penitents assembled to await their fate. The red-robed cardinal soon arrived on the scene.
“I regret to inform you that last night my Chief Inquisitor was murdered by unseen, hooded assailants. Today, as a mark of respect for him, you will be spared the ordeal of the wheel. You are very lucky people and are all free to go.”
The cardinal’s reticence had not revealed that Momcilo’s body still lay, where it had been first discovered, at the base of a cliff, the vultures pecking out his eyes and strapped to the wooden wheel.
Daddy Long Legs
by Austin de Brou
They call me “Daddy Long Legs..” Fuck ’em! Bastards, every last one. They’ll pay, oh yes, they’ll pay. Take that Charlie Hawkes. Six years old! SIX for God’s sakes! The little brat came into me garden on Friday, and threw a bottle at me greenhouse. Smashed the panes, changed the temperature, the humidity, everything. I lost all me orchids.
What’s a man to do? Just call the police? FOR A SIX YEAR OLD? Oh no. We know what they’ll do. NOTHING! That’s what they’ll do. So I snuck up behind him and put the fear of the Lord into the boy. ’Course his dad blamed me, ’cos the little fucker won’t talk any more.
“Well, Mr Hawkes,” I said, when he came blustering round, “Why don’t you calm down a bit and come in, ’n see if we can’t resolve this like gentlemen should.” Fair enough, right? ’E’s not ’avin’ a bit of it though, ’s all my fault, ’course it is. ’Course it is. Then he did it. Called me that name. Well, I ain’t gonna put up with that from a grown man, much less the father of Charlie Hawkes, who killed me orchids.
Is funny ’ow some folks change their tune. How quick they start singing from the same song sheet, you might say. I heard tell that ’is hair went white overnight – only thirty-something, too. That gave me a chuckle. Ain’t seen no sign of little Charlie, neither. Reckon soon as they get an offer on their house they’ll be gone, sign’s been up since the day after ’e came over for a chat.
I don’t get much company these days. Me orchids is me friends, me lovers, me children. Ain’t no way a heathen like Hawkes would unnerstand. Same might be said of most of the folk in the village, with their small little lives that rotate around the pub, the cricket matches on the village green, the little kiddies goin’ to school. What do they know of beauty and elegance?
Last month though, I got distracted from me orchids, and now I have another project. It began with somethin’ I overheard about someone I used to know, Millicent.
Millicent Harper, now there was a name to trigger a flow of mem’ries. You gotta unnerstand, it started all nice and proper, sweet lass with dark, shoulder length hair an’ a gorgeous smile. You know the sorta smile? The sorta smile that turns a beast into a man again, that reminds ya that once there was a heart that did more than just keep time in ya chest; an’ ’er eyes sparklin’ like blue fire. Shouldn’t be allowed eyes like that in a face so pure. They gave ya thoughts of dirty things, and seedy places in hot countries that ’adn’t seen tourists, ’cept those off o’ ships what wanted a service.
Now Millicent, me diary said, had been flashin’ those sapphire eyes at me when she passed me ’ouse; an’ she made a point o’ passin’ me ’ouse more times than just a run to the local shop needed if ya catch me drift. So one day, being as I’m not a reticent man, I leant over me gate and waved her over. She looked me up and down with those eyes, looked up and down the lane, flashed me a coy little smile, and swung those hips across to stand on the other side of that wooden gate I was usin’ to ’old meself up.
I don’t remember all of what was said. I do remember how she looked on the floor of me barn ’mongst all the straw. I remember the smell of roses she had round ’er neck, and the faces she pulled, and the noises she made. ’S like watching a film in me head, a Technicolor film like they call it in Hollywood.
We got to meetin’ whenever she ’ad a moment to spare. We made good use of that time, and not much of it – beggin’ your pardon – was spent in conversation. All that summer I lost meself in her; the shine of ’er hair, ’er skin; the scent of roses; it all took me away from me nightmares. Yes, you could say those were the golden months of me life.
One day, as autumn turned the leaves to brown and gold, and the mists settled in the valley, a new fella came to live in the village. Henry Baxter was ’is name. ’E was a short ’un, was Henry, and ’e ’ad two problems. ’E liked Millicent, and ’e didn’t like me. Problem was, least as far as I was concerned, she took a shine to ’im. Made no difference to ’er that I’d given ’er me soul, or that she’d made me forget the horrors I’d ’ad to do for King and country. Losin’ ’er was bad enough, but ’e ’ad to rub it in, ’ad to drift pass me ’ouse with ’er on ‘is arm; ’ad to stop at me gate spittin’ hate, an’ all the while she’d be laughin’ an’ gigglin’ at me, winkin’.
After the War, and again after Korea, I ’ad promised meself never to let meself get angry. I didn’t want to allow the beast to rule me no more. Weren’t no place for that in a civilised country, nor in a civilised man’s life. So I got to growin’ orchids. They’re so bloody hard to grow right it kinda takes all of ya mind and all of ya time. I used to travel the world to get new specimens, used to mix with all kinda posh folks – botanists and ’orticulturalists – well-spoken, well educated, nice people. Kept me on the right side of nice too. Kinda rubbed off on me, I s’pose.
So when this angel turned on me with ’er new bit o’ meat, poison-dwarf bastard cursing me an’ all, callin’ me ‘Daddy Long Legs,’ on account of me height, well it didn’t leave me feelin’ too good. The nightmares began again – visions of men screamin’, callin’ for their mama, prayin’ in every language, to every god there’s a name for. Tough men, ’ard men, men who’d scare the shit outta jus’ bout anyone, all of them crumblin’ before me. They’d come for me. I’d be sittin’ on me veranda, enjoying the sun on me neck, and there’d be a draggin’ sound. I’d get a shiver up me spine, and look around and there’d be the grass, an’ the birds, an’ the house, an’ nothin’... an’ the draggin’ would stop, and I’d think it was me imagination, and I’d go back to me book, or to watchin’ the birds fight over seeds at me dad’s old bird table. Then I’d feel a chill again, an’ cold, damp fingers would glide across me cheek – caress it like a familiar lover, or me Nan whenever she’d see me. Well I’d jus’ jump outta me chair, sometimes I’d scream and sometimes me throat was so tight I couldn’t, and I’d feel me heart rocketin’ in me chest an’ me bowels loosen. Then I’d turn round and see the corner of a uniform an’ I’d wake up. I never got to see their faces most of the time; just a fragment of uniform was enough to take me back.
I ’ad plans for gettin’ Millie back, and plans for gettin’ Henry... well, jus’ for getting ’im. Trouble was, before I got the chance to acquaint Henry with me own special ’ospitality ’e moved away with Millie. Pity was they didn’t take me nightmares with ’em, an’ they left the village kids with a name to call me, an’ stories that no one shoulda heard, stories I told Millie when I trusted her, stories ’bout things I’d done.
I ’adn’t told her everythin’, I’m not a complete idiot, just more than I shoulda, at times a man could be forgiven for lettin’ his demons a little looser for a while, jus’ for a while.
’Bout two years ago the old manor house was bought up by some company wanted it for a retirem
ent home – a prison for the old by any other name. I paid it no mind, jus’ went about me business, goin’ to the village when I ’ad to, the town when the village wouldn’t do. Still, you shop in the village an’ you can’t ’elp but hear people gossiping ’bout things, so I always knew a little about what ’appens in the village, and who’s comin’ and goin’.
Last month I heard somethin’ which set my heart racin’ an’ hammerin’. Just a name. A name I thought I’d forgotten amongst the orchids. “Millie Baxter; at first I didn’t know why it got me blood up. I just manoeuvred a little closer, and listened a little harder. A woman in her forties was chattin’ away with Mrs Knowles, the grocery lady, and I heard her mention an anniversary bein’ the reason she was in. They was plannin’ some grand party for Millie and Henry.
I hurried home and poured meself a brandy. I sat out on the veranda and watched the birds feedin’ at me dad’s old table. Me hands were shakin’ as I sipped. I remembered the pain I’d suffered as vividly then as if it had been yesterday. This time, I decided, those bastards would pay. I began to come up with a plan.
The first week I purchased a suit in the town. I ordered a copy of the Baxter’s wedding certificate. I got my car valeted and polished up good an’ proper.
The second week I prepared the basement, burning the stuff I didn’t need, moving the rest out to the old barn.
The third week I bought some old formal dining chairs, with high backs, made from oak. I bought a matching table, and had them delivered. I polished up me tools, and stole a few bits from me local hospital.
The Tuesday of last week I found me diary, and read up on what ’ad ’appened, jus’ to refresh me memory fully. I found an old picture of ’er – those eyes!
That evening I took a drive in me new suit, in me polished and valeted car. I’d rehearsed me patter in case I came across anyone, but true to form the old trainin’ didn’t let me down. I got in without seein’ anyone, an’ without anyone seein’ me. I managed to locate the Baxter’s accommodation, and to disable the alarm on the French doors that opened out onto the back lawn. I took the wheelchair – property of the NHS – from me boot, and parked it outside the door to their room.
I didn’t knock – I didn’t need them awake, and they don’t lock the resident’s doors in places like that. I slipped in, quiet as ya’ like. They was sleepin’ arm in arm. Rare for folks that old I gather, heck I’m no spring chicken, but you ain’t gonna get me in a place like that, four star or not! Didn’t take but a moment to have the injections administered, or for the effect to show in a slackening of their arms, and faces.
Getting ’em into smart clothes was not the easiest of tasks, but I managed to do it quietly. Transporting them from their room took two trips with the wheelchair to me car, but there were no hiccups; it was as smooth an abduction as any I’d had to do in either of the wars I fought in. I left the room in smart order, with no evidence that they’d even lain upon the bed. I made sure that I reset the door alarms at the back, and exfiltrated through the front as I’d entered – again with no one spotting me.
On the drive back I made sure that they were still out cold, and that they looked comfortable. I was glad of that, as about four miles from the home a policeman stopped me for a random breath test. By now most people would have betrayed themselves, but I steadied me heartbeat and bluffed my way simply imagining that I was back in France blagging my way past Gestapo officers. ’E swallowed my tale of a veteran’s reunion, and that I was the teetotal, “designated driver” taking a tired, slightly tipsy old hero and his wartime sweetheart home. In fact, the copper begged my leave as I’d clearly begun to bore ’im with tales of “the war.” Nice enough chap though, ’e saluted and everything.
The remainder of me journey passed uneventfully. I parked in the garage, got out and lowered the door, before taking each of ’em down into me basement through the house, careful to ensure that the wheelchair didn’t scrape the walls of the corridor or the frame of the cellar door, as I tipped them down the stairs. When I had satisfied meself that there was no indication of their having been in me car, or in me ’ouse I walked back to the cellar door, whistlin’ an’ rubbin’ me hands together. Oh what fun I have waitin’ for you two. A very special fuckin’ anniversary yous two gonna have this year, that’s for sure.
I walked down the stairs carefully, takin’ me time to collect fabric from their clothes where it’d caught on the hand rail or brickwork. I stepped over their bodies, and walked over to the table, around which I’d put the three dining chairs, specially adapted for my purpose. Checking that everythin’ was in order, I turned one of the chairs sideways, and walked back to where Millie lay atop her lover. I lifted her gently and carried her over to the chair, sittin’ her upright in it. I repeated this with lover boy Henry.
For a while I just sat across from ’em, playing the scene through in me head that was about to unfold. Coughing slightly, I pushed me seat back, scraping it across the floor loudly as I did so. This was a ritual I’d developed before I began any of me “sessions;” I practised it from France to Korea, and it always got the attention of me subjects, always tell ’em that somethin’ was about to ’appen, an’ they’d prob’ly not like it. Some of ’em whimpered then – if they’d heard about me. Many tried to tough it out.
I rose and walked to the sideboard I’d had in me basement for years. I took a hammer and two rusty nails, and walked back to where Henry sat slumped in his chair. The veins in the back of his left hand twitched when I placed the business end of the first nail there. Holding the nail securely in position, I swung the hammer up and smoothly down again. There was a crack an’ a wet, crunchin’ sound, then there was a moment when all I could ’ear was the fountain of blood spewin’ out of his hand, a drippin’ like a tap that ain’t been turned proper tight.
He woke briefly. He was screamin’ – ’course ’e was – most of ’em scream. He took one look at his hand, one look at me, and his head rolled forward on his chest. Well, I thought, that makes doin’ the other hand easier. I moved his right hand across, and positioned it over the arm of the chair and repeated the procedure. Convulsions shook his body, and I sat down to watch as ’e choked and spat, ’is eyes buggin’ out as they only can when you’re in real pain. Ah, I wanted to savour this. I poured meself a brandy, and held it up, to ’is again unconscious face.
“To Millie!” I said, and laughed ’til it hurt.
Millie had not stirred in all this time, the dose I’d injected her with woulda left an ’orse asleep through the blitz. I looked closely at her, and wondered what her eyes looked like now, all these years later. Two ways to find out, me old son, I thought. I decided that I wouldn’t scoop them out yet though, I wanted her to see me work on ’er husband before I got to really enjoyin’ meself with ’er.
I returned to Henry’s side of the table, and secured ’is ankles to the chair legs. I also bound ’is chest tight to the chair, so ’e couldn’t slump no more.
Now for Millie. I looked at her; she was an old lady now, her beautiful brown hair was only memory, now it was steel and white. ’Er arms was soft lookin’, the skin of ’er throat like a turtle’s neck. ’Armless, you’d say, not pretty, not settin’ me heart thundering no more, none of that, least not for the same reason as before. I tied ’er ankles first, and strapped her upright, too, then I tied ’er arms down, because I wanted ’er awake before I began. As I touched ’er, I thought of the first time I’d seen ’er nude, of how perfect her skin had been. She still smelt of roses; I smiled. This was going to be fun.
I sat there all evening, sipping brandy, reading from me diaries, watchin’ the happy couple. I pinned their tongues to their jackets before I went up to bed, so they wouldn’t choke. I slept like a baby.
The next morning I felt more alive than I’d felt in years. I woke up with something I’d not had in a long time. I lay there for a while waiting for me arousal to pass, then took a piss that lasted forever.
After breakfast I went
to entertain me guests. Problem was every time ’e woke, ’e’d look at his hands and pass out. Millie slurred for a long time, ’til I realised ’er tongue still had the clip in it. She didn’t recognise me. Couldn’t seem to grasp what was happening like, but like some women can be, she was strong, and tried to reason with me. I let ’er jabber on, as I walked around the room, stoppin’ every now and again to pick up a scalpel from the sideboard an’ play with it, or to strike electrodes together at the top of the table. I think the complete lack of interest I showed in ’avin’ a conversation began to get to ’er by about eleven, or so, ’cos she began to babble, ’er quiet reasoning abandoned for a rapid chatter that sounded like a recording of chattering teeth played over a breathless squealing. I went back upstairs at midday to make lunch.
By Friday afternoon, Henry was a new man. Before I’d removed ’is tongue, ’e’d said the most appalling things about ’is beloved Millie, and meant them. ’E was an entirely reformed character, and I was almost reluctant to accept that ’e needed no further correction. Still at least Millie knew where she stood with ’im. I felt that was important.
Millie ’erself was showing signs of going barmy. I hadn’t touched ’er. Unlike Henry, she was still dressed. The only touching was the daily tongue pinning, and unclipping – aside from that nothing – except of course her beautiful blue eyes, which were bobbin’ in a jar on the table. Still, I was polite to ’er, if not about ’er.
It was when I popped upstairs for a cup of tea and a biscuit that I saw movement in the garden, and discovered little Charlie Hawkes poking about. I slipped on an old army jacket, and padded into the garden through a side door, wincing as ’e hefted a rock through my greenhouse. ME ORCHIDS!
“Daddy Long Legs!” I heard ’im mutter as I drew close behind ’im.
“’Ello, Charlie,” I said as I picked ’im up by ’is collar, “Why don’t you come inside and say ’ello to my guests?”