The Devils Harvest: The End of All Flesh.

by Glen Johnson

  I meandered around the mini-market filling my small trolley with a selection of things I needed. Of course being the only main shop for groceries in the area – unless you wanted to drive to Newton Abbot – you always met someone you knew.

  “Jacob!” said a female’s voice that came from around the corner of the frozen food section.

  “Ah shit!” I said under my breath.

  It was Ms. Cuddy – stalker extraordinaire. She always calls herself my number one fan. It brings to mind the Stephen King novel, Misery. In fact the film version is one of my favourites. All about a number one fan who abducts a writer, and makes him rewrite his last novel, one that he was about to kill off the main character. Ms. Cuddy even looked like Kathy Bates, same build, face, everything, probably even has a pet pig called Misery or most probably Jacob.

  “Hello, Ms. Cuddy. How are you?” I tried to sound happy to see her, but it’s hard to sound pleased while inside your head you’re picturing her crushing your ankles with a sledge hammer and force feeding you tablets.

  “Me? Forget me. How are you, Jacob?” she said resting one of her tubby hands on my arm and giving it a sympathetic squeeze, looking me directly in the eyes. One of her other annoying habits was she did actually care.

  I hated the way she used my first name and hated even more her touchy feely approach, as if we had been best friends for years.

  I have nothing against Mr. Cuddy, it’s just I’m a very private person. You could even say I was a bit of a hermit, an introvert – I preferred my own company. I could be locked away in my farmhouse for weeks, even months without seeing another living soul and it wouldn’t bother me. When I travelled, I always travelled alone. I had a small selection of very close friends, but they know about my recluse attitude and never turned up unannounced or outstayed their welcome.

  My older sister – and only surviving sibling – always joked that she was amazed I was ever able to meet anyone long enough to date them. And considered it a miracle that I ever married, and not once but three times. She still tells people that I must’ve met them online.

  “Fine, Ms. Cuddy. Why do you ask?” Pulling my arm away to scratch an imaginary itch, just to get out of her clammy grasp. I also noticing my arm was now covered in yellow dog hairs.

  “Well, I haven’t seen you in the village for a few weeks. And I even tried to call you a couple of times, but you didn’t seem to want to answer your phone.”

  Why I had given her my phone number I will never know. I think it was something I had done once simply to get away from her. She continually phoned asking if there was anything she could do for me. Washing, cooking. “Anything at all, you just say the word.” She kept repeating like a twenty-five stone parrot.

  “The phones don’t work, Ms. Cuddy, the power–”

  Oh, you little, Pinchino,” she said, which she didn’t even pronounce right, and I think meant Little Frank in Mexican slang. I think she meant to say Diablito, which meant Little Devil. Her laugh sounded like a rusty chainsaw, a big busty laugh that put you in mind of rich aristocrats.

  “You know there’s nothing wrong with the phones.” Her face turned serious, her voice lowering slightly as if departing state secrets. “I thought you might have been ill or something.” Her eyebrows rose.

  I was about to ask her more about the phone lines, when she dropped a bomb on me.

  “Especially when Mrs. Emerson saw you a few days ago, driving along past the end of her road. She said you looked terrible, your face all waxy and sick looking…” Her voice droned on.

  My grip tightened on the trolley handle. I was out? Seen by somebody. Mrs. Whatever her name was. I was the only person who drove a black on black BMW X5 truck in the area. And no snow? The phones all working fine.

  What was happening? I was sick to my stomach, thinking I was about to lose the last ounce of my sanity. Over the last week, while he had been coming to see me, I felt like something was gradually trying to push its way into my subconsciousness while slowly jostling everything else out. Almost as if everything I was doing was on autopilot.

  My grip went slack on the trolley and instead of standing in front of it, I slumped over it, blackening out. The last thing I saw was Ms. Cuddy’s fat face with a worried expression on it. Her small piggy eyes wide with shock, mouth hanging open. All she needed was a red apple to complete the picture.

  13

  So Much Blood

  I was all groggy, my head was pounding, which I was actually getting used to – having been waking up with headaches for almost a week now. I could also feel motion of some kind. There was also an irritating whipping sound.

  “Ah, back with the living I see,” said a husky voice I was all too familiar with.

  “Whaaaafh…” I tried to speak, but it came out all wrong, as if my tongue had swollen to fill my mouth.

  “Now Jacob, don’t go trying to speak. You’re going to be fine.”

  Ms. Cuddy?

  My eyes opened slowly. I was sat in the back of my truck. Ms. Cuddy’s large body filling the space beside me. Her hand squeezing mine in a reassuring manner, clamped down like a vice. Used to hugging and holding dogs not humans.

  I must have had a confused look on my face, because Ms. Cuddy went into an explanation of events. “I was talking to you one minute and the next… poof.” She motioned with her hand, with her jumper sleeves all rolled up, regardless of the temperature. “You were flat out on your back.” The movement caused all the cellulite on her arms to jiggle like a big pink jelly.

  I had fainted again. What a wimp.

  “Not to worry, Mr. Cain, Dr. Greatman had a quick look at you and said you’re simply overtired.” The driver looked in the rear view mirror at me.

  “Been over doing it lately have you?” Officer Kemp asked. Officer Kemp was the local policeman in charge of the area. He was now driving my truck with me in the back with my number one fan, obviously taking me home. I strained my neck. Yes, one of his police cars was following us, to take Kemp and Cuddy back once I had been safely dropped off.

  He asked the same question. “Been over doing it?”

  Talking with the Devil. Burying dead bodies in my garden. Mysterious happening I couldn’t explain. Blood all over me when I wake up. Vomiting veins and pink raw flesh. Had I been over doing it? Fuck yes, with a capital Y.

  “Sorry still a little groggy,” I finally answered. “I have a deadline I have to meet, just been over working that’s all.”

  Officer Kemp kept his brown-eyed stare fixed on me in the rearview mirror, regardless of the road ahead. He was a natural policeman – he didn’t trust anyone. As the saying goes, he’s always on the job. Being a policeman was a twenty-four hour profession, he never went off duty. He was the sort that would arrest his own son on suspicion of being related to him.

  He was almost as big as Ms. Cuddy, could have been her son, if it wasn’t for the full head of ginger hair that stuck out in every direction, as well as his freckle covered pale face, the sort that would turn bright red and burn if the sun ever came out. He also had an oversized, fat rubbery – always wet looking – lower lip. But apart from his unruly hair and balloon lip, he was always perfectly groomed, taking great care to always look the part. Thinking about it, I don’t think I had ever seen him without his uniform on. Ginger tosser.

  “A new book, Jacob?” Ms. Cuddy couldn’t resist asking excitedly.

  “Yes,” I simply said, while trying to ignore Kemp’s judging round faced stare. “But I can’t say too much about it.”

  She shook her big head, placing a fat finger on her swollen lips. “Mum’s the word,” she whispered, giving me a quick sideway glance, as if she was half expecting me to pull the thick manuscript out from the thin air and pop it down on her big lap. She stank of her wet dogs. Blonde golden retriever hair now covered my back seat, which only hours ago was saturated with dry blood.

  “I see one of your windows has been broken…?” Kemp left the question open. I felt like my truck had been
turned into an interrogation room. I had been married three times, I was a fast liar.

  “While cutting up wood for the fire a chunk ricocheted hitting the widow.”

  “You cut wood beside your truck?”

  “Not any more.” I smiled. “Never make that same mistake twice.” I then gave a strained laugh, which probably sounded as fake as if felt.

  We were coming up to Hay-Tor, passing it on our right. Now just a dark silhouette against a slightly lighter purple background.

  The black plastic bags, which were covering the gap of the broken window, were flapping and crackling like they were in a tempest. The sound wasn’t helping my headache. I must have cracked the back of my head when I fainted.

  I peered out the window, mainly so I couldn’t make eye contact with either of the other truck occupants. I then noticed the same red Ford still in the car park. The only car around, apart from the police car flowing behind.

  Kemp pulled his eyes away from the rearview mirror and noticed the small red car. He got on to his two-way radio, asking the car behind to check it out. We pulled over to the edge of the road, waiting for a response.

  Can’t even leave young lovers alone, I thought. Just trying to find somewhere quite to have a little harmless fun. He’s probably a raving pervert. His sort always is. I had heard his wife had left him a long time ago. He’s probably got a stack of pornography that could fill a wardrobe, and a collection of different types of oil so his hand doesn’t get too chapped.

  The three of us watched quietly as the police car rolled slowly up to the parked car. We could hear the gravel crunching from where we sat.

  I broke the silence. “Thanks for everything, but I feel fine now, I can drive myself home.” Visions of the mounds in my back garden sprang up into my minds eye. The last thing I needed was Kemp looking around my property.

  “Now, now, Jacob, Dr. Greatman said it would be best if you could be driven home. I myself can’t drive, as you well know, but Officer Kemp agreed to take you.” There was a big smirk on her face as if she had done me a huge favour.

  I could imagine being asked a favour by Ms. Cuddy. She has probably known Kemp all his life and she likes to remind him of that fact. Used to bounce you on my knee and all that rubbish.

  So it was entirely the fat bitch’s fault that I was in this predicament.

  “No problem, Mr. Cain. Only to pleased to be of assistance,” he said while looking in the mirror again. But his eyes said different.

  Bet he didn’t even trust his own mother than one. If he hadn’t already arrested her for something.

  The radio on Kemp’s lapel blared to life.

  “Holy Mary. Jesus H. Christ.” Then there came a gagging sound, as the officer on the other end emptied out his supper, while still holding onto the button.

  I wonder what the H. stood for, I found myself thinking, even at a time like that. Holy?

  “Pete! Pete! Come in Pete…”

  ”You better get over here. Fuck, this is bad,” Pete whispered into his two-way radio.

  Even Ms. Cuddy realized something important was happening. She didn’t even mention the fact that the young man had cussed and had also taken the Holy Mother and Jesus names in vain. She was now sat as far forward as her large frame would allow, trying to get a better view of the red car. She had pulled a big silver crucifix out from under her jumper and was stroking it absentmindedly.

  Kemp reversed the truck, pulling in right behind the police car, mumbling all the while, stating that if Pete was wasting his time he would get zebra crossing duty. Kemp got out, but not after telling Ms. Cuddy and I to remain where we were. He slammed the door harder than was necessary and then walked over to the young officer, while trying to pull his trousers up – his belt had so many accessories on it, it was a losing battle.

  All I could see was Officer Pete leaning over, his hand resting on the bonnet of the police car, sick down his police jacket. He straightened up and spoke to Kemp, his face all ashen, pointing to the open door of the red car.

  Ms. Cuddy – always the busybody and not wanting to miss out on some possible gossip – clambered out the truck (with a lot of side shuffling involved) stating she would see what the fuss was all about. I looked on as her plump body wobbled over to, then past the two policemen. Then whatever she saw turned her hysterical. She screamed wildly, her arms flying up in the air, pulling at her hair. She took several steps back before tripping herself up and falling backwards into a screaming heap.

  Kemp rushed over from talking with his officer, and started helping her to her feet, then pulling her back to my truck.

  “I told you both to stay in the vehicle,” he said while helping the hysterical Ms. Cuddy up and into the passenger front seat. Giving me one of his stares as if it was my fault, and I had sent her over to investigate.

  “Mr. Cain, do you think you’re capable of driving yourself and, Ms. Cuddy home?”

  “Of course,” I was relieved that he wouldn’t be going anywhere near my house. “Why, what’s the problem?” I asked with genuine interest, trying to stop my face reddening. He always made you feel guilty, as if everything was the fault of the person standing in front of him. Or it might simply be the fact that I had been dragging dead bodies around over the last several days, and I felt like he could read that on my features.

  “Nothing to worry yourself over. We will see to the situation.” His eyes staring and giving nothing away. Fat rubber lip bouncing.

  I clambered into the front seat, as the ginger tosser started making his way back to the incident, not even giving a backwards glance, but pulling his radio from its shoulder lapel and talking into it. Possibly calling for back up.

  Ms. Cuddy was now crying softly into her hands, her face a smeared mess of make-up and straggly hair that had fallen loose from her bun. She was now blowing her nose into a tablecloth-sized blue hankie. I knew she wasn’t easily shaken, having been through much in her lifetime. She now held tightly to the silver cross that she had ripped from her neck, breaking the chain. She was holding it so hard, and changing it from hand to hand, that I could see red welts where she had gripped it. Several times while muttering something I couldn’t hear she raised it to her lips to kiss.

  I wanted to know what she had seen, but I knew she would offer that information as I drove her home, even in the state she was, she wouldn’t be able to help herself. A perpetual gossip.

  I reversed slowly. I could already hear more police sirens walling in the distance, or it was possibly an ambulance. I could never tell the difference between the two.

  “Poor souls. Poor, poor souls,” Ms. Cuddy was now saying over and over, like it was some sort of soothing mantra.

  I pulled away, giving the area one last look in my rearview mirror. Both red car doors were now open, but I couldn’t see inside.

  “Poor, poor souls.” She was crying softly now, sobs shaking her obese body. “So young. So, so very young.”

  I drove in silence, a part from a few vague remarks from Ms. Cuddy, which broke up her crying. Until I had to ask the question that was burning on the edge of my tongue.

  “What happened?” I tried to use my most understanding voice.

  She started crying even harder, her body shaking even more violently. Her huge woollen jumper bobbing about on top of her huge frame. Always the same kind of jumper, I noticed myself thinking, a large patterned top that was always to big and baggy, even for some one as large as her, along with a pair of riding slacks, even though I had never heard her mention anything about owning a horse or ever ridding one. And the ever-present Wellington boots. And hair that’s always got a mind of its own, normally tied up into an untidy bun. They’re a breed all to themselves – dog and horse breeders, and of course nannies.

  For fuck sake, you fat bitch, tell me, I wanted to scream at her. But instead I placed one hand on top of her shaking shoulder, in what I presumed was a reassuring manner. She snatched my hand up with one of her own, squeezing it like a sponge or
a dog lead.

  “So terrible. So, so violent,” she wailed.

  What? I wanted to scream at the blubbering woman. Jesus, this was harder than trying to get a straight answer out of a politician

  “All twisted. So much blood. So much blood.” She carried on crying all the way to her bungalow.

  I didn’t want to go in, even to hear the story. Dogs aren’t my favourite animals and the last thing I needed was to be covered in dog hairs and their dribbling saliva. I would find out soon enough via the radio.

  So I dropped her off. Ms. Cuddy lived right at the far end of Bovey Tracey; how she got into the town centre I don’t know. Possibly her sister could drive.