For Rye

by Gavin Gardiner

  ‘This was a maintenance room,’ Renata said, looking up at the mechanical dinosaur. ‘If I recall correctly, the bell’s rope wouldn’t have even passed through this space. It fed through a gap in the stonework to a chamber at the base. Would have saved the bell-ringer’s ears.’

  Quentin stared at the mechanism. ‘Who rings it now? I’ve heard it every day since I got here.’

  She pointed to a dirty-white control box inside the rusted cage. ‘It was automated years ago. The bell’s still real, but it’s put into motion mechanically.’ She looked back out the window again, picking at a fingernail. ‘These people. Some will swear there’s still a monk in here ringing it twice a day.’

  ‘They seem pretty hung up on the past,’ said Quentin, blowing smoke up into the bell’s chamber. ‘Then again, here you are moping around your old childhood haunt.’ He looked back through the wire mesh at the bell cradled like a hatchling in its dense machinery.

  ‘I didn’t come here for nostalgia’s sake,’ she said. ‘I have to think things through.’

  He took a step towards her and placed a finger under her chin, raising her eyes to meet his own. ‘I can go.’

  She felt the blood rushing to her face. A stab of inexplicable guilt shot through her stomach. Two sides battled, one telling her to run and hide and sink into the familiar waters of her mind, the other to hold his gaze.

  She looked away.

  The finger left her chin. Quentin turned to the door.

  ‘Wait,’ she breathed.

  Renata sat on the smaller of the two crates while Quentin perched on the edge of one of the stone steps leading to the window.

  ‘I’m glad heights don’t bother you,’ she said, placing the candle from her satchel on the larger crate.

  Quentin sparked a match and lit the wick. ‘I’d be more scared of falling through one of those crates. Taking your life in your hands there, Ren.’

  She smiled. ‘The only thing this place is missing is the smell of my mother’s tomato and rice soup. I used to bring a flask up here without her knowing. I wonder if she still made it before she died.’ Then, looking at the candle flame, ‘Suppose I’ll never know.’

  ‘Tomato and rice, huh? You folks got weird taste. Hate to say it, but it might be missing a bit more than that.’ He pulled his blazer tight. ‘Some glass in that window for a start.’

  The candle flickered.

  ‘Tell me,’ he began, the flame dancing in his glasses, ‘what was it you came up here to think about?’

  ‘Just…money stuff,’ she said. ‘Let’s not talk about that.’

  He nodded, then glanced around the littered floor. ‘So I get the leaves and dirt, but what’s with the paper?’

  She picked up one of the crumpled yellow balls and carefully flattened out the sheet on the makeshift desk. The candlelight revealed clumsy scrawls filling every inch of the page. She ran her eyes over it, then tossed it and reached for another ball. She ran a finger over this sheet, then, satisfied, turned the paper to Quentin and pointed to a name within the scrawl: Adelaide Addington.

  Quentin squinted at the words, then glanced around at the paper littering the floor, the occasional stub of worn pencil lying amongst the mess.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘this is where you learnt to write.’

  She nodded, wiping her hands on her skirt. ‘My father’s always been this way. The anger, I mean. The writing began when I started keeping a diary, but I found it was making up stories that let me escape him. These scribbles were the only way I could get away.’ She looked around the stone walls. ‘And this room.’

  Quentin reached for a snapped pencil. ‘Writer’s block that day?’

  She took the broken pencil from him. ‘It was starting the stories that frustrated me,’ she said. ‘Once I got going it was fine. But kicking things off drove me mad.’

  ‘Same here. Like pulling teeth sometimes.’ The candle quivered at a sudden gust of wind. ‘I had a treehouse,’ he continued, shielding the flame as he lit a cigarette. ‘I could get through ten books a week in that thing. Was about as sturdy as that crate you nearly made me sit on. It’s a miracle I survived.’ He blew a cloud of smoke above the undulating candle. ‘Did you read much up here?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, motioning to the upside down lettering stencilled on the larger crate. He tilted his head and read the words, Harper’s Books. ‘He’ll be long gone now, but the man who ran that bookshop let me treat it like a library once the books in our house became…well, unavailable. I must have gotten through half his shop, until…’ Her voice trailed off.

  Quentin’s hand dug into a plastic packet in his blazer pocket. ‘Until?’

  Renata hesitated. ‘Mr Harper,’ she began cautiously, ‘he gave me free reign over any book in his store, as long as I returned them as I’d found them. I was so careful with those books, practically pried them open with tweezers, tried so hard not to—’

  ‘Until?’ He threw a milk bottle chew into his mouth.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Alright, sorry. He…well, he gave me free reign over the whole shop except one section, and when he found out I’d taken one of those books without his knowledge, that free reign ended.’

  Renata walked to the pile of rubble against the wall and reached for the sodden book sticking out from the leaves and dirt.

  Again, pain.

  She clenched her eyes, willing the pain to subside, then pulled the book from the rubble. The slimy thing was sealed shut by the damp of decades, but its cover was still clear. She held it out to Quentin. He peered through the candlelight.

  He nodded. ‘It was the horror section he didn’t want you going in, wasn’t it?’

  She dropped the sodden book. The road, the burning pickup truck, the woman in the emerald green dress: Horror Highway stared up at Renata. Printed below the title: Quentin C. Rye.

  ‘Not a fan?’

  ‘I…well, it affected me,’ she said. ‘I only flicked through it, but I landed on some nasty things, as well as the scene from the cover. That pickup truck…it just tore right through her. Ripped her to bits.’ Her voice wavered. ‘To this day I don’t know why the truck was on fire, or why the woman just stood there.’ She crossed her arms tight. The walls flickered. ‘And, well…I have these nightmares. Had them for years. They just feel so…real. I don’t know where they come from, maybe…’ The stone settled into its orange glow as the candle calmed. ‘I’m sorry, Quentin. I don’t mean to burden you.’

  He reached into his blazer and pulled out that chunky leather notebook and pen she’d seen him with so many times already. He scribbled, then, as quick as it had emerged, the notebook was back in his pocket.

  He looked up. ‘Ideas, they come at any time. Usually the worst.’ He stood, twirling the pen. ‘Listen, your nightmares: they’re useless. Just your brain pissing in the wind, coming back to slap you in the face.’

  ‘Elegant.’

  ‘Crude poetry aside, they’re still useless. You just gotta wipe it off and get on with things, Ren. Forget that trash. There’s more important things to worry about.’ He removed the horn-rimmed frames and wiped their lenses on his turtleneck. ‘Like the crazy shit going on around here. You know, I never wrote any of my books to hurt anyone. All I ever wanted was to find…’ He replaced his glasses, then looked at her, his eyes deepening. ‘…truth.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Your nightmares, that truck, Sylvia…I didn’t mean for any of it to happen.’

  ‘I know, Quentin. I told you to stop blaming yourself.’

  He took her hand and squeezed.

  Always at the right times.

  ‘Ren, the money thing. I’d like to make you an offer.’

  She pulled her hand away. ‘Oh…Quentin, no. Really, it’s—’

  ‘My wife, Eleanor,’ he interrupted. ‘Well, ex-wife. Like I said, she’s a fan of yours. My daughter is too, bless her heart. I caught bits here and there. To be honest, I might be a bit of a fan myself.’

  ‘Detective O’Connell mentioned your d
aughter. You sound like you love her very much. Am I right on thinking she’s an actress? Will she be joining you here for—’

  ‘No.’

  Silence.

  ‘I’m continuing with our plans to film in Millbury Peak. We’re getting underway soon, but there’s an issue with some of the dialogue.’ He kicked some leaves. ‘It works in the book we’re adapting, but in the script it feels a bit…inhibited. There’s a hefty romance thread I feel needs a woman’s touch, a woman with experience in that kind of thing.’

  ‘Quentin, I’m sorry, but I haven’t, well…written for a while, and I’ve no experience in film, and—’

  ‘Your father,’ he cut in, ‘your financial worries concern him, right?’ She looked down. ‘No pressure. Total flexibility. All I need is a woman’s touch.’ He stepped closer. ‘Your touch, Ren.’

  The flame was withering, the warm glow of the small stone room fading with it. Renata glanced up into the man’s eyes.

  ‘I don’t need an answer now,’ he said. ‘I’m only asking you to consider my offer. Tweak the dialogue, see what you can do. Your finances would be taken care of. Besides, we writers gotta stick together, right?’

  His eyes were pools of electricity. Was that glimmering the spark of creativity? The spark of an artist? She didn’t care for the genre in which he worked, but maybe there was more to the man than she’d thought, more to this ‘truth’ he claimed his writings were searching for. And his offer? Well, she was here to think things through. Now she had even more to ponder.

  ‘It’s late,’ said Quentin, their faces close. That ancient, pointless guilt rose in her stomach again.

  Hallowed be Thy name.

  Renata turned away and pulled a fresh candlestick from her satchel. ‘I think I’ll stay a while longer.’ She felt him placing his thick blazer over her shoulders. ‘Quentin, you need that.’

  ‘Guess you’ll have to see me again to get it back to me, won’t you?’

  His footsteps disappeared down the spiral staircase. She went to the window and rubbed an antiseptic wipe over her hands as she watched him trudge through the graveyard, scribbling in his notebook as he went.

  Her memories of Millbury Peak, this town frozen in time, had been slowly returning. Nevertheless, something told her there were memories destined never to re-emerge. She glanced at Horror Highway, still staring up from the stone floor. How could some cheap horror be the cause of such persistent dreams, such real dreams? She thought of this ‘truth’ Quentin mentioned, the truth he said his work was pursuing.

  Renata stared into the blank mass of fog. It was like an impenetrable wall, a veil.

  Maybe some truths were best left buried.

  9

  The thirteenth count stabbed.

  Her trembling hands still gripped the imaginary wheel upon waking. She opened her eyes to find no fire, no brimstone, and certainly no wheel. Her hands weren’t dripping with the usual sappy, jet-black oil from the dreams, and there was no road to explode behind her, no fire to pour from the sky. She sat up and massaged her temples.

  The momentary agony still echoed in her head like the reverberations of a silenced orchestra. The final stab, the thirteenth, was always the worst. But they were all getting worse. Not just the pains but the dreams themselves, which were becoming more chaotic with every passing night. She groped the sweat-drenched sheets for the red spade. Of course, it remained in her dreams. She pulled the coiled noose from under her pillow and stood to look out of the window, stroking the coarse rope. The fog continued its embrace of the house, the smoky veil still in place.

  She edged open the door and peered down the hallway towards the laughing elephants and bears.

  NOAH

  Creeping past the master bedroom, she approached the decorated door and reached for the handle.

  Come in! Come in! giggled the elephant.

  Time to figure this thing out! Come on in and play! chuckled the bear.

  ‘You there, girl?’ snapped Thomas from his bedroom.

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Pills,’ he spluttered, ‘I need an early dose.’

  She went to the lavatory on the landing and gave her hands a swift wash. Staring into the open medicine cabinet as she turned off the tap and dried her hands, she thought back to when she’d first arrived. The cabinet’s shelves had been lined with bottles and blister packs, as well as multipacks of hand soap – her own addition. Supplies were now running low, and her father’s increasing demands for extra doses weren’t helping.

  ‘She dealt with that,’ said Thomas when Renata had hesitantly mentioned the need for replenishment. ‘Kitchen drawer, repeat prescription.’ No more needed said.

  Sure enough, vend as required had been hastily scribbled onto the slip she found in the drawer. She folded it and stuffed it into her pocket, deciding this would be the morning to restock before going to accept Quentin’s offer.

  ‘Mr Ramsay?’ she said into the telephone, wiping her hands on her sweater. ‘It’s Renata Wakefield. Yes, Vicar…uh huh. Well, I have a favour to ask. I’m very sorry, but would you mind staying with my father for a few hours this afternoon?’

  She imagined the dismay on his face.

  ‘It’s just a few errands I need to run,’ she continued. ‘I need to collect his medication and see to a couple of other things. I’ll be straight back, but I still wouldn’t want him left on his own.’ She gouged her nails into her palms. ‘Again, I’m really sorry.’

  Renata felt within Edwin Ramsay’s hesitation a groping for some way out, but there was none. The young vicar couldn’t be seen to turn down the chance to spend time with the man he’d succeeded, one of Millbury Peak’s most esteemed inhabitants.

  ‘It would be a pleasure,’ he surrendered.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Wakefield,’ said Mr Oakley, the elderly pharmacist. The wrinkles of his face curved around a spreading smile. ‘Send my regards to your father.’

  She crammed the bottles of Dexlatine and packets of hand soap into her satchel and hurried out of the chemist, hugging Quentin’s grey blazer to her chest. She’d only ventured through this cobbled excuse for a high street a couple of times since her return to Millbury Peak. The stone archways and thatched roofs, anachronism at its finest, watched authoritatively over the same handful of faces scuttling out of the butcher’s, popping into the bakery, or scrutinising the town noticeboard. Still, this sedate countryside settlement of barely a thousand was a thronging metropolis compared to the desolate rock of Neo-Thorrach. Creeping through the time capsule that was Millbury Peak, she felt more exposed to those eyes of knives than ever before.

  She walked past Millbury Hardware, then a small locksmith, before stopping at the abandoned shell that had been Harper’s Books. She checked her hair in the window’s reflection before pausing to gaze through the filthy glass at the empty shelves. Mr Harper would be six feet under by now – like her mother – and she felt a twang of regret that she’d never taken the time to thank him for encouraging her love of literature. She fiddled with her hair one more time then stepped away from the window, but stopped as a sudden thought hit her. She turned back to Oakley’s Pharmacy.

  Mr Oakley looked up as the bell on the door tinkled. ‘Miss Wakefield,’ he said, flattening the sprinkling of white hair on his head, ‘was there anything else I could do you for?’

  ‘Yes, sorry, there was one last thing,’ said Renata, tugging her duffle coat tight. ‘You asked me to pass your regards onto my father. You know him?’

  ‘Who doesn’t!’ he grinned. ‘Mr Wakefield was the backbone of this town for more years than I can count. Its moral standing, its faith, worship; he was a big part of all those important things.’ The aged man cleared his throat. ‘Isn’t that the way with every town’s vicar? A fine man, your father.’ He held a steaming mug to his wrinkled lips. ‘A fine man indeed.’

  Renata stepped closer, forcing herself to make eye contact. ‘Yes, Mr Oakley. And may I ask,’ she continued casually, flicking away an invisi
ble hair, ‘what of my brother, Noah? Do you know him, too?’

  He sipped. ‘Ah, Noah. I was going to ask you about him. I remember you both well. “Always an ill pair”, that’s what your mother said when the two of you moved away. Never saw it myself. Always thought you kids were the picture of health.’ He wiped a drop of coffee from his chin, taking a concentrated moment of recollection. ‘“Fragile girl”, your mother used to say once you were gone. That’s all she seemed to be able to say. “Such a fragile girl. Such a sensitive girl.” You were both taken away to some specialist children’s hospital up north, apparently.’ He cocked his head in further concentration. ‘Were away for so long, so long indeed. Can’t remember seeing either of you again, come to think of it. Grew up and got yourselves lives elsewhere once you got better, I suppose. That’s the way these days, Miss Wakefield, isn’t it now? What was wrong with the pair of you anyways?’

  ‘You’re mistaken, Mr Oakley. My brother was never in hospital with me. He stayed in Millbury Peak.’

  He looked her up and down. ‘My family and I have lived here since you were a little girl, Miss Wakefield. I know everyone in this town.’

  Renata’s heart quickened. ‘But Noah wasn’t even involved in the accident, he—’

  ‘Miss Wakefield,’ the man scowled, suddenly realising he didn’t need to be grilled by some big shot writer – especially a woman, ‘I know nothing of any accident, and a man of my age doesn’t care to be pushed. I’m afraid I have a busy day ahead of me. Will there be anything else?’

  Renata glanced around the empty shop, then at the crossword puzzle on his desk. She stumbled back, his eyes suddenly soldering irons against her skin, knives in her flesh.

  ‘No, no. I…’ The burning was agony, the knives unbearable. She reached for the door handle. ‘I’ll give my father your regards.’

  The air traffic control tower emerged in the mist. The fog obscuring its upper portion gave it the appearance of a skyscraper disappearing into the clouds, but this disused airfield would be nothing to Quentin. He’d come from another planet, one of cities full of real skyscrapers, and heaving streets thronging with eyes. She shivered at the thought of that sprawling Eastern Seaboard anthill an ocean away.