by R. L. Holmes
My book of spells is packed safely away and I have blankets and food for our journey. I bought two tickets to Melbourne, Australia. We probably won’t stay long there, but then you don’t know what life can offer you.
Her thirteenth birthday is very soon, in a few days in fact. She is no use to me until then, but I can’t wait anymore. It won’t be long before someone connects me to the murder. They all suspect it to be Geoff, long lost Geoff. And this little, drab town is probably feeling rather deflated for not being able to try and imprison someone for it. I know they can’t prove it is me, but there was something in Mary’s eyes, something she knows. I believe Mr Pope has been contacting Sara, but I don’t know to what degree and how often. He was always terribly difficult to understand anyway. Prickles in grass, aphids on roses, jibber, jabber. Mary won’t get it. Saracen on the other hand is smart, very clever. But the stupid police won’t believe her, even if he did say something to her. Just an imaginary friend, they’ll say. Or a silly girl with an overactive imagination.
We’ll be fine you and I. You’ll see. The life I can offer you surpasses, what flaky Mary and your abandoning mother can offer. Our lives will be an array of colour and laughter, spells and secrets. I can see it now. We will travel and change our names, change our appearance. Call it a costume. Create an identity. You can be anyone you ever dreamed of, with me, Saracen.
September 1999: Saracen
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‘Aphids on roses. Please explain.’ I stand firm with arms folded. ‘I want to know the truth.’
‘Alright.’ Gran sighs heavily, the burdens so great; the year has been so traumatic. It’s time for the truth.
‘Ms Anderson mentioned - aphids on roses. That’s all.’
‘In what way?’ I ask.
‘She knows Seth. She calls him Mr Pope. He mutters funny sayings, like he did with you and that was one of them - aphids on roses.’
I fall to silence. Mum and Gran stare at me, waiting for something to surface in a mind so colourful and fertile.
‘Wait a minute. Seth said aphids on roses is...........’
‘What Sara?’ My mum steps towards me as if ready to catch me if my knees give way.
‘Seth said that’s the murderer. Could it be? Ms Anderson? No way. Why would she kill Daniel?’
‘That’s something we may never know,’ Gran says rubbing her wounded arm. ‘But it’s best that you stay away from her, do you hear me?’
I can manage nothing but a nod.
‘And I’d rather tip that wine down the sink, she bought over. I don’t trust her. It’s like having poison in the house.’ Gran nods towards the bottle of wine left unopened, still sitting on the table. ‘Where are the liquorice logs?’ she asks, the colour running from her face.
‘Lucy’s probably guts them down,’ I mumble under my breath.
Mum wanders into my bedroom, to look in on an unusually quiet Lucy. She comes back a moment later. ‘She’s asleep, the liquorice wrapper still in her hand,’ she chuckles.
Gran’s expression turns solemn. ‘Have you tried to wake her?’
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September 1999: Stranger
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She didn’t take the bait. Her fat, slovenly sister did instead. This worked out better than I hoped. Why didn’t I think of that? With her sister in a deep drugged-up slumber in the bed next to her, I carefully crept into the room, placed my hand over Sara’s mouth and held her nose. Naturally her mouth dropped open and the little bottle of liquid tranquiliser was poured.
We will be halfway to our destination before the household awakes. She has such a peaceful expression on her face when she sleeps. I see Laurie in her. Laurie runs in her veins. It will take quite a bit of persuading to knock Mary’s influence out of her though, as she does look mostly like her, as she ages. But a bit of hair dye and make-up will easily fix that.
The plan is to pretend. And I’m an expert at pretending. I will tell her: her beloved mother, sister and Grandmother died in a house fire. She is the only one to survive, and has amnesia. The memory of such a painful experience has been strangely wiped from her mind. It was her Gran’s dying wish for me to look after her, as she is so fond of me. We’ve become good friends, her and I. And now I am her legal guardian and we are off to start a new life in Melbourne Australia. Away from her tumultuous past, away from the painful memories and especially away from that dreaded little town Fenton.
Of course it is partially true. I did start a fire in her house before I left. That was always the plan. They will probably die of smoke inhalation before the flames get to them. So she has been left without a mother and Grandmother. So I won’t be making that part up. And if she asks about her father; I will just say he would rather I take her as he has places to go and people to see. Without a doubt, she will believe that one.
I can hear sirens in the distance. Someone has alerted them. I hope the fire swallows them whole. I’m sad I can’t stay and watch those flames lick and smother the pretty little yellow house. I’m sad I can’t watch the walls cave in and the hippie furniture disintegrate. I hope the flames reach the back garden, to that rose, Spanish Lover. That damn rose that almost ruined everything.
But I can imagine it will be quite a show. It will probably be headline news - I can see it now. The sleepy, little farming town of Fenton with its murderous past, awoke early this morning to another tragedy...........
Ah yes. Here we go again. Farewell poor, dreary Fenton.
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