Beneath the Boards

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Beneath the Boards Page 3

by David Haynes


  He’d lived in suburbia for his entire life. As a child, he’d grown up in a cul-de-sac and as an adult he’d bought his own house in the comfortable and familiar surroundings of middle-class, middle England. A place where people cut their grass on Saturday and washed their shiny people-carriers on Sunday. A place where nobody got stabbed in the stomach and the street lights stayed on all night.

  Stokes put one foot in front of the other. He couldn’t possibly get lost because there was only one road in and out of the village.

  But it was dark, so utterly dark. And silent.

  Silent except for the occasional screech of an owl which seemed to be following him all the way back home. They weren’t all that bad, the Stormark folk. Ina was an acquired taste but she seemed harmless enough, all of them did. And if making the occasional appearance at their gatherings was all it took to placate them then so be it. There were worse things to have to do. There were worse things he’d done.

  He clutched a bottle of beer in each hand. Peter’s home brew had disappeared earlier on in the evening and someone with less refined taste in beer had clearly brought these two bottles. Nevertheless he intended to sit out by the lake on his own and enjoy every single mouthful. No, this new start had actually started quite promisingly, and most importantly it felt like a different world to Scarsdale Road and all the streets just like all over England.

  He opened the door to the cottage and stepped inside. He paused for a moment and took a deep breath. “Hello?” It was a habit he’d tried to break, and although he didn’t do it in front of the estate agent, he’d wanted to. He locked the door behind him and walked across the room. The patio doors were locked and the front door had been locked too. No-one could have come in or out and he relaxed.

  He’d eaten only a small amount of goose pâté at the gathering but he’d tucked into the rest of the buffet without any such reluctance. The sight of the goose being ripped apart by its comrades flashed through his mind with each bite of the bread. He looked at the cake tin and at the beer in his hands. Now that would make a perfect combination – a couple of beers, a lump of cake and a seat by the lake. He’d have to avoid the goose execution site but there was plenty of room.

  He knocked the lid off the beer on the kitchen worksurface and cut an enormous wedge from the cake. This was the life.

  The water lapped gently on the sandy foreshore and made a rhythmic scratching noise which was hypnotic. Stokes lowered himself onto the ground and inhaled deeply. The air smelled faintly of pine but the overpowering smell was that of the lake, of water. How did you explain that smell? It was fresh and clean yet somehow of the earth at the same time. Not sterile but not corrupt either, somewhere inbetween, exactly where it should be and it was hugely reassuring.

  He looked up at the sky. It was a shame clouds covered the stars. The second or third time he’d come up here, he arrived the night before and slept in his car just so he could meet the estate agent early. He’d come out to the lake, lain on his back on the grass bank and looked up at the stars. It was the first time he’d seen so many and it had been almost too much to comprehend. Had they all just miraculously formed? It seemed impossible that the same stars were always there, even in suburbia.

  No such luck tonight though. There was nothing save for a blanket of darkness overhead. The owl screeched again and Stokes did his best to reply by cupping his hands around his mouth. He waited for a moment but the owl was silent. It was probably disgusted by the rudimentary attempt at conversation. Either that or he’d just said something abusive and the bird had taken umbrage.

  “Sorry!” Stokes called.

  The beer was nowhere near the standard of Peter’s brew but it didn’t matter. This was one of those moments where all was well with the world. God knew there hadn’t been many of those for a while. He should have made this move months ago, maybe even years ago, before any of that crap had happened.

  An occasional pinprick of light wobbled in the darkness. There were houses on the other side of the lake. Some of them were holiday homes, no doubt, and some of them belonged to the residents of a village just like Stormark. The houses were invisible in daylight, covered by the dense woodland, but at night their lights shone out into the darkness like the eyes of some mythical beast.

  Tomorrow he’d make a real start on the cottage. At some point he’d have to take the hour-long drive to Mary’s Wharf to pick up supplies. He was sure he’d seen a DIY mega-store on one of his many drives through the town too. Sooner or later he’d need to get an additional form of heating into the cottage. The weather was mild enough at the moment but it wouldn’t be long until winter arrived and with it sub-zero temperatures. The cottage was beautiful but freezing his nuts off all winter wasn’t something he relished.

  There was so much to do but there was no rush whatsoever. He rolled onto his stomach. Had he really bought this little piece of heaven? Was it really his?

  His heart stopped, or it felt like it had.

  Standing on the inside of the cottage, at the patio doors, was Natalie and she held a small silver knife in her bloody hand. He watched breathlessly as a single drop of blood fell from the tip of the blade and landed on the carpet.

  “I’ll gut you, Stokes.” Her mouth was an ugly snarl. She scraped a bloody hand down the inside of the glass, painting a dark smear.

  “Natalie?” he whispered. Her face was grey and lined with years of drug and alcohol abuse. But it was her, it was definitely her, there was no mistaking the vapid look of despair in her hazel eyes – despair and spite.

  And then she was gone.

  Stokes couldn’t move. His breathing was short and shallow, and despite the cool night air, a thin sweat had broken out on his forehead. It had been a while but he’d shaken hands with enough panic attacks in the last year to know when one was kicking him in the balls.

  Relax and look away, that’s what he needed to do, and although Natalie had gone, the outline of her waif-like body remained and it was trying to burn a deep, dark hole into his retina.

  “She’s not there, Stokes. She’s not really there.” He bit his lip and flipped over onto his back. The beer splashed over his face but he kept hold of the bottle.

  He swallowed hard but most of the moisture had been driven from his mouth. His throat had shrunk down to the size of a pinhead and was filled with jagged razorblades.

  He wanted to scream but he’d tried that once before and it hadn’t helped that time. Why would it now?

  Natalie wasn’t there. She had managed to do to herself what Shane Young had been trying to do for the last year – end her miserable life.

  “She’s not here.” Stokes jumped up and turned around. His mind was playing a dirty trick, just reminding him that his life wasn’t all beer and skittles. Not quite yet.

  There was nobody standing at the glazed doors. There was no dark smear down the glass and nobody was waiting to gut him. He wiped his face and tipped the remainder of the beer into his mouth. One day the ghosts would be banished but it didn’t look like they were ready to disappear just yet.

  He walked up toward the cottage and peered through the glass. It was dark inside. Tomorrow he’d get a lamp or maybe two. He aimed the torch and directed it around the room until he was satisfied he was safe.

  He pushed the doors open and waited for a second.

  “Hell...” He stopped short. The beam of the torch had caught something at his feet, something dark and circular in the fibres of the carpet. Something that looked like a drop of blood.

  Stokes grunted as a sudden flash of pain exploded in his side. It drove him to his knees, half-in and half-out of the cottage. The torch rolled away into the centre of the room and the bottle of beer landed with a dull thud on the carpet. His eyes bulged as the terrible agony ripped through his body, crushing his lungs, making it impossible to call out. Not that there was anyone to hear it or come to his aid, but it might have helped.

  He’d only felt pain like this once before and that had nearly
killed him.

  One step at a time, Stokesy.

  He dropped onto all fours and shuffled farther into the room, crawling like a baby. Another burst of pain stopped him in his tracks and this time he called out. It was nothing intelligible but it was loud, it was guttural and somehow he thought it might help.

  The pain originated from his wound, the long-healed scar which would always remind him of his previous life. He lifted a hand and slipped it under his t-shirt.

  It couldn’t be opening up again, it was impossible. His fingers felt sticky and wet. They felt warm with blood – his blood. He felt the stinging scratch of the knife as it slipped beneath his skin and cut through his body. He groaned and looked down at his torso. A single droplet of blood clung to his t-shirt long enough for him to see its grip on the cotton give way. As it fell it briefly became a beautiful ruby in the torchlight.

  Stokes watched as it made a tiny splash on the carpet before he passed out.

  *

  “Mr Stokes? Jim, are you all right?”

  Stokes was vaguely aware of being cold, and of a numbing sensation of pins and needles all down one side of his body.

  “Mr Stokes, can you hear me?”

  Where was he? He opened his eyes and the lurid, flowery pattern of the carpet came into focus. He was half-in and half-out of the doorway.

  “Jim, I’m going to phone for an ambulance.”

  Stokes rolled over slowly. “No don’t do that, I’m okay.” His eyes refocused and the tall figure of Peter Gauchment swam into view. “I’m okay,” he repeated.

  “What on earth are you doing down there? Did you fall?”

  What a ridiculous question. People didn’t decide to eat their carpet for fun.

  “Must’ve been that beer of yours.” He sat up and rubbed the dead side of his body, the side with the scar. Blood, where was the blood?

  His body caught up with his mind and he looked down at his white t-shirt. There was nothing, not a single drop of claret. He slipped his hand under the fabric and ran his fingers across the scar.

  “Shit,” he hissed through his teeth. The scar was as neatly closed as ever, but it was as tender as it had been immediately after the operation.

  “That sounds nasty.”

  Stokes pulled his shirt back down and raised his hand to Peter. “Give me a hand?”

  Peter nodded and pulled him upright. “I’ve brought you some more.” He bent down and picked up a box. “Oh and Ina has put some goose pâté in there too.”

  Stokes looked down at Peter’s feet, at the small brown stain on the carpet. It didn’t match the rest of the garish pattern.

  “Cheers.” He took the box and winced.

  “Can I make you a cup of tea, Jim? You look a little green around the gills. I can fetch the doctor if...”

  “I’m okay, honestly. I must’ve just tripped, or something...” He trailed off. Or something.

  “You sure? It’s no problem, no problem at all.”

  Like his wife, he appeared desperate to get inside.

  “I need to drive over to Mary’s Wharf to get some supplies.” Stokes patted his pockets for the car keys and his wallet. “Maybe later.”

  He followed Peter around to the front of the cottage and climbed the steps up to the road.

  “You’re okay to drive? I wouldn’t want any of your colleagues to stop you.” Peter smiled.

  “Colleagues?”

  “The local boys in blue. Although we haven’t seen any up here for months.”

  How did he know about his previous employment? It must have been the estate agent. “Ex,” he said shortly.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Stokes clicked the central locking on the Ford. “Ex-colleagues. I’m not a copper anymore.” He opened the door and climbed inside. His body ached and he emitted a grunt as he put the keys in the ignition.

  Peter patted the roof. His wedding ring made a metallic chime. “Ah but you know what they say, once a copper always a copper.” He grinned broadly and walked toward the village.

  “I hope not,” Stokes said to himself and pressed the accelerator.

  He drove slowly along the quiet lanes toward the town, partly because he still felt groggy and sore, and partly to give himself time to think. He touched his scar again and flinched. It wasn’t just sore because of lying on the floor all night, it was tender and raw. It felt like he’d been operated on again. And what of the blood and Natalie’s appearance? Had he imagined that? The counsellor had spoken of flashbacks and of events which played over and over again, repeating themselves with perfect clarity until they drove you mad. But who wouldn’t have flashbacks when they’d been stabbed? Who wouldn’t live every single excruciating moment of that event? It was natural and this was all last night was – a particularly vivid and multi-sensory flashback.

  “You have symptomatic post-traumatic stress disorder, Mr Stokes, but we can help alleviate...”

  He pushed down hard on the accelerator. The brown stain on the carpet would have to wait until later to be examined. If it was there at all.

  *

  The boot and back seat were loaded to maximum capacity with an array of items. Groceries sat beside power tools and lamps fell against sheets and duvet covers. Interior design had never been his forte and now it didn’t need to be. He only had to please himself and that made things much easier. Once the grim carpet was up, the cottage would be completely pattern-free.

  Despite himself, he’d quite enjoyed visiting Mary’s Wharf. Nobody knew him and because of that there were none of the well-meant touches on the arm. “How do you feel?” or the cringe-worthy, “I was going to come and see you but...” The latter was normally from the coppers who didn’t want to see what a knife through the guts could do to a man. It was from the guys who thought losing your bottle might be contagious.

  The windscreen wipers came on automatically. A slow but persistent fall of rain had started some miles back to accompany the grey skies.

  The man at the DIY store had tried to talk him into hiring a floor sander. “It’ll cut the time in half!” he’d announced. Stokes almost agreed but time wasn’t important anymore, so he bought an ordinary belt sander to do the job. It might take a while to get into the frame of mind where he didn’t need to rush about, where the passage of time was just something that happened and wasn’t an unbeatable opponent.

  “Whoa!” Stokes braked hard, narrowly avoiding the pedestrian walking in the centre of the road. They stared at each other for a moment before Stokes wound down his window.

  “Sorry! You okay?” He recognised the other man immediately, it was Edward Willis. “Can I give you a lift?”

  Willis wasn’t dressed for a stroll in the rain and his hair was plastered down onto his head. Willis took his glasses off and squinted toward the car.

  “Mr Stokes? Is that you, Mr Stokes?” He started walking toward the car.

  Stokes held up a hand. “Yep.” Willis had been utterly downbeat at the gathering and Stokes was pleased it was only a short drive back to Stormark.

  Willis climbed inside. “The weather caught me out,” he said blandly.

  Stokes accelerated. “Good job I nearly flattened you then.” His attempt at humour went completely unnoticed.

  “Been to town I see. The decoration not to your liking?”

  “Just the carpet. I’m not a big fan of 70s patterns.”

  “Nothing wrong with it in my opinion.” Willis stared straight ahead.

  Stokes slowed the car as he took a sharp bend. “You’ve seen it?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Willis turn slightly in the seat.

  “Do you know anything about the cottage, Mr Stokes? Anything at all?”

  “Nope but the way you’ve just said that makes me think I should.” He wanted to look at Willis to see what the man’s expression was like. All those years of being a detective had taught him how much you could read into someone’s face, but the road was too unfamiliar to risk it.

  �
��Perhaps, or perhaps it’s irrelevant.” His monotonous voice was impossible to read.

  “Why don’t you tell me and I can decide for myself.”

  The deep grey of Lake Stormark came into view and with it a glimpse of the cottage.

  “You can let me out here. I’ll walk the rest of the way.” Willis’s voice contained a hint of urgency which was amplified due to the man’s usual dull tone.

  Stokes frowned. “I’ll be pulling in just up there, you might as well go that far.” He pointed toward the cottage. It was only another few seconds of driving but it would give him time to drag some information from Willis.

  “No thank you. Please stop here.” He was insistent.

 

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