by David Mathew
‘Powerful threat, Miss,’ Don said. ‘You know how to wound a man – straight through the heart. Through the liver.’
It was a compliment of sorts. Dorota said, ‘Thank you, Don. Now, if you wouldn’t mind.’
Don opened the oven door. Heat surged out, along with a fresh scent of roasted garlic from the stuffing he’d knuckled into the chicken’s sorry cavity. And then he turned to face the four interrogators. He raised his hand and pointed a finger at Dorota.
‘I’ll tell you, Miss,’ he said. Then he pointed at Vig. ‘And I’ll tell you, sir.’ With a nod of compliance he then pointed his finger at Roger. ‘I’ll even tell you, Mr Billie.’
Don frowned like a pantomime villain. He pointed at Eastlight and added, ‘But this one. This one I wouldn’t give the shit off me arse-hairs. He leaves.’
Eastlight reacted immediately. The other people present were a barrier between him and Don, which was something of a blessing in disguise: he would not have taken three steps before someone restrained him… and hadn’t he come here to earn an alibi anyway? He’d intended to show that he wasn’t a violent man, hadn’t he? Well, taking a swing at an old man would do little to confirm that rumour.
‘You little cunt,’ he said instead. ‘What gives you the right…?’
‘Has anyone apart from me wondered what he’s doing here anyhow?’ Don asked.
Good question. Don had given voice to a query that once out in the open, appeared nonsensical in its simplicity. What was Charlie doing here?
‘You’d better go, Charlie,’ said Vig. ‘You can wait in the Games Room if you like.’
Eastlight spluttered. ‘Are you gonna let Donald Duck…’
‘I warned you,’ said Don.
‘Charlie, please,’ Vig continued. ‘Just wait for us in the house. Make yourself a drink.’
‘I can’t believe this,’ Eastlight mumbled.
It was Dorota who said it though: the question was on everybody’s lips.
‘Why are you here, Charlie?’ she asked.
‘I came to see you.’
‘And not me?’ asked Don, and he laughed. ‘Get out of my house, please. I think I’ve been more than patient.’
Eastlight sneered. ‘Or you’ll do what, Donald Duck? Shatter my knees? Did you know he threatened me, Viggy-Loo?’
Vig shook his head. ‘I don’t care about any threats right now, Charlie. I’m asking you. You can make yourself at home in the house or I can speak to you tomorrow. Up to you.’
‘Jesus.’ Eastlight opened the front door. To Don (by the stove) he shouted: ‘And I’d like to see you try, you little prick.’
‘Oh I’ll try,’ Don told him. ‘I promised, didn’t I? One more Donald Duck and it’s your knees. Now get out.’
‘There – you heard him!’ Eastlight crowed triumphantly.
‘I’ll say it again if anyone didn’t catch it,’ said Don. ‘But it seems to be only you, Charlie, having a problem comprehending. And if I were Sir I wouldn’t let you anywhere near the Big House, but that’s Sir’s prerogative.’
Breathing heavily with the exertion of frustration, Eastlight hissed: ‘You have no idea what I’m capable of.’
‘But you’re wrong there. That’s precisely why I wouldn’t let you anywhere near the Big House. Personally, I’d rather you froze in the woods and made supper for the foxes. Now fuck off! I feel nauseous just wasting my breath on someone like you.’
2.
It only took a few minutes for the night air to reach through Eastlight’s light clothing and diminishing inebriation. He had not come fully prepared, he realised: he was not well enough protected from the cold, not in terms of the right jacket, and not in terms of the right skin-full. However. He did not want to go to the main house; and he did not wish to sit it out in his car, with the heater blasting, either. At any length – the discomfort of cold hands included – he would watch Don’s hut. He would know when the others exited. And then he’d pay a call on the old man, a solo visit this time.
3.
Don pulled up the kitchen rug and dragged it into the lounge. The trapdoor was revealed (it coaxed a gasp from Dorota) and Roger felt his pulse quicken. In the absence of a physical captive – a baby, a child – then the revelation of what had been hidden was a fine second choice. In fact, it was his stock in trade. What people chose to show you said as much as why they chose to conceal. Unless…
The thought raced through Roger’s belly.
Unless the child was under the trapdoor.
Only mindful of the breath he’d taken but had failed to exhale when it became a burden on his chest, Roger glanced to either side – at Vig and then Dorota – in an attempt to record their expressions. After all, this was good material: there was a paper in this, for somewhere down the line. Or perhaps an entire conference. But their faces were inexpressive – resilient, even. Perhaps their lack of emotion was of note, in and of itself.
‘What’s down there?’ Dorota asked.
‘Would you like to do the honours, Miss?’ Don replied.
‘No.’
‘Just open it, please, Don,’ said Vig.
‘As you wish, sir.’ And Don opened the trapdoor.
The only thing to change about the atmosphere was s slight whiff of damp from the ground below; but even this was swiftly challenged and overcome by the aroma of roast chicken and hot garlic.
‘How deep is it?’ Roger wanted to know.
‘About six foot. Not very.’
‘What’s the point of it?’ Vig asked next.
‘I’ll tell you, but before we go any further, can we agree I’m not keeping any children down there? As if I would!’
‘Okay, Don, agreed,’ Vig told him; ‘but you have to see how for us this might raise as many questions as it solves.’
‘Like what?’ Don asked.
‘Like, why have you got a bloody big hole in your kitchen floor?’ Vig cleared his throat and looked to the others for signs of support. ‘Like, what do you think? Why is the sky blue?’
‘Well, I’m about to tell you, sir – I just didn’t want you to go on doubting me.’ Don led the way back into the lounge, intending for the others to follow; but Roger, bent at the waist, remained peering into the hole. Something had caught his attention.
‘What’s down there? I see something.’
Don reassumed his position in his favourite chair. While rolling another cigarette he said, ‘A tape recorder. Some food.’ He licked the length of the cigarette paper and sealed it; he even held it up to the light, a perfect specimen, a wonder to behold. ‘Maybe a soiled nappy or two.’
Vig sat on Don’s footstool. Leaning forward, he appeared monstrous, a grotesque, an ogre at stool, or an adult on kindergarten plastic furniture. ‘You said you’d explain if we got rid of Charlie. We’re waiting, Don.’
Don nodded. He closed his eyes and sipped on his roll-up.
‘I had a daughter once,’ he began.
4.
I had a daughter once, back in me racing days. Back when I felt like a millionaire… before the bad times. Daughter called Polly. But she got sick when she was one, and I stopped… I stopped being happy after a while. And so did everyone around me, I reckon.
The only place I was comfortable – really comfortable – was in the saddle. Golden days they were, in many ways. I’d bomb around the country, jockey for hire, and I was riding a winning streak, I tell you. I couldn’t fail! Making money hand over fist, I was. The bookies feared me. Not at first: but eventually. I cost em plenty, riding three-legged nags in a donkey derby – and I’d still win.
My wife wanted me to slow down. She used to say: you’re doing so well you’re bound to fall – she was a great believer in what she called the cosmic balance, bless her soul, God save her and shine her.
I wouldn’t listen. The funny thing ab
out riding a winning streak is not the sense of self-importance you feel, where you’re like a king among riff-raff. Which is what you might expect – and which I did experience, I’m ashamed to say. No; the funny thing about riding a winning streak is that you are totally aware of your surroundings – and you believe they can be controlled. It’s not that you think you can do no wrong; it’s more like you think you can make others do wrong, and shine in comparison. So when my wife said slow down, I knew that’s what they were expecting me to do – that would be the logical response. So I speeded up.
I did more and more; pushed myself, harder and harder. Broke a leg, both arms – the left one three times – then my collarbone. But I didn’t care, even when I was in traction: I still thought, if I kept an eye on the opposition, it was my fame to be in charge of. I wasn’t even overly concerned when I broke both me knees and me luck began rotting.
Then Polly got sick when she was just gone one. The wife brought her to the stables where we kept our own horses – three of em. And three horses with better manners you’re never likely to meet, sir. Lovely temperaments… except on this one day.
There was something in the air that morning – and I don’t mean the wind. They’d experienced high winds before – they were nine, six and five, they weren’t exactly babies – but something had spooked em. Wouldn’t settle. It was too rainy to put em out in the field to graze, and I couldn’t ride because me knees were sore with the weather. Maybe it was knowing they’d be inside all day that had got their danders up. I don’t know. They weren’t talking to me. Sometimes they did. Not that day.
One of em was called Noel Never – beautiful mare. Sixteen hands, grey as sleet on a duck pond. I was in her stable, replacing the hay net… and she kicked me. First time ever, as I recall. Got me straight on the left knee. Agony. I went over on her bed and lay there sweating, too much in pain to even scream, if you know what that might feel like.
Well, wouldn’t you know, this was one of the days that the wife chose to take Polly to see Daddy’s geegees. She only did it once in a while, and there I was giving Noel Never a good hiding on the yard – she was tied up, of course – and there was me family. I’m a firm believer in spare the rod and spoil the child, and the same… philosophy goes for pets. Don’t matter if they’re working animals or goldfish: you teach em who’s boss. Same with the birds, even now, though I’ve mellowed; but if one of them buggers were to bite me, it gets segregated from the others and it don’t get no food for two days, sir. So I was teaching Noel Never a lesson, making her understand the concepts of fear and consequences , and the wife carries Polly in behind her, where she knew not to walk. Never.
Of course… the mare was angry, in pain: I’d just punched her hard on the beak, where it hurts the most. She mounted up on her front legs – like a fucking mule, she were, pardoning my French, Miss – and she kicked Polly in her mother’s arms. A flawless aim.
Her skull was broken. Blood everywhere… it haunts me to this day – never been good with the sight of blood, then or now – and as quick as I could, I bundled her in the Land Rover and hightailed it for the hospital. She was in there for nine days; they saved her life. But she was never the same again. She developed epilepsy. She had trouble recognising her parents – she was severely damaged. Brain damaged.
She died when she was two. There was no recovery.
5.
A long pause followed.
‘I want you to know,’ said Vig, ‘that I’m very sorry for your loss, Don.’
‘Very sorry,’ Dorota repeated, leaning over to squeeze the man’s nicotine-scented shoulders.
‘But I don’t understand what that tragedy has to do with what’s happening today.’
While rolling another cigarette Don said, ‘I’m getting to that… Mr Billie. Would you do me a favour and pour me a drink, please? Half brandy, half ginger wine: a winter drink.
‘Sure. Do you always cook chicken this late at night, by the way?’
‘Whenever the mood takes me. I don’t sleep much.’ Don tapped ash into the saucepan and said, ‘Why? Are you hungry?’
‘No,’ Roger lied, unscrewing the bottle of ginger wine. Confrontation often made him peckish. However, he was more than prepared to forego his belly for the nonce, having set his sights on grander professional treasure. A conference? A mere conference? What Don was leading up to (Roger felt) showed all the hallmarks of a full-length work of non-fiction: a book. Infant mortality and parental madness was always a good opener for the psychoanalytic publishing masses.
No one pressed Don to continue talking while he waited for his cocktail. As their hunches would have it, as soon as he had the glass back in his hand (Don having made his next cigarette in the interim), he started again.
‘I kept thinking I saw her. Heard her, more often. At the strangest times,’ he said. ‘You see… I think she went somewhere, when she was ill. Before the kick. Before the seizures… She escaped.’ He drank. He smoked.
‘Escaped where?’ asked Roger, seizing the reins.
‘To a safe place. To somewhere it’s safe for children. I’d like to think so, anyway.’
All through the story so far, Vig, Dorota and Roger had remained standing. For the first time Vig considered suggesting that they all repair to the main house. Not because the house was warmer (Don’s cabin was like a sauna) but because Vig also wanted a drink… and he was of the opinion that he might wait until Hell froze before Don offered any of that brandy. What was more: if Don were to suggest a doling-out, would he (Vig) be allowed to accept, given his status as lord of the manor? Still so much to learn about protocol.
‘She knew what was happening and she chose to abscond. I respect her for that.’
After handing Don his drink, Roger had stayed close to the chair. Now he squatted down onto his heels. ‘A lot of bereaved parents,’ he said, ‘think they see and hear their children.’
Don nodded. ‘I can imagine so. Why should it only happen to me?’
‘This has got something to do with the hole?’ asked Dorota, gesturing towards the kitchen.
Don nodded again. ‘It’s got stronger in recent years,’ he answered. ‘Like she wants to come home. Don’t laugh.’
‘No one’s laughing at you, Don,’ Roger tried to assure him. ‘Is Polly getting older as you go along? I mean… wherever she is, is she still a baby, or is she growing up nicely? How old were you when you had her?’
‘Twenty-six.’
‘And how old are you now?’
‘Seventy-two. And no, she’s not keeping pace with me, if that’s what you’re asking. She’s going faster. The years go by faster there than they do here.’ Don paused. In one single swallow he drained his glass and added: ‘She’s close to five hundred years old.’
6.
Roger was kneeling on his chair in his home office, facing backwards with his elbows crossed on the chair’s leather shoulders.
‘So he claims to be trying to lure his daughter back,’ he said, waiting for the next blow to his bared buttocks.
His wife obliged. She struck him with a wooden spoon and said, ‘And his mental state – how would you describe it?’ Disappointed by the absence of a wince or any intake of breath from her husband, Phyllie hit him again, harder this time. Red marks blotched his bum cheeks like an infant’s paint daubings.
‘Thoroughly delusional, I would say,’ Roger answered. ‘Harder, please. But with a fully functional internal logic. If I had to guess, I’d say that he really believes it.’
Phyllie, behind Roger’s back, changed her cudgel; a selection of kitchen utensils decorated the top of the desk for the purpose of this evening’s activities. She had placed them there while Roger was out at Don’s place. Holding a spatula this time, she whipped a blow to Roger’s arse that made him hiss.
‘Thank you. Again, please.’
While they continued to discuss th
e meeting with Don, Phyllie beat and spanked Roger’s posterior until it was disproportionately red. With the versatility of a freeform jazz drummer, she used the spoon, the spatula, an egg-whisk and a frying pan. It wasn’t long before Roger had grown tumescent, at which point it was time to sit him down on his raw buttocks and masturbate him with one hand while planing his testicles with the cheese-grater in the other.
At no point, however, did Roger lose himself fully in the moment, despite an appearance to this effect. He could not stop thinking about the pit in Don’s kitchen.
And Don’s story.
So.
Don claimed that he’d lost his daughter in a tragic accident involving a horse.
Believable.
Two. He claimed that the dead daughter had made contact with him over the years.
Believable. Not checkable in the slightest (did Don keep a diary?); but hearing the voices of loved ones lost was far from uncommon, especially if there was an element of guilt involved. The accident having happened at the place where Don stabled the mare would qualify. The guy was guilty: it didn’t matter that it was not Don himself who had brought the baby on to the yard: there was guilty by association… and plenty of it.
Borderline psychosis, too.
If the daughter’s ghost was Don’s guilt manifest, it was probably psychosis that kept him in his own private darkness, by choice; that kept him blinking too long, way too hard.
Wait.
What if Don killed the daughter? The horse is an also-ran: this is filicide.
Creates a story to paint over his own memory: paramnesia. Could be.
‘Roger? What are you thinking?’