Always, always Star. As she fired the ignition, and set the car rolling through the woods—the day growing dark under the cloudy sky, growing cold—back to the road on which she would trace Star's trail, she allowed herself her usual rebellion. Thinking maybe it was time she set out by herself. Thinking that life is too short to agree to the roles people make you play. Thinking, dreaming that, maybe, the next film that Star would feature in would be his own. Thinking that, anyway, she would have to run from him: because one day, she was sure, Star would want someone younger to help occupy his time. Someone who through innocence, willingness or vitality, could help him postpone the moment when death would come for him, hungry and inexorable, without justice or sympathy, but still with its own uncomprehending innocence—the way, she decided, it came for everyone.
Lisa shook her head, and screwed out her cigarette in the ashtray. The road stood waiting for her at the end of the pitted forest track. She ought to keep her mind on driving. It must have been at least fifty miles back to the cottage; she had no idea which way to go.
Copyright © 2007 Daniel Bennett
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A HANDFUL OF DUST by Ian R. Faulkner
* * * *
* * * *
Ian R. Faulkner was born in the West Midlands in 1966 and he has yet to escape, although he hopes one day they will let him out on day release, as writing with crayons is really very difficult. His first published story, ‘Lost in Darkness’ (co-written with Simon Avery), appeared in Crimewave 8: Cold Harbours and has since been reprinted in Maxim Jakubowski's anthology The Best British Mysteries IV. His hobbies include obsessively collecting books, comics, CDs and films on DVD, and, if he's not watched closely, anything else he can lay his hands on.
* * * *
"Ihave to show you this,” Steven Williams said.
"What is it?"
"It's my wife."
"Sorry?” Matthew Hadley frowned, confused, and looked up from the photograph Williams had just handed him.
"It's my wife,” the man repeated, nodding to indicate the grainy, slightly out of focus image. “I took it on her last day here."
"I...” Matthew began; then, inanely repeating the phrase for the third time, said, “Your wife?"
"It's amazing isn't it? I just had to show you. You've been so kind and understanding, I just knew you would appreciate seeing Emma."
The five by seven print Matthew held appeared almost abstract at first glance. It had been shot at an oblique angle and, given the white glare of reflected flash that washed out the upper right hand corner, probably through glass. It showed a dark, cramped space, filled to capacity by an oblong polished surface, and rising from deeper, blue-black shadows in the foreground, a burst of overexposed yellow that faded to become a red mist at the top left.
"I had to obtain special permission from the crematorium to be able to view Emma's departure. They have a little hatch in the door of the crematory they use for inspection and I was able to look through it and watch as Emma left. When the flames took hold and I saw her, I had to take a picture."
Wide-eyed and suddenly icy cold, Matthew looked up at Williams. “This is your...” His throat felt clogged with ash and he had to swallow repeatedly before he could finish. “This is your wife.” It seemed to be all he could say.
He looked back down at the picture.
"Yes. It's her soul,” Williams said, oblivious to Matthew's distaste and distress. “If you look closely you can see Emma's face in the smoke."
Williams leaned across the coffee table between them and tapped the red mist in the photograph: focusing Matthew's attention.
"Do you see?” he asked.
Matthew stared, unable to look away. His chest hurt. He couldn't seem to draw in enough air. The ice of moments ago had melted and he now felt uncomfortably warm. Sweat beaded on his brow and ran down his sides under his shirt.
"Can you see her smiling?” Williams asked. “Can you see?"
He could. Oh God. He could. There was a face in the smoke, but ... but...
His fingers opened and the photograph dropped to the table. It landed face up next to Matthew's almost empty teacup: the dregs at the bottom undrinkable with tea leaves. His mouth felt lined with them, thick with their taste. The awful photo refused to release him. Even now he couldn't look away.
"I feel so much better knowing Emma's gone on to a better place."
If he hadn't been seated in the recliner opposite Williams, if he'd been standing, Matthew knew he would have fallen. He didn't believe his legs would support him right now. He reached out and gingerly slid the photograph across the table's surface to Williams.
"You do think she's gone to a better place, don't you?” Williams asked, picking up the print and looking longingly, lovingly, at the morbid image. “You do, don't you, Matthew?"
"I'm...” Matthew didn't know what to say. “I'm sure she has."
Williams smiled a melancholic smile. “I still talk to Emma, you know?"
Matthew nodded.
"Even knowing she has moved on, I still miss her. I try not to be sad, because I know she wouldn't want me to be unhappy, but it's hard sometimes. That's why I used the insurance money to buy the Jeep. It's something we'd always wanted and ... Well, I just knew I was doing the right thing when I met you, Matthew."
The brand new, top of the range Jeep Cherokee was the reason for Matthew being at Williams's house. He had agreed to deliver the vehicle personally. He had felt sorry for the man and thought it the least he could do. After all, Williams had enough on his plate: the man had lost his new wife from cancer at age thirty-two and been left with two young boys to bring up.
When Matthew had first approached Williams to ask if he could help him, the man had already shuffled around the showroom a good half dozen times, his two young boys in tow, and, at Matthew's words, he had burst into tears. Over coffee he had told Matthew the tale of his wife's dying wish: to own a four-by-four Jeep Cherokee, and Matthew's heart had gone out to the man and his family.
"I...” Matthew licked his lips. “I have to go, Mr Williams."
"Steven, please."
"Steven. I have to go.” Matthew stood up. He wanted out of the man's house. It didn't matter if Bruce Jones wasn't due to pick him up for another twenty minutes, there was no way he was going to wait around making small talk with Williams. The man needed help. “I have to get back to the garage,” he said. “I hope everything works out for you."
"I'm sure it will, but thank you Matthew."
At the front door, Matthew turned and conditioning made him reach out and take Williams's proffered hand. “Take care of yourself Matthew,” Williams said, holding on to Matthew's hand. “I hope you never lose anyone you love. It's an awful thing and so terribly lonely."
Now Matthew felt a complete heel for being so insensitive and judge-mental. Okay, the photograph wasn't right, but it had only been a matter of weeks since the man had lost his wife.
"At least you have the kids,” Matthew said.
"Yes. David and Jonathan are Godsends, although I think they'll be living with their father now Emma's gone."
"I'm sorry. I didn't realise..."
"Yes, they're from Emma's first marriage. I wish they could stay with me, as they remind me so much of Emma they keep her alive in my mind, but I don't think their father will allow it. Still, even without the boys, I'll never forget her."
"God no, of course you won't. She'll always be with you."
"I know she will,” Williams said. “I've made sure of that. I eat a tea-spoonful of her everyday. We'll never be separated again. She'll always be a part of me."
The shock of what Williams said made Matthew's jaw drop open in a perfect O.
"The ashes don't taste too bad,” the man continued, gaze locked on the ground and oblivious to Matthew's reaction. “I just think of them dissolving inside me; joining my bloodstream, you know? It is Emma's essence, after all: her earthly remains.” Williams looked up as Matt
hew pulled his hand out of Williams's grip.
"You don't think it's too strange do you?” the man asked.
"Oh no,” Matthew said, backing away. “Not at all. I think it's a ... a ... a romantic thing to do."
"I knew you'd understand.” Williams beamed. “I just knew you would understand."
* * * *
"I don't believe it!” Matthew exclaimed.
"You say something, love?” Katherine Ellis called from the hallway of their home.
"It's him. It's Doctor Death."
"What? Who's Doctor Death?” Katherine asked, walking into the kitchen.
"It's him,” Matthew said. “In the paper. God, I don't believe it. I said he was mad as a hatter."
"Who's mad as a hatter?” Katherine frowned, concerned by Matthew's agitation, and crossed to stand beside him.
He slapped the open newspaper down on the kitchen table next to his breakfast plate and mug of tea, and tapped his finger on the photograph under the headline. “Him. Him."
"But who is he?” Katherine asked, confused and worried.
"You remember me telling you about that guy I sold a Jeep to, who had photographed his wife being cremated, and who was eating a spoonful of her ashes each day? It would have been about eighteen months ago."
"That's him?"
"That's him! Steven Williams. Doctor Death!"
"You're sure?” Katherine asked, angling the paper towards her so she could read the article.
"Oh yeah. It's definitely him."
"Oh my God. It says here he—"
"Killed his two kids,” Matthew finished. “I know.” He twisted the paper back around away from Katherine. “He beat them both to death in the back of his parked car with a claw hammer. They were on their way to school and he just pulled over and started hitting them."
"Didn't you meet his kids?” Katherine asked.
"I did, but I don't think it's the same ones.” Matthew scanned the print. “Yeah, here it is,” he said, “it says ‘Steven Williams, a 39-year-old unemployed IT professional, was found guilty by a jury at Birmingham Crown Court of murdering his stepson Gary, ten, and his stepdaughter Chelsea, eight, with a claw hammer.’”
"And?"
"The kids I met were both boys. I seem to remember him saying they were going to live with their father, or something like that."
"Jesus."
"I know. I mean...” Matthew shook his head, lost for words.
Again Katherine pulled the paper away from Matthew. “You're right. Listen to this: ‘Williams was also found guilty of causing actual bodily harm to his common-law wife and mother to the two children, Galina Vasilieva.'” She read some more, then said, “Here you go: ‘Twenty minutes after he had left Galina he telephoned her to tell her that he had killed the children. He then telephoned his eldest son from his previous marriage before phoning the emergency services.’”
"What should I do?” Matthew asked.
"Nothing,” Katherine said. “It's got nothing to do with you."
On his way to work Matthew stopped off and picked up all the morning editions. Each paper contained a slight variation on the story and, seated at his desk, Matthew read and reread each of the articles until he began to piece together what had happened. He was amazed he had not picked up on the story before now. It must have been in the papers for weeks.
Matthew picked up another newspaper.
It seemed Williams had telephoned the emergency services three times before the police found the battered bodies of Gary and Chelsea and arrested him. On each occasion he had given a different story and the jury had heard all three tapes. During the first call to the operator, Williams admitted that he had just killed his kids and said that he was going to kill himself. He confided that his wife Galina had left him and said: “I've killed the kids. They're at the side of me.” He then claimed his pulse was getting weak, adding: “I have stabbed myself ... in my throat."
The second call had Williams claiming that Albanian gunmen had killed his stepchildren, because Galina had stolen money from the brothel where she worked as a prostitute.
Throughout his final call Williams had sobbed continuously, which had made it difficult for the operator to follow, but the gist of the call was that, apparently, his ex-wife, Emma, had made him do it because she was jealous; because he didn't love her any more; because he had given away her sons.
This final call was the most disturbing in many ways for Matthew. It brought back his memory of the photograph Williams had shown him, made him remember his first impression of the image captured by the chemicals in the film.
Matthew didn't sleep well that night. He was plagued by nightmares that left him exhausted and ill at ease. Each horror was worse than the last, filled with brutality and death, and in all of them Katherine died, viciously, by his hands.
* * * *
"You need to see a doctor, Matthew,” Katherine said as she breezed into the kitchen. “You look awful, love."
"I'm just tired. That's all. I'm still not sleeping too well.” Matthew looked away from Katherine and focused on eating his toast. He didn't want her to see the lie in his eyes.
In truth, Matthew hadn't had an undisturbed night for over a month, ever since he had read the newspaper reports of Steven Williams's trial and he remembered the day he had delivered the man his new Jeep Cherokee.
"You don't have to tell me,” she said with a smile to take the sting from her words. “I'm in the same bed, remember?"
"I'm sorry. It's just...” he started, but couldn't finish. He didn't want to tell her any more untruths.
"Just what, love? What is it? You know you can tell me."
He shook his head, weary beyond belief and words. That was the problem: he could not tell Katherine what was wrong. She deserved more. Better. Matthew felt disgusted by the things he dreamed of lately and he was sure Katherine would hate him if she ever knew of the things he saw himself doing to her in his nightmares.
"It's nothing,” he said, breaking his promise. “I'll ring and make an appointment to see Dr Hartford today. If nothing else, at least she can give me something to help me sleep."
"Make sure you do, love. I worry about you, you know?"
She kissed him on the top of his head. “I'll see you later. Have a good day."
"You too,” he said, standing up from the table and following Katherine to the front door. “Don't work too hard."
"I won't,” she said with a wave.
He picked up the morning paper from the mat, shut the door, and walked back to the table to finish his breakfast. Maybe having a day off would help? Couldn't hurt anyway.
Matthew sat down and unfolded the paper.
The headline stopped his breath.
Steven Williams was dead.
A fellow inmate had found Williams in his cell at Blakenhurst Prison. He had hung himself with his shoelaces from the upturned end of his bed. A suicide note had been pinned to his shirt protesting his innocence and stating he was going to join his dead children in heaven.
"Jesus!” Matthew yelped, as the thump of the letterbox made him jump. He put the paper down, his heart beating wildly, and went to collect the post.
Back at the table his mind replayed the news story, as he flipped through the morning mail, tossing aside the junk and opening bills. For some reason the journalist had reiterated something the judge had said at the end of Williams's trial. The reporter had written that Mr Justice King had told Williams it was a ‘wicked’ thing he had done in order to ‘spite his wife’ and for an inexplicable reason these words troubled Matthew.
The last piece of post was a letter addressed to him. It was in a pale blue envelope and appeared to have been posted the day before. The address label was printed by hand in blue biro; the postmark identified it as having come from Redditch.
Matthew slit the top open with his finger and removed the single sheet of lined notepaper. It looked like it had been ripped from a spiral notebook and was written in the same blue pri
nted handwriting as the envelope.
Dear Matthew, it began.
I am so sorry for what I have done. I only hope my death makes amends for everything. You were so kind to me, so understanding, I only wanted you to know what Emma was like. To feel the love we shared. I only wanted you to experience what a wonderful person I thought she was, but I know now what I did was wrong. I was wrong. I am so sorry. I am so very sorry.
Yours truly,
Steven Williams
Matthew felt like he had been punched.
The note dropped to the table. He picked up his mug and drained the last of his lukewarm tea, and, as his mouth filled with tea leaves, Matthew realised with horror why the sensation terrified him so much.
His throat clogged with ashes.
Copyright © 2007 Ian R. Faulkner
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THINKING OF ALICE by Robert Weston
* * * *
* * * *
Robert Weston's fiction has appeared in literary magazines on both sides of the Atlantic. His work has been nominated for the Journey Prize and the Fountain Award for Speculative Literature. A forthcoming story will soon appear in Postscripts. Currently, he lives in Vancouver, where he has just completed an epic novel for children.
* * * *
( G )
* * * *
Daniel Holloway wore his lesions like mink. From what I could see—not much more than his face and hands—it was safe to say his whole body was covered. An attendant, dressed more like a barrister than a wet nurse, stood at Holloway's bedside in a suffocating tweed suit, leather portfolio tucked under his arm like a medical chart. This therapeutic banker, I knew, was Yates. When Holloway spoke, I saw even his tongue was afflicted. “Slthee-akeh?” he said. I looked to Steve. He was as perplexed as I was. Yates leaned into his master's face—not too close, mind you—and in a moist whisper, Holloway repeated himself. Yates appeared to get it. “Mr Holloway would like to know if you are okay?"
Crimewave #9: Transgressions Page 12