I took Stephanie’s contact number. I said, “Before you go, Stephanie, do you know what the doctor’s verdict was that night? I mean, they must have spoken to Elsie after she came round to see if she remembered what had happened? What did...”
But there was no-one there. Stephanie had hung up the phone.
I don’t remember... I don’t remember the rest of that day. I got an email from that client with the money troubles again just before I went home, saying more of the same as the last one. I didn’t reply. It was about four o’clock by that point, and I couldn’t concentrate. I just shut down my computer and went home early, telling myself I’d sort it out in the morning. I remember my hands were shaking.
I just... I couldn’t think of anything to say to her. I was still so caught up by what Stephanie had told me that…
I didn’t email Jeanette the next day. I had to go to a meeting in Gloucester with a family who wanted to move down here, and it took all day. It was two days before I got back at my desk again, and, again, I was late for work. Our care worker was waiting for me when I got to the office. She grabbed me outside the lift and said, “Can I talk to you?”
We ducked into a meeting room. The care worker didn’t sit down. She said, “It’s Joan. I’m so... I’m so worried about her.”
“What’s the matter? I thought you were on leave?”
“I came back early. I went round to Joan’s this morning on my way to work. Do you know, I had to call the Doctor? She’s not eaten for two days and she’s got urine burns where she’s been wearing a soiled incontinence pad. It’s like no-one’s been in there at all. Whatever care you arranged, they didn’t do it. Who... I’m sorry. I’m not blaming you, but who exactly did you ask to manage her care while I was away?”
“Derek.” I said, feeling sick. “It was fucking Derek.”
I practically flew to my desk, and dialled Derek’s number. I told him what had happened, trying to speak calmly, but he was furious.
“So that’s my fault, is it? What do you expect? As far as I know you’d have the police waiting for me if I showed up there.
“Yeah, that’s right. I know you lot have been talking to that Stephanie woman. How am I supposed to go round there if she’s been pulling the strings with you lot, trying to turn you all against me? I had a phone call from the coppers the other day, asking me all these questions about all that shit with Elsie years ago. You know anything about that? Digging up all the bad past, and everything. You think I want to help you after that? You can forget it.
“This is all Elsie’s handiwork, you know. She’s got that woman to call you up and now she’s got you right where she wants you. I fucking told you lot that Elsie was a nasty piece of work. She’s got all this shit wrong in her head, and she’s hell bent on making everyone else feel shit as well.”
I hung up. I didn’t have time to listen to Derek ranting and raving about god knows what. I called Joan but there was no answer, like normal, so I called her GP. She told me Joan was fine, but very upset, and currently asleep. She nearly said something like, “If this ever happens again…” but then stopped herself. I think I would have ripped her apart right then if she’d tried to tell me this was my fault.
I went and found the care worker again. She was sat at her desk looking at pictures on the internet. I sat down next to her.
“Derek’s not co-operating. You know, I went up to Coldharbour Road the other day. The place is a shithole.”
“Oh, I know.” Said the care worker. “I always try and clean up whenever I go round there, but Joan won’t let me. There’s food all over the floor, the bedding’s not been changed in years, Joan’s not had a proper bath in I-don’t-know-how-long” Do you know,” she said “I really get the impression Joan doesn’t care anymore. It’s like she’s lost so much, and she’s so sick of all the family feuding, that she just doesn’t care anymore. Some days she won’t even speak.”
“I know. I thought the same. By the way,” I asked. “have you ever met someone named Stephanie? She rang me yesterday to tell me about Derek and Elsie’s nasty little history together. Does the name mean anything to you?”
“No. Never. Who is she?” I got the impression from her face that the overdose incident was new to her as well.
“A friend of Elsie’s, apparently.” I laughed. “She said she goes round there every so often to keep Joan and Elsie company. I thought it might actually have been Elsie on the phone for a minute. I made a right cock out of myself.”
“Oh no,” the care worker said, looking suddenly worried “No, Elsie wouldn’t have phoned you. She never speaks to social workers, or care staff. She won’t talk to us at all.”
“I guess she must have had bad experiences, what with being sectioned, and everything. It can’t be nice.” I said. “So she won’t talk to you either?”
“No. No, she’s never... she never talks to me.”
“So...” there was something weird about the way the care worker was talking, like she was avoiding something. “So have you ever actually met Elsie?”
“Well I’ve not... I mean, I’ve been there while she’s been there, obviously, but I’ve never actually... you know. I’ve never spoken to her, wouldn’t know her if I saw her. She usually goes and sits in one of the upstairs rooms when I go round, and doesn’t come down again until after I’ve left. It’s like I said, she hates talking to care staff. She’s a bit strange, to be honest. The whole family is weird.”
I can’t remember what she said after that, it was pretty vague. I made my excuses, and went back to my own desk. I started typing up a safeguarding report against Derek, then stopped. I remembered the client that I’d promised to contact about her money issues. I opened my emails.
There was a message from her, received at one o’clock that morning. It was...
I’m sorry, just give me...
It was a suicide note. I called our mental health emergency team, waited for about two rings, then hung up and called 999 instead. A paramedic rang me about half an hour later to say that the woman was dead.
I... I think I need a break. Can I... Can we stop recording?
OK, where were we? No, no it’s alright, I’m fine. I’m being stupid. It’s not like me to get upset about work. I mean, it’s not like she’s the first person I’ve worked with who’s topped themselves. It’s pretty common in this kind of work.
My manager sent me home early that day. I think the police and ambulance crew were very keen to dump the blame somewhere for what happened. It’s pretty much what social workers are for, having someone to scapegoat. At the same time, I still feel a bit...
I don’t know. I don’t think I actually caused her death. She was so close to the edge anyway that anything might have pushed her over. Whether I’d answered her email or not probably wouldn’t have made much difference. But I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to forget about it, either.
I remember talking to Sean in bed that night. He didn’t know what to say, naturally. People never know how to react when you tell them stuff like that. I told him it wasn’t the first person I’d worked with who’d done that, and Sean said something stupid like he didn’t know blind people killed themselves so often. You know, I think he thinks you can compartmentalise people, like in the films. These are blind people, these are depressed people, these are disabled people, or whatever. Obviously, you can’t. It doesn’t work like that.
I got really blunt and statistical at that point and started going on at him, probably a bit bitterly, about suicide rates amongst blind people and unemployment amongst disabled people and suicide rates among the unemployed, and all the rest. It was just bullshit, but he didn’t have the courage to stop me and say ‘Yes, but how do you feel about it?’ I didn’t really want to tell him, either. It was easier just to talk about the cold facts than to go into the serious stuff. It was like the other night; there was just too much to say, and I didn’t know where to start.
I do remember saying one thing, though. Se
an had started dozing off, and I was wide awake lying on my back on top of the covers. I said:
“Blind people almost always get depressed, and loads of them end up committing suicide, especially people who lose their sight later in life. People always wonder why but it’s pretty simple. It’s just because being blind is fucking horrible. Whatever anyone says, it’s never going to be OK. Losing your eyesight is about the worst thing anyone can ever imagine happening to them. It... I mean, it’s terrifying. The whole world suddenly becomes terrifying.”
I lay there for a few minutes, hating myself for being so crass and dismissive about what had happened. I just wanted the last few weeks to never have happened. Then I said, “It’s not just not being able to see, it’s everything else. You know, it’s not just about being scared all the time, it’s losing so much as well. All... blindness is like bereavement. Most people, they lose everything. Like, your job, your hobbies, your friends... So much of yourself. It’s like someone has died there and then.
“It’s like they can’t let go. They harbour all this stuff inside them. I mean, why should they let go? what do they have to move on to? What’s good about being blind?”
I started to cry. Sean woke up and wrapped his arm around me, although he hadn’t heard what I’d said.
After that it was the weekend, I think. My memory is pretty bad from about this point onwards. I remember me and Sean went to the cinema and went for a meal out on Saturday, and I think we had a row on Sunday, when we were both stressed out about going back to work and both wanted the other one to be extra nice to us because of how shit our jobs both were.
And then... that Monday was when it all happened. Like I said, I don’t remember much.
I don’t remember where I was but I was out somewhere, coming back from a meeting or something, and the care worker rang me on my mobile.
“Christine? Oh, I’m so sorry. I really... I really need you to come to Coldharbour Road. I...” Her voice sounded hoarse, like she was on the verge of getting ill.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Elsie’s here. I can hear screaming and shouting from inside, and furniture crashing around, and all sorts. The key’s been taken from the key-safe and the door’s stuck. I can’t get in. Please, I...”
I think the client’s death the week before had sort of crystallized something in me. I’d been getting shittier and shittier at my job for the last few weeks before, and I’d hit the point where I had to do something drastic to prove myself. I wasn’t really thinking clearly. I should have called the police, but instead I told the carer to wait outside and said I’d be there as quickly as I could.
I was in Redland anyway. I think I must have been on my way back from Southmead. I got off the bus and ran up to Coldharbour Road.
It was muggy and hot. I had sweat patches under my arms by the time I got to the house. I looked around for the care worker, but she wasn’t there.
The front door was hanging open. I stood outside and listened. I thought I could hear voices, faintly, from inside, but just as I strained to hear a bus went past roaring past behind me and made me panic. I looked around again, and went inside.
In the amber-colored light of the wide hallway I listened for the voices again. Now the house seemed to be silent. The glass tables and ornaments had been smashed on the floorboards, and the shards of glass and dust underfoot glistened like surf.
The big front rooms were both empty. I looked in the gutted kitchen as well, but there were no signs of anyone. The back door was locked. On the stairs I found footprints in the dust, but it was impossible to count them.
I went upstairs. Joan’s bedroom door was closed. I looked behind me and then, slowly, feeling sick, pushed open the door.
The room had been trashed. The pill packets and food wrappers on the floor had been ripped open, and there was crushed food and plastic rubbed into the carpet and the curtains. There were smears on the walls, and soiled and torn incontinence pads were scattered around like old snow. It looked like they’d been pulled out of the bin and thrown around.
Joan was in her chair, curled up in a foetal position. I wouldn’t have thought she was capable. She looked tiny, the size of a young child. I remember seeing the curvature of her spine for the first time, and being shocked. I looked around the room quickly. She was alone, as far as I could see.
“Joan” I said, trying to sound calm. “It’s Christine here, the social worker. Remember? We met last week. Are you OK? Are you hurt?”
She didn’t answer. She sniffed. I think she might have been crying, but it was hard to be sure.
I picked my way over to her and tried to find somewhere to squat down next to her. I said again, “Joan, this is Christine Bone, the social worker. I had a phone call from your carer saying that there was someone in the house, that they think Elsie was here, and she was shouting and breaking things. Is that true? Please, Joan” desperately, I said “Please? I need to know. I’m trying to help.”
Joan said nothing. I’d picked up something from the floor, and started playing with it absent-mindedly, like I always do when I’m nervous. I looked down at it now, for the first time.
It was a photograph. For a moment I thought it was the same one I’d seen before, downstairs; it was another black and white photo, with Joan, Harriet and Catherine all about the same age as in the last picture, wearing the same clothes, sat around the same chair swing and the tree. But in the foreground, stood in front of the chair, was a much younger child, about thirteen. She was wearing in a school summer dress and a cardigan, with plaits in her hair.
It must have been Elsie, but something was wrong with her face. For a moment, I stared. She was wearing heavy, dark make-up, put on sloppily and unevenly so that it almost looked like someone had thrown it over her. And there was something else about her that seemed wrong too, like the face itself was... I don’t know. Misshapen, or deformed, or something. The proportions were wrong. The eyes were too big, and uneven, and the jaw seemed to tilt to the side.
Joan coughed, weakly, and I jumped. She opened her mouth, and wet her lips with her tongue. Then she started to talk. I realized I’d never heard her voice before. It was so soft I had to read her lips.
“You were wrong.” She said. “You were wrong about Elsie.”
She felt around the arm of the chair, and then found my hand where I was leaning, and held it.
“You just... you people never understand, do you? you don’t know what you do to people like me. You... you hurt us all so much. I still love Elsie. She’s still my daughter, and now because of you I’ll never see her… You people, whatever I say, it’s as though you already have an answer for it, so I don’t say anything. Do you even know, what kind of... of power you have over us?
“Do you even know...” she said again, her voice cracking.
“Joan, I’m sorry, I...” that was the last thing I said. I don’t think I was really listening to her. I just needed to calm her down enough to tell me who else was in there with us, so I could figure out what to do.
“But do you...?” she sobbed.
I looked down at the picture again, at the young Elsie with the painted face. I squinted, and then suddenly I realized what I was looking at. Elsie was standing away from the rest of her family, and looked like she’d been crying. Around her eyes, under her clumsy make-up, her left cheek and forehead were swollen. Around her eyes and cheeks, I could just make out the lines of cuts and bruises, that looked like they’d been made by fists. Underneath the face, the bone structure itself looked broken. Her lips were cut, and she was smiling awkwardly, like she was missing teeth. The make-up had been plastered on over the top of the injuries.
I dropped the photo, and then...
I don’t remember what happened next. My memories are still confused, and I don’t know how much use telling you will be. I remember I felt something cold on the back of my neck, again. I turned round. The doorway behind me was open, but there was no-one there.
&nb
sp; I heard a voice, and although there was no-one else in the room I could hear it so clearly it could only have been coming from right in front of me. The accent was clipped and aristocratic, but the voice itself was ragged, like a lifelong smoker’s, It started speaking to me and...
What?
No, I told you, there was no-one else there.
I don’t care. I don’t give a shit what you believe. I know what you all think, but I know what I saw, and I’m telling you there was no-one else in the room. I heard the voice right in front of me. Right after that is when my vision began to blur.
That’s everything. The paramedics found me on the floor, apparently, with Joan screaming in the chair. They bandaged up my eyes, and took us both to the hospital. I can’t tell you anything else. I know exactly what they said in the hospital that night: that someone must have come up behind me and fucked up my eyes with something, and the shock made me forget seeing them. That was their story, right? I don’t know. It might be true, but it’s not how I remember it.
You... what? Fine. I told you. Like I said, you can believe what you want. But you weren’t there, and you don’t know.
Do I remember what it said? Yeah, I remember that. I don’t think I’ll ever forget. It said
“Do you understand?”
I’m done. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.
The ENd
About The Authors
MJ Wesolowski
Matthew John Wesolowski is a horror writer from Newcastle-Upon-Tyne in the UK. His first ever book, written and illustrated by himself at age 11 was entitled ‘Attack of the Killer Flytraps‘ and whilst his writing style has possibly matured since then, his themes and content almost certainly haven’t.
Onyx Neon Shorts Presents: Horror Collection - 2015 Page 19