Lonely House

by Collins, James

  ‘It’s nearly cold, Pete.’

  Pete shakes his head and backs off.

  ‘It’s the only way.’

  Pete, slow and dim-witted, knows what is right and what is wrong. He has grown up knowing exactly what is right and what is wrong. Killing people is wrong. Killing his only friend is wrong.

  At least, it would have been a few hours ago. But, now?

  ‘Don’t be thick. It’s the only way,’ the girl shouts again.

  He doesn’t like her shouting. He doesn’t like to see her upset but she is desperate and William is stirring. She is watching Drover eat the last pieces of a human heart, and he is listening to her begging him to pull the trigger. He feels the gun, slimy with blood, in his hand.

  ‘Choose her, Pete. It’s what you want. She’s what you always wanted.’

  Pete’s slow mind tumbles thoughts from back to front. He only has one choice. No. There’s another choice. He could throw down the gun and run away, but then he would be deserting his mate and that would be wrong. He could kill Drover and escape with the girl. He likes the girl. She likes him. They’d have the money. She wouldn’t get him sent away, she wouldn’t want that. She wants Pete, he’s known it all day. Whoever finds what is in the house and whoever finds Drover dead would say nothing. There would be nothing to say.

  But, then, he remembers the ghost train. Which way would he go when the time came? Down and down and never come back? Or back through the doors to the world? Yes, he’d come back because he should not be in this position. He hasn’t chosen to be in this position. It’s not his fault.

  But, it would not be an accident.

  ‘It’s nearly all gone, Pete,’ Drover is saying.

  Pete screams and his helplessness is soaked up, absorbed by the blood-soaked room. There’s no echo. No answer comes back.

  ‘Look, Pete,’ Drover says.

  His friend is swallowing the last piece, his face taut and grimacing.

  ‘Now, before it takes hold. Before it comes back,’ Drover says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘There’s no other choice mate. It’s in me, now.’

  Pete swings the gun to aim at Lily.

  ‘Not me, you stupid retard. Don’t kill me!’ Then suddenly her voice is softer, calming him. She stops screaming at him. She is holding out a hand. ‘Please, Pete, do it. It will go away and we can leave. It’s all over.’ Motherly.

  ‘Pete,’ Drover’s voice is calmer too. ‘It’s done, mate. You know what you have to do. Shuck it, Pete, there’s no way out for me now, yeah?’

  The gun is growing heavy as he moves his aim between Lily and Drover. Something catches his eye. William’s leg is moving, slowly drawing itself up as if he is about to stand. The dead man is slowly coming back to life and Pete realises that there is a way out. But, he has no idea if he can do it.

  Pete looks from William to Drover while holding the gun on the girl. Drover’s hands are empty. He has the gift in him, now, and Pete knows what he has to do. He slowly swings the barrel back as the presence in the air drifts, slides towards Drover and is absorbed into him. Outside, the forest falls into total silence.

  ‘No more time,’ Lily whispers.

  Pete knows it.

  ‘Tell me, Drover. If you care about me, tell me. Did you kill my dad?’ Pete’s voice is soft, sad. ‘Please.’

  Drover looks up at him with his large, glassy green eyes. He knows what Pete is asking and he nods. ‘Yes, Pete, I did.’

  Tears roll down Pete’s face. He knows that Drover has told the truth.

  He wipes the tears away and presses the gun more firmly against his shoulder. He sees that Drover is smiling. ‘That’s it, mate,’ he says. ‘No worries, eh? It’s all you can do. Here, aim it at my head. I’ll shut my eyes.’

  Pete’s finger tightens around the trigger.

  ‘That’s it, Pete,’ the girls says, inching closer. ‘Just us, eh? Just you and me and all that stuff you’ve dreamed of.’

  ‘Quick, Pete,’ Drover says, and his voice sounds different. ‘I can feel something starting. Pete, quick!’

  Pete grips the shotgun more tightly. He closes one eye completely. Through the other he sees a clouded, red vision of the only person he ever loved.

  ‘I forgive you, Drover,’ he says. ‘And I’m sorry.’ The tears pour so quickly down his cheeks that they wash away the blood. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Outside in the forest, through the tightly packed trunks of tall, sinewy trees, a tentative light can be seen far in the distance. A silver-white hint of a moon approaches. Something stirs, an unsettled leaf falls, swaying gracefully through the cold, dew-dripping air to settle softly on the carpet of moss.

  There is the sound of a long, soft sigh as if the trees have resigned themselves to a lifetime more of waiting, of nothing changing, of standing sentinel over this lonely house. One by one the yellow lights dim and fade. The clammy calm of night returns as the sigh fades to silence.

  And a single gunshot sounds through the forest like a desperate cry.

  Thirty

  THERE’S THIS FORTY-SOMETHING businessman working his way through a crowd of people. He wears an ill-fitting suit and is looking a bit haggard. He is greying a little and it looks like he is nervous about something. He’s walking through the throng of chatty, smiling people, and he is listening to the music, smelling the familiar smells, hearing the happy screams and the churning pipe organ.

  Children run past him, candyfloss stuck to their faces. A boy proudly carries a goldfish in a plastic bag. ‘A prize every time.’ The clang of the strong man bell, wafts of hotdogs and frying onions mixed with the smell of chips and sea-salt air drift on an unhurried summer evening breeze, the rattle and whoosh of a small metal rollercoaster to one side, the spark and thump of a bumper car to the other; balloons, stuffed toys, the crack of an airgun and the tin-can ping of a lead pellet hitting home.

  The businessman has a woman on his arm, a tall, thin thing with a face pinched back by plastic surgery, her hair brittle and temperamental thanks to dyes and dos, colours and fashions. Her short-sleeved dress is too short for this late in the summer. Her clackety heels are too high for this kind of chewing gum carpeted ground. Her accessories are too late-night for this time of afternoon, and her nails too long and false to be anything other than slutty. Her narrow features display displeasure and boredom mixed, as if someone has been telling her the same joke over and over, up close, and with bad breath. But, she clings to the arm of the businessman as tightly as she would cling to any man with a healthy wallet and an unhealthy heart.

  He, the object of her false affection, dodges and weaves through the crowd and ignores the red-faced parents, the grumpy dads vainly inspecting their wallets and digging around for the last fiver, small children pulling on their arms. He sees the teenagers in couples, hands in each other’s back pockets, leery smirks on faces, beer cans in paper bags. He squints into the gaudy orange and blue, red and yellow lights on octagonal stalls offering dartboard games and plastic prizes, and he knows he is doing the right thing.

  And, then, he stops and the girl on his arm stops with him.

  ‘Now what?’ she whines through her nose.

  He doesn’t reply. His mouth has gone dry. He has seen what’s up ahead.

  To be honest, he’s had more than enough of her. He can’t wait to see the back of her but it’s not as easy as that. It comes at a huge price, but it will be worth it. He’ll be rid of her demands, commands, and her family. He can’t wait for the peace and quiet, but more than anything it’s the freedom he is looking forward to; freedom from her and everything else. He knows he should never have got himself into this situation in the first place, but he has, and there is no point complaining about it now. Beds have been made, laid in, and now it’s time to do some laundry.

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nbsp; And he is looking directly at it, the thing that he has come to call his ‘laundry service.’ Calling it that takes away some of the horror that lurks behind its walls. His heart skips a beat. Excitement? Happiness? The fear of being caught? How can a missed beat in one organ churn up so much uncertainty? But, stop, he thinks, don’t go there again. The time has come.

  ‘We ain’t going on that, innit?’ she says, and her accent grates on him as usual. It reminds him of everything she has ever said and gets right down into his chest where he can feel it eating away at his happiness.

  ‘No, I am not,’ he says. ‘But, I know you like it. We’ve put in some new effects and I would like your opinion. If you would? Dear.’

  ‘Fuck, yeah. Gotta try the bastard. Looks like it’s doing alright. Shit, it can only be better than it was.’

  ‘But, are you sure, darling? It is a little more frightening than before.’

  She doesn’t answer. She pulls away from him and heads towards the ghost train.

  He stands and thinks for a moment.

  The attraction of a ghost train never fails to interest him. It is, after all, only a shabby old shed, extended at the back, with dayglo-painted faces and letters, a low-level roller coaster ride that never really gets above ten feet, some bits and pieces hanging down and some lighting. It’s the dark that attracts people. It’s something to do with going into a dark tunnel, going underground, almost. People like that. What is it? Something about going back to birth? Perhaps the feeling of rebirth when you come out, having survived the recorded screams, the luminous Dracula faces, the rubber spiders. What is it about heading into the dark that thrills folk so? And what is it about this ride that obsesses the guy now running it?

  The businessman remembers when this dumb kid turned up one day out of the blue, and smiles. He had a story that he made him listen to and then half begged him to let him work the ride. The man did. He liked the guy and felt sorry for him. He was a bit ‘special’, he thought, but he had no idea how special until a few months later. The story he told became stranger over the weeks, and the possibilities that the boy put forward became more tempting, if somewhat more daring. The businessman wanted proof, of course, and he got it. Once he opened up his mind to the story and its possibilities, he was more than happy to accept the tale. Once he’d seen what was on offer, he knew he had a chance to change his life.

  He looks at the ghost train, a marvel of 1950s engineering. He can never get over how simple and tacky the thing is. The car goes in through the doors on one side, there’s a jolt and a crash as it hits them, just to get the girls screaming. Then the punter is met with the words, ‘Welcome to Hell’, all orange and red, and bright and pretty sickly, really. It goes round the back, strings dangle to make the girls scream some more, there is the sound of wailing wind and spooks, and it trundles up an incline, then out onto the left balcony. There, it takes a sharp turn in and down for the big thrill of a massive eight foot drop before clattering up the other side, in, round, past a few manky skulls and some luminous ghouls, and then down and out again. A couple of pounds per ride. Low maintenance, easy money.

  He’d been watching this tacky old ride for years, wondering if he should replace it with something more up to date, and then, one day, who’d a thought it? He found out that it was the answer to all his prayers.

  There she goes now, the cause of all his suffering, and that smart looking (and not as dumb as you first thought) storytelling kid is going to do his stuff.

  His freedom is going to come at a price. He looks around the fairground. But, he is not going to be paying as much for his liberty as she is. A wicked smile creases his face and his pulse quickens.

  Pete stands by the entrance and watches the couple coming through the crowds. He recognises the owner, of course, and the woman. He hears the cars rattle out of the swing doors behind him and turns to check. A couple of teenagers get off, one complaining about the ride. ‘Dull, lame, waste of money, mate,’ and he just nods at them as they leave.

  He tucks his shirt in a bit tighter and opens the top button. This lady is a looker and he wants to look his best. That’s easier to do now he’s lost some weight and bought some smart clothes. Now, he can afford to go to the gym every day. He’s looking fitter and feeling better about himself. He can afford to go every day because he’s got a home gym in the rented flat that overlooks the beach and the fairground.

  The flat that overlooks his dream.

  Pete nods to the owner in recognition as the man hangs back, and he smiles at the lady as she approaches.

  ‘So, what have you done to this piece of shit?’ she says, and spits out some chewing gum. She looks Pete up and down as if she just stepped in him. ‘Better be good, innit?’ She forces her way through the turnstile and walks up to the empty car. She steps into it, wipes the seat with her hand, and sits. ‘Looks like the same load of crap,’ she moans.

  ‘It’s more scary, now,’ says Pete.

  ‘Should fuckin’ hope so. No use having a poxy ghost train that ain’t scary, thick-boy.’

  Pete winces. The owner is right. She is a nasty piece of work. But, he smiles and says, ‘Make sure you hold on tight, missus.’

  ‘Yeah, right!’ She laughs. ‘Oh, hang on. My day just got better.’

  A man has walked through the turnstile and is walking up the ramp to get into the car. She is looking at him, giving him an up and down once over. He’s got short dark hair, a strong jaw. He’s fit and his shirt is open, showing a smooth, toned chest. She approves of his tight jeans, and his trim waist. She’s thrilled to see him step into the car beside her, his crotch at her eye level.

  She forces herself to look up to his face.

  ‘Will you be minding if I sit with you?’ he asks, and he has a lovely Irish lilt to his voice.

  ‘Not at all,’ she coos, and pretends to slide over a little. In fact she stays where she is so the boy has to press in beside her.

  He has such amazing green eyes.

  ‘Thank you, lady,’ Drover says, and settles in. ‘Oh, will you excuse me if I put my arm around the back, there? We’re a little cramped.’

  ‘You can put anything you want wherever you want,’ she says, and then notices his hand. ‘Oh, that’s some wicked bling you got.’

  ‘Ah, I always wanted gold rings on me finger and a beautiful girl on me arm,’ he says, and her insides melt. ‘It’s so good to get what you want, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I always get what I want,’ she replies, and looks into his face.

  She’s not sure, but for a second there she thought she caught flash of something odd. Was it his mouth? His soft pink lips looked like they’d vanished and instead there was this row of sharp teeth. His eyes didn’t look right either; kind of yellow slits rather than those bottomless green pools.

  ‘What’s up?’ Drover says, and then looks back to Pete.

  ‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Just me imagination.’

  ‘Ah, that’s the fun of a ghost train.’ Drover winks at Pete and sees him nod twice, slowly. He turns back to the woman. ‘Hold tight, now. Things are going to get very scary.’

  Pete sees that Drover is in place and ready, and feels warm inside. He is happy. He is with his best friend, and Drover is, as always, smiling. They share a wink and Pete presses the red button.

  The owner comes and stands beside him and Pete can feel him slip a large envelope into his hand. He knows what’s in it and knows that, for this client, it is not money. It’s the lease on the fairground, the ownership, and as soon as the ride is over, it’s going to belong to Pete and Drover.

  Pete hears the motor start up, he hears the car jerk into action and hears the woman laugh lewdly at something Drover has just said. The train rattles along, thumps into the double doors, they fly open and the sounds of recorded screaming come pouring out.

 
; Pete fingers the locket around his neck, the one that wouldn’t be given up unless it was over her dead body. Well, he thinks, that was the way it had to go. He doesn’t regret his decision. It turned out to be the best he could have made. He keeps the locket to remind himself of the one wrong thing he has ever done in his life, to make sure he never does wrong again.

  He looks at the papers in the envelope as the owner stands beside him watching the ride anxiously.

  ‘You sure about this?’ the owner asks.

  Pete nods, and looks up. The car comes out on to the left hand balcony. Drover, in the evening light, his face handsome and his smile broad; his green eyes catch the light like emeralds. The woman beside him is looking relaxed and just a little bit in lust. The train rolls back through the doors, the sounds of the recorded screams filter out and mix with the belly laugh of the devil deep down in the red fires of hell.

  ‘Won’t be long now,’ Pete says, and glances over the papers. Drover has already seen them. He’s already had them checked. The names are not their names, of course. They are not the same guys any more. They call themselves by slightly different names so that Drover won’t get followed or hassled by the police or by the travellers. Besides, now that all Pete has by way of family is his diddycoy best mate, well, they might as well be brothers. They might as well be Liam and Peter Lamb. He looks at the top of the document, ‘Lamb Brothers Amusement Park.’ Looks good to Pete.

  The park owner, standing beside him, shuffles from one foot to the other. Pete notices. ‘Calm down,’ he says. ‘It won’t take him long. There won’t be no trace.’

  ‘Questions?’

  Pete shakes his head.

  The train reappears at the top of the eight foot drop. The woman looks across and sees the owner. She raises an arm and gives him a finger, then yells in delight as the car plunges down with a loud roar. The car clatters up the other side and crashes into the double doors. He hears Drover laugh as the car is swallowed up by the sounds of the screaming dead, those falling to hell, those being burned, their flesh bubbling and popping in the yellow, evil smoke of the furnace from which only the innocent are freed.