Blood Bonds: A psychological thriller

by Alex Matthews

  “Hi,” I said. He gave no acknowledgement of my presence. I came to his side and stared with him, the long lawn not half as long or as green and neat as I remembered. It needed mowing. The flowerbeds were mean, tangled, scorched and sparse, and the wooden tool shed had been removed. By the dustbin there were the remains of a wooden chair, the leg broken off completely. Strangely, Max had a vicious looking kitchen knife in his hand, twirling it thoughtfully. “What are you doing?” I asked.

  He reached into a bowl of water in the sink and brought out a parsnip. “Peeling vegetables,” he returned dully, slicing off the parsnip’s top, twisting it and striking off the bottom. He began to peel. “Cooking stew. Mother fancied stew.”

  “Oh yeah? Learn this at university as well?”

  “From a prosser in Newcastle,” he said.

  “Oh.” I watched him slice up the white flesh of the parsnip. “It’s good to hear you’re doing so well,” I said. He breathed a muted thank you. “Remember when you said you were going to buy a castle in Scotland?” I remarked lightly, trying to inject some warmth into the chilled atmosphere. “Remember that time?”

  “Are you mocking me?” he said coldly, the knife directed at my chest.

  I shrank from him a little. “No. of course not. I was thinking about when were kids. Don’t you ever…” I left off, because I knew he probably didn’t think anything of the kind. “Still, you are doing well. Didn’t you have an interview with the BBC?”

  “Postponed for a while,” he replied. “Till all this is over.” He flashed the knife in the air.

  “Yeah. Poor Bernard.”

  “It was his own fault. I told him. He shouldn’t have been here.”

  “That’s hardly fair. He was your mother’s husband. She loved him.”

  He turned on me, and held me fixed in his blazing eyes. “What do you know? The fault lies with him and him alone. He brought it on himself. If he’d have kept well away, not get drawn in, then he’d be alive today. I warned him.”

  “Why do… why did you hate him so much?”

  “Because I knew he’d cause me grief, that’s why. Like they all have. I told him to leave. He couldn’t see. They didn’t think I could see through their little games. But I did warn him.”

  “About what?”

  The dissected parsnip was dropped into the bowl of water. “And now he’s dead.”

  “Look, Max, life’s just opening up for you. There’s everything to be hopeful for, to be optimistic about. Why are you always so bitter? Don’t you think it’s time you stopped interfering in your mother’s life and let her get on with it instead of always trying to ruin it for her? I saw you with Bernard. You were terrible, acting like a spoilt kid. You couldn’t disguise it. And now look at him. When he needed someone to turn to, when he was down…”

  “Don’t give me all that shite!” he snapped savagely. “The man couldn’t cut it.” And he laughed hollowly at his own sick pun.

  “Your mother deserves to be happy.”

  “We all deserve to be happy!” he rumbled. “And what do you know of my mother, huh? Let me tell you something; she’s more than happy with all that money Bernard left behind. His redundancy. He’d worked there since leaving school, had loads coming to him. She made sure he didn’t touch any of it. Let it stay in the bank, she said, no need to spend any just yet. So Bernard goes around with hardly anything in his pocket, and with all that money just sitting there.”

  “That’s an awful thing to say…”

  “It’s the truth. Ask her. Does she look unhappy?”

  “You’re just jealous of her. Of anything she does. Possessive. You won’t let anyone near her.”

  “Oh yeah, you’re a fine one to talk. How’s Ruby these days, marriage suiting her?” His full lips crumpled into a sneer. “And you’re right; I won’t let anyone near her – not anyone like him, like Bernard. Know what he did to her? Want to know exactly what nice little Bernard was capable of? He’d thrown his weight around, and there was plenty of that. She’d been left senseless on the floor. Well you’re fucking right I won’t let that kind of creep near her. And is that so fucking wrong?”

  “You’re saying you got into a fight with him? Is that how you got hurt?”

  “I ain’t hurt. Quit bugging me, Collie. I don’t want you here. You’re a pain in the fucking arse.”

  I swallowed, my throat parched and prickly. I was a little shocked. “Why do you hate me?” I mumbled. “Why? What have I done? After all this time... We were friends.” I turned away, faintly embarrassed and more than a little upset. Annoyed at myself because I was still drawn to him and I couldn’t take the rejection. I was no more than that little kid in the playground glad just to be with him, sunning myself in his afterglow. Even then I somehow knew Max would become something big, something more than ever we could imagine, and I wanted to be part of it. I needed him to take me along with him. But he was like a speeding car now, and all I could see were the twin specks of his hellish taillights receding into the hazy distance, while I ran to catch up with him as if in a dream. Don’t leave me! I called. Don’t leave me here; I wouldn’t be able to stand it!

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I hate you. I hate you because of who you are and what you’ve taken from me,” he said, tossing the knife so that it clattered on the stainless steel sink. I was reminded of a mortuary slab where they carry out post-mortems. “It’s best for you if you just keep away from me. You don’t want to be anywhere near me.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Max. I’ve never had anything of yours, never. You’ve always had far more than ever I could hope for…”

  He came up close. The first faint signs of ageing were dashed lightly across his face, the tiniest of wrinkles that were destined to deepen. And make him all the more attractive, I thought. “You want to know what you’ve taken?” he asked.

  “I never wanted to be your enemy, Max,” I said lamely.

  “You’re standing in it,” he said suddenly.

  I frowned. My turn to laugh hollowly. “What are you on, Max?” I blurted.

  He pushed by me and went through the doorway and into the back yard. I watched him strolling down the path and was reminded of that boy long ago, pacing about in the icy wind and rain, telling me he didn’t want to be himself, telling me he didn’t want to be Max. And, ironically, here I was thinking I didn’t want to be me, that I’d much rather be Max. If I were Max I’d be looking freedom in the eyes right now. How many times had I thought of myself as him, stared hard into the bedroom mirror and imagined my features melting like wax to become Max’s double? How many days as a child had I imitated his walk, his mannerisms, attempted to copy his dress, the way he drawled confidently to girls? It simply wasn’t fair.

  Ruby touched my shoulder and jarred me back to reality. “Where’s Max?” she asked.

  I pointed. “There.”

  “He’s taking it bad,” she said.

  “He’s – “ I began. “He’s upset.” We watched as he came up by the dustbin and lashed out with his foot at the broken chair. It collapsed like a house of cards into an untidy pile. For some reason I couldn’t get the image of the rat in the cardboard box out of my head. That and the switchblade. I picked up the knife from the draining board and I thought about Bernard’s blue-veined wrists and this same blade being drawn firmly across them, sinking into the soft flesh and the blood cascading from the lesion in a scarlet waterfall. And I imagined Max’s hand clamping the handle of the knife firmly, forcing it ever deeper, and he laughing as poor Bernard, overcome by drink, put up no resistance whatsoever. Then he was bundled into the cardboard box, alongside the rat, to dry out, to mummify.

  I shook away the imagery. Or tried to. There was some of it sticking and refusing to budge. Max stood on the grass, at a point where we played as kids, his hands encased in his pockets, head bowed and studying a spot at his feet. “What’s he doing?” Ruby asked.

  “Being Max,” I said.

  “Are you going t
o stop for some dinner?” Connie asked when we went back to her. “It would be so nice, Collie, especially as we don’t know when we’d ever get another opportunity.”

  We declined. It was all so cheerless.

  But she was right. We never did get another opportunity. A few short years wiped it all away. It would be as if a ferocious hurricane whipped and screamed around me, protecting me in its tranquil centre while those close by and on the fringes of my life would be torn ruthlessly from me. And when things calmed down I would look around and observe a desolate and smashed landscape in which only I would trudge, stunned and completely alone, wondering where it had all gone. As for Max I wouldn’t see him again for many years. Not actually in person. Not until…

  Not until I went to the island of Eilean Mor.

  * * * *

  I laughed like mad. Laughed in his face. He didn’t like that, not one little bit. You should have seen his expression. I don’t think he expected me to take it like I did. What did he want? Tears? Hysterics? Begging? I’ll bet that’s what ran through his warped little mind as he said it.

  Wise and his nameless companion were standing stock still in the corner of the yard when I emerged. As always. Like permanent fixtures. Like two pillars of icy blue flame in their clean, pressed uniforms. I paid him no attention, or pretended. I wouldn’t give him the pleasure, I thought. I didn’t want to play his silly game. I didn’t want stomach-ache. So I trudged almost nonchalantly, I thought, with a light skip every now and then creeping into my step. I caught sight of his worried little face once in a while, and I felt power surge back into my frame. Power that had trickled away over the years. It was the power of control. Of choice. I knew he was waiting for me to do the business, to pretend to have pains in my stomach so he could play his foolish game. I wasn’t playing. Not just yet. Let him stew. Let his skin grow ever more pallid. I didn’t give a toss.

  But a cloud gathered over the Sun. It foamed and rose from behind the mountain, a huge bubbling beast that bubbled across the silvery disc of the Sun and shielded its heat from me. A grey gloom was thrown over the yard, the walls appearing deeper, thicker, higher, and it felt like I was walking on black ice, the cold seeping up through the soles of my feet. The wind crawled over the rim of the wall and fanned out across the barren yard, clutching at me with its chilled fingers and whispered to me of death. I looked over to Wise. His flame of blue was warm, inviting, drawing me. I grew scared. There came the sound of tortured trees bellowing deeply in the wind from beyond the wall. A thousand banshees were gathering. Circling. I wanted to call out. Wise! Wise! What is it? What’s coming? Can you feel it, too? Can you hear them?

  Our gazes met. And I strode to the centre of the freezing yard, the shadow of scudding clouds, of life’s grey demons, brushing the concrete and cobbles. I stood there, unsure, looking at the sky. There appeared a rent, a bruise that erupted and spewed out all the creatures that fed on my terror; I felt them ram into me, causing my clothes to flap like loose skin, my skin to crawl, driving up my nose, around and into my ears, crashing against my dried eyeballs. And I crouched low, moaning, clutching my stomach, and I didn’t know if it was because I was doing what Wise had told me to, or if I really had a pain in my stomach. They’d found their way into me, were threading their way around my insides like tapeworms of the spirit, constricting, crushing.

  My feather, I thought. Where is my white feather?

  But when I put my hand to it there was no warmth. It had died. There was only the glacial sting of death, so sharp and excruciating that I withdrew my hand before it withered and snapped off. I gasped at the realisation. Howled in lament over my dead white hope.

  Wise was there next to me. I reached up and clutched at the waving material of his trouser leg. I wanted to tell him I thought my feather was dead. I wanted to tell him. But he was Wise. I hated Wise. When I looked up at him, his face was grave. He knew it was dead. I could tell. But he wasn’t glad, as I’d expect him to be; he was looking as if he felt sorry for me. Wise! I moaned when a bolt shot through my system and I gripped the material firmer. What is it, Wise? What’s going on? What’s happening to me?

  He bent to me, his face close to mine, so close I saw the pores of his skin, saw them open and close, heard them yelling at me. He had beautifully long eyelashes. Like a woman’s. When he opened his mouth I imagined I saw the demons slip out of it, swish across the small gulf between us and force their way into my own mouth; tasted their corruption, swallowed them down and felt them stick like twigs in my constricted throat. “He wants to kill you,” he said quietly in my ear. I saw his eyes flick this way and that, as if he was certain he’d been overheard by his companion, by whatever was out there to hear. “”Do you hear me? I said he’s planning on getting rid of you. I overheard him. I don’t want any part of it. I don’t want you dead. Understand? If they try, it’s not my fault. Understand? It’s not me. It’s him. If you get to the sickbay then maybe you could have escaped. That’s why you should have listened to me, but now it’s too late for all that.”

  He lifted his head and waved to his companion.

  “What is it?” I heard a voice call.

  Wise yelled back. “Stomach, I think. He’ll be OK soon. Nothing much.” His hand touched my neck. He was as cold as a stone. A corpse. “Remember, it isn’t me.”

  I faced him. The pains subsided, as if someone had poured a soothing ointment into my fiery insides. I looked at him. Deep into his hell eyes. I was so close I could have kissed him. Just like that. Our lips meeting. But instead I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. Spittle flashed out and struck him on his cheek, and he backed away a little, bewildered. I was in hysterics, the pains in my stomach giving way to the pain of laughter. It was all so ludicrous! Wise was ludicrous. The yard was ludicrous. I was ludicrous. I collapsed full length on the floor, shaking as if in a fit.

  “What is it?” Wise’s companion asked anxiously.

  “I don’t know,” Wise returned uncertainly above the screaming wind, which appeared to tear him away from me, for his leg was yanked clear of my hand.

  The next thing I know there’s this pain in my arm, and I look to see Wise sticking in a needle. He’s not very good at it and it hurts. His companion is pinning me down. A powerful weight crushing me against the unyielding yard floor. Up this close I can see the flecks of bright green moss or lichen, the ravines and gullies decorating the cobbles. A boot is two inches away from my nose. I smell boot polish. I want to yell out and tell them that it’s all over. My feather’s dead. But I can’t. Someone has blocked my throat and mouth with cotton. It feels like that. It’s seeping everywhere, into my head, down into my chest, and then dripping down in front of my eyes. I want to go to sleep. I don’t want to wake up. Ever. I’m in the same tub of water Bernard’s in. I see him, his head lolled to one side. I slip under the red water, which grows thicker by the moment. So cloying I cannot move in it. It’s becoming darker, turning slowly from scarlet to crimson, to purple, to blackish blue. Bernard’s grinning at me. It’s OK, he’s saying. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Relax. I nod, or try to. Yes, I say silently. I am relaxed. And bubbles stream from my mouth; iridescent bubbles of blood that rise to the surface and plop thickly like Mrs Radunski’s goulash in a pan. Go to sleep now, Bernard tells me. I thank him. Is this it, I ask before I succumb? Are they killing me? You’re already dead! He tells me, grinning wider. Didn’t you know that? I thank him again and then knew no more.

  It was a pity I had to wake up.

  Whatever it was they pumped into me has left me feeling woolly-headed, as if on the verge of becoming drunk, with the unnerving sensation that my head might wobble from my neck at any moment if I’m not careful. Though my mind is clearing, it’s not too easy to describe my thoughts. I guess I should be frightened. After all, Wise told me I’m a dead man. But, as Bernard rightly put it, I’m dead already, after a fashion, so what is there to worry about? Do I really mourn missing my room, my yard, the tip of a mountain? See, I call it a
mountain lately, whereas I recall describing it as a hill before. When does a high hill become a mountain? Is there a measurement for that kind of thing? I know there is. And why should I need to call it something it is not, something far grander, larger? Anyhow, hill or mountain, what is there left to hang onto life for? I should feel angry. What they plan on stealing belongs to me – it’s my life, for God’s sake! How much more personal can you get? But my life has never really been my own if I’m brutally honest about it. It was stolen from me and caged up here.

  So how do I feel? Numb. But that could be the after-effects of the drug, which, I tell myself as some consolation, could have quite easily been a dose of something fatal, and I wouldn’t be writing this now. So is it practical to watch closely what I eat or drink in future? Do I bother myself over how it will be done, if it will be done? In truth, all this episode has done is to accelerate what we all muse on. How? Where? When? It’s just made it more obvious, more definite, more realistic, far harder to shove away till later. Of course, it was Wise who told me, and just because he told me doesn’t mean it will transpire. He is Wise after all. His face looked as if he believed it, but his belief is not necessarily the truth. Or I might be deluding myself. I could be dead tomorrow, and so perhaps I ought to apologise now for not finishing what I’ve set about telling you.

  * * * *

  27

  Gavin Miller

  He flicked the key and the engine died. The only sound now was the sporadic clinks of raindrops falling onto the roof of the car, as if it couldn’t make up its mind whether to rain properly or not. He drew in a calming breath that didn’t calm him one iota, annoyed at the sound and feel of his own heart flapping manically behind his ribs like a panic-stricken bird, and annoyed at the churning of his stomach and the sting of bile in his throat. He knew he’d make an excellent coward.