HOPE . . . because that's all there ever is.

by James Crow

  ‘I thought it was. And this is genuine?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Isn’t it a beautiful thing?’

  ‘Horrific. This would have actually been used on people.’

  ‘Yes. Stick your thumb in, give it a try.’

  Perhaps it was his forward manner. Rose’s right thumb was in there, pronto, and Derek Whittle’s well-manicured fingers were turning the wing-nut. ‘Tell me when you feel it.’

  Rose told him. She lifted her hand and examined the heavy trap hanging from her thumb.

  ‘The device would of course be bolted to a table, and an attachment fixed to the nut for greater leverage, making the crushing of bone an easy task.’ He released the nut and slipped the device from her thumb and placed it back in its box.

  ‘I can’t believe I’ve just stuck my thumb where many others must have suffered.’

  ‘It’s your luck I’m not a torturer, then, yes?’ He gave a little chuckle.

  Rose drank the brandy.

  ‘Let me show you my latest.’ Whittle bent down and retrieved a sketchpad from under the sofa. On it was a drawing. First glance suggested to Rose that it was a scratch-post for cats: a tall post with angled struts at its base to keep it upright. The top of the post was fashioned into a pyramid-shaped point. ‘This is the Judas chair, possibly my favourite device of all.’

  When Rose asked how it worked, Derek obligingly turned the page. Now the drawing of the post had a naked man sat on its triangular point, his legs weighted with rocks tied to his ankles. ‘The victim will usually be lowered onto the device with ropes and suffer a painful death as his own bodyweight and the added weight of the rocks, pull him onto the pyramid.’

  ‘That would split him in two.’

  ‘Slowly, yes. An agonising death, I’m sure. My next project. My aim is to make this one life-sized. I may as well. Plenty of time to kill. I might even try it out for myself.’ He laughed at this but Rose thought he was telling the truth. ‘More cake?’

  ‘No, thank you. I should be getting back.’

  ‘Already? Yet you haven’t told me anything about yourself.’

  Rose told him she was a writer, here on holiday with her husband, then vowed to herself to not come this way again. Whittle saw her to the door.

  ‘You must come back and see my progress, Roseanne. I don’t get many visitors.’

  ‘I will,’ as she walked down the steps.

  ‘Oh, and Rose.’

  He called her Rose. She turned to look at him.

  ‘Be careful on your own in these woods.’ He took a cigarette from the box in his hand and lit it. ‘Last night, someone was sneaking around out there. You watch your back, Rose.’

  She gave him a nod, bowed away with her face burning and fled quickly down the path, not pausing for breath until she reached the bridge.

  Back in her cabin she locked the door.

  8

  Ali had cried herself to sleep after her shower. She woke now with a chill and a clarity of mind she wasn’t used to and a determination to succeed. George was coming back and this time he was going to stay; she’d give him no option. She took the towel from around her and put on her dressing gown.

  In the kitchen she poured wine into a tumbler and drank it. She half-filled the big stew pan with water and put in on the heat, chopped giant mushrooms, some onions and veg, added seasoning and stock cubes and garlic, dropped in six chicken thighs, poured in some wine and left it to simmer.

  Back in the bedroom she applied a touch of mascara and reddened her lips. She brushed her hair straight and left it loose and chose a black dress, which she put on without underwear. The dress clung to her itches and she knew all at once that when it happened this would be a special release. Maybe even a cure.

  She set the table with napkins and cutlery and glasses, laid out another bottle of wine and lit a candle and stuck it to a saucer and placed it in the centre of the table. From under the sink she took a brand new washing line, still in its plastic wrapping. She cut it free with scissors and unravelled the line and snipped it into five equal lengths.

  In the bedroom she tied a length of washing line to each corner of the bed’s base and tucked the loose ends under the mattress; the fifth length she coiled up and placed in the bedside drawer. From the wardrobe she took a scarf, and a pair of her knickers from the drawer and pushed them both under a pillow. She returned to the kitchen, stirred the stew and tasted it, added more wine and poured herself another tumbler and sat at the table to wait for her husband.

  9

  The digger’s bucket rests on the raised platform. Beth is sitting on the bucket, her pink backpack is hanging from one of its teeth. She’s been here for a while. She’s tried closing her eyes with the sunshine on her face and wishing for Elizabeth to appear. She’s also called her name, though not too loud. The almond-shaped handle on the hatch, which Elizabeth told her not to touch, holds her attention. Sunlight catches the rust pretty. She wonders what’s inside. Would a quick peek be allowed? She drops from the bucket to the platform and to her knees, certain that she can hear something. There it is again, quiet whispers – or is it the breeze in the trees? She leans close to the hatch, cocks an ear to it. There’s more than one voice, although she can’t make out any words.

  Her hand reaches towards the handle, the whispers grow urgent, louder, as if they’re inside her head. When her fingertips touch to the rusted metal a frantic flapping of wings appears at her nose and she jumps back in alarm. The bird lands on the handle. A sparrow. It stares at her.

  ‘I’m disappointed.’

  ‘Elizabeth!’ Beth jumps to her feet. There she is, all nice and bright in her yellow dress, sunlight shining in her hair like it’s just been shampooed.

  ‘You disobeyed, you stupid child. I credited you with more sense.’

  Beth feels her heart knocking. ‘I – I didn’t look inside, I promise.’ She takes her backpack from the digger’s metal jaw. ‘I got time off, brought my nightdress and my wash-bag. I can sleep over. It’s just, I thought you weren’t coming.’ The girl’s frown vanishes and Beth breathes again.

  ‘Then I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Always chores to do.’ Now she’s at Beth’s side, a cool hand slides into hers and fits like a jigsaw piece. ‘You’ve excited me, Bethany.’

  ‘I have?’ Elizabeth’s smile is golden. Still no bricks, though.

  ‘You have.’ Elizabeth takes her other hand and clasps both hands tightly and Beth’s feet seem to float off the ground. ‘I’ve waited an age for this moment, Bethany, and now it’s going to happen.’

  ‘What is? What’s going to happen?’ Beth’s excited too, she can feel her own pulse tapping against Elizabeth’s skin. The girl is considering her reply. She’s lying or stuck for words, probably just stuck.

  ‘I get to show you . . . the real magic, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  They’re off, hand in hand through the trees and headed for the yard. Beth notices sparrow shapes flitting along with them and a joyful laugh escapes her. One sparrow lands on Beth’s shoulder, which is ultra cooly-dooly. This is going to be one magical fun do she’ll never forget. ‘I am so fortunate,’ she says and Elizabeth laughs and squeezes her hand.

  At the ruin of the old house they go round the back, climb a collapsed wall and slip through a gap into another room where charred ceiling beams have crashed down in a jumble. Elizabeth goes under one and over another and disappears into a growth of tall weeds that are dying off. Beth follows and finds a small hole in the ground with steps leading down into darkness. The girl shuffles down into the hole. Beth hesitates.

  ‘Hurry please,’ Elizabeth’s voice sounds out from below. ‘No one must find this place, Bethany. Hurry on down and get out of sight. Drop me your sack.’

  Beth pushes her backpack into the hole and watches her feet follow it. Elizabeth’s hand finds hers and leads her through the darkness of echoing footsteps and dripping water and a smell like something’s died. She hears a small creature scuttl
e by. Might be a rat. Might be more spirits. They reach a door, Beth hears it open. She’s pulled through and when the door closes Beth’s eyes are attacked by sudden light.

  Shielding her eyes with her hands for a few seconds allows her eyes to adjust. A funny-looking wheelchair appears: it’s all curls and swirls and wheels big and little and its blackness makes Beth think of bats. ‘That is way cooly-dooly.’

  ‘It belonged to poor Sister Charity.’

  ‘Why was she poor?’

  ‘An ignorant soul in denial, who couldn’t follow the simplest order.’

  ‘I think it’s beautiful.’

  ‘Then we think alike. It is one of my favourite things. Are you ready?’

  ‘Magic?’ Beth’s eyebrows are up high.

  ‘Yes. Give me your hand.’

  Beth does as she’s asked and the girl touches Beth’s hand to the curly chair’s armrest. A horrid sucking sensation seems to flip Beth inside out like a fairground ride and in a blink a nun appears in the chair. Beth shrieks and jumps back. Elizabeth laughs. The nun in the chair mutters low words and runs a bead necklace through knobbled fingers. She looks angry. Worst of all she has no legs. Beth backs away, wants to run. The nun’s bricks are hissing fire. Through an open door comes the sound of running water and there’s the back view of a girl filling a bath. The girl has blonde hair. She’s not wearing any clothes.

  ‘Sister Charity can’t see or hear us,’ Elizabeth advises. ‘Nor can I,’ she nods to the naked girl.

  ‘That’s you?’ She has bricks – bricks like liquid gold.

  ‘Yes. It’s Sister’s bath time. My master will love her again but it’s all to no avail, I’m afraid.’

  The nun spits on the floor and continues muttering.

  ‘How can’t she see us?’

  ‘You’re in my memory, Bethany. Isn’t that a wonder?’

  ‘Where is your master?’

  Elizabeth touches Beth’s hand and the chair and the nun peel away and they’re back under the ruins in the dark and damp. ‘Through here,’ she says. Beth follows her through another door and the room lights up dimly. There’s an old fireplace and before it the charred remains of a rocking chair and the room smells heavy with ash. Elizabeth prods the rocking chair and sighs when it gives a little creak. ‘My wonderful master is the Supreme One. You may see him and you may awe. Give me your hand.’

  Beth tells the wood spirit that this is the best fun do ever, even though she feels a little scared. She tells herself it’s nerves for new stuff – that’s what her mother would say – and takes the wood spirit’s hand.

  10

  When the Lauding Lark closes its doors for the night, the smoking area out the back becomes the queuing area for Moira Muldoon. Pete’s last in the queue. Two more in front of him. He’s already moved to the back twice, and will keep on doing so until the prozzie sees off all her customers. Not that there’s a queue-queue, more a pissed shamble.

  The streetlight at the rear of the pub isn’t working, its lamp holed by bricks. Pete guesses this is to keep the walled area next to the river in shadow. The head and shoulders of the man on the other side of the wall are in silhouette. With his back to the wall he appears to be looking to the starry sky. Leant into his side, a smaller shape with frizzy hair makes small jerky movements. The man grunts and grunts again. The jerky movements stop and the man zips up and staggers off.

  Next to go is a kid wearing a bandana and a leather jacket with metal studs, looks no older than sixteen. He strides over with confidence and slips behind the wall. There’s brief words that Pete can’t make out. The kid’s silhouette relaxes, elbows on the wall. Frizzy hair ducks below the wall line. Pete rubs the goosebumps from his arms. He forgot to bring a coat.

  The other man waiting gets up from the step in the doorway, sways a little. He stinks of beer and cigs. He’s taller than Pete, middle-aged.

  ‘Aye,’ says the man.

  ‘Aye. Fucking cold.’ Pete rubs his arms again.

  ‘Ye shouldnae let him afore ye. Cunt teks all neet.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Wouldnae stick ma dick in that cunting gob. Might get sucked off by a cockroach. Filthy cunt she is. Filthy cunt.’

  ‘Aye.’ Pete hopes this isn’t true. The boy behind the wall emits a moan and they both look across.

  ‘Cunt’s not done. Just warming up.’ The man laughs.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Wouldnae touch her fanny, either. Stinks like shite, tastes like shite. Good for a pull an’ that’s all.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘First time? Not seen ye afore.’

  Pete nods. ‘Just a pull.’

  ‘Do you like it, sonny?’

  Pete notices the man’s got his cock out, a pale sausage in the moonlight. Pete shakes his head and thinks of Mr Wood. ‘I’m not –’ He stops himself and rubs his arms and turns away.

  ‘Show us your dick, sonny.’

  Pete thinks of his jeep round the corner, where he could get warm, and even go home.

  ‘Do us a doubler, would ye, sonny?’

  Pete glances at the man, pale sausage in hand, stroking it.

  ‘Do each other at the same time, see. Save us both a fiver and we’ll be done afore that cunt.’ He jerks his head toward the wall.

  Another moan. The low hush of the river. ‘No thanks,’ Pete says.

  ‘Fuck ye, then.’ The man starts pissing a puddle on the floor.

  The moans turn to quick grunts and the kid’s silhouetted head throws back.

  ‘Bastard’s done.’ The man leaves his cock hanging and walks over to the wall and knocks shoulders with the kid on his way out.

  Pete breathes, steps into the pub’s doorway and hugs himself and goes over what he’ll say to the prozzie. Aye-aye, I’m Pete. I’m going to take you home with me and I want my cock sucked and I want to fuck you for a week. I’ll pay you and feed you and . . . and I’ve made you something – something really special . . . ’cause I’m no homo.’

  Grunt, grunt, grunt.

  Pete waits in the doorway until the man walks past and out of sight. The frizzy hair over the wall is looking in his direction. ‘Last orders,’ comes a raspy voice. Shaking with the cold, Pete checks around for any latecomers. They’re alone.

  The sound of the river is louder on this side of the wall and the rushing water is only three feet away; the path they’re standing on is more a narrow jetty. Pete can’t make out her face in the darkness. He hands over a fiver and leans back against the wall. The oil-black river gliding by makes his head swim, so Pete looks to the stars. He hitches his elbows onto the wall and grins back at Mr Wood’s face in the sky as the prozzie’s hand works him fast, then stops. The sudden swell inside lifts him high and he moans and can’t help but close his eyes when she starts up again. She knows what she’s doing, had plenty of practice. Faster now, her bony hand thumps against him, then release and he opens his eyes to see his cum pumping white into the black river.

  Moira wipes her hand on his shirt and walks away. In his mind’s eye comes an image of his hands around her throat. ‘Wait!’

  She stops, turns. ‘I don’ do refun’s.’ She pulls something from her jacket pocket. A knife.

  Pete holds up his hands. ‘No, no. It was great.’

  ‘Great?’

  ‘Aye. I want . . . I want more.’

  She slips the knife away and walks back to him. He still can’t make out her features very well, but enough to see she’s an ugly skank. ‘I’d like . . . I want . . . it’s just . . . thing is . . .’

  ‘Virgin?’

  Pete nods.

  She looks him up and down. ‘Ye pissing me?’

  Pete shakes his head.

  ‘Twenty quid. No rubber – gives me a rash.’ She holds out a hand for the cash. ‘Ye do me from behind. You can feel me tits but stay away from me arsehole.’

  Pete takes out his wallet, hands her five twenties.

  ‘Fuck’s this?’

  Pete’s hands reach out an
d clasp the prozzie’s shoulders. He no longer shivers, feels a warmth spreading through his chest. ‘That’s the first instalment, aye. I’d like you to come back to my place. A warm bed, plenty of food, and –’

  ‘Ye got whisky? Beer?’

  He hadn’t thought of that. ‘We can get whatever you want on the way there.’

  ‘Where’s there?’

  Again he sees his hands around her throat. ‘Loch Rowe, the cabins, I own the place. There’s a clean and warm cabin waiting for you – for us.’

  ‘That’s miles away.’

  ‘My jeep’s round the corner.’

  ‘All that way for a fuck?’ She stuffs the money into a pocket.

  ‘More than that. I want you to stay, maybe for a week, teach me.’

  ‘A week for ’undred quid? I can make that in one night.’

  So far as Pete knows, Moira Muldoon is homeless, always has been, lives in squats. Wanks schoolboys for her lunch and drunks for her supper. He knows she’s attracted to the offer of a warm bed. ‘One thousand pounds, all the booze you want, and a comfy bed.’

  The prozzie laughs.

  ‘I’m serious.’

  And that was that. Before leaving Moxley they stopped at the petrol station on the corner for whisky and beer and Pete saw her face in the light. A face that reminded him of frazzled bacon, hair unwashed and knotted, teeth black, some missing. Pete wondered if the cockroach story was true.

  The door to the shop was locked. The kid in the kiosk told him alcohol couldn’t be sold after 10 p.m. but was soon swayed by four £20 notes, plus payment for Pete’s purchases which the kid didn’t put through the till. On top of four bottles of whisky and a 24 pack of lager, Moira asked for salted nuts. Pete bought ten packs. She also asked for baccy, a cheek seeing as he’d just given her a hundred quid. He added two packs of Golden Virginia and some rolling papers to the purchases and paid for it anyway.