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

by James Crow

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hurt myself.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I didn’t cut a finger making your fucking supper, George. I cut my own fucking flesh to relieve the fucking pain. Have you any idea what that’s like? Have you?’

  ‘What pain? What are you on about?’

  ‘What am I on about? Where do you work, George?’

  ‘At the bank. You know that.’

  ‘The bank? Which bank?’

  ‘Can’t say, you know that as well.’

  ‘Because there is no fucking bank.’

  George looked surprised at this. He shifted in his seat, picked up his glass and necked the lot. He poured more. Ali noticed a slight tremble in his hand.

  ‘I think, will I tell you what I think? I think you rob banks.’

  George laughed. ‘Okay, I rob banks.’

  ‘Don’t fucking patronise me.’

  He opened the fresh bottle of wine. ‘Chardonnay, my favourite. Thanks.’

  ‘I miss you, when you’re away. Beth does too. Doesn’t that bother you?’

  ‘Of course it does, but we need to earn money.’

  ‘We’re multi-millionaires, George. We’ve too much money. Money isn’t the answer to a good life. Family is, and being loved, and making love, and enjoying every moment of each other’s company. We have none of that, George. I want you to pack your job in. Whatever it is that you do.’

  George reached across the table and Ali’s heart steamed and rolled and her hand lifted ever so slightly to greet his. He took her bowl of untouched stew instead. Cunt.

  ‘This is delicious.’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘You look delicious.’

  Ali sighed.

  ‘Seriously, you do. But I can’t pack my job in, Ali. Too many people depend on me.’

  ‘Who? Your driver bitches? I bet they’re good fucks, eh, George? I bet they bend over for Big Chief Georgie who can’t even fuck his own wife.’

  ‘What is it, Ali? Why the sudden aggro?’

  He was pathetic, truly pathetic. The itches were at her breasts now, the temptation to take up the knife and cut them right there in front of him was so very strong.

  ‘I’m having more stew. Want some?’ He picked up the bowls and went to the hob.

  Ali didn’t answer. He brought her a bowlful anyway.

  She picked up her spoon and caught a chunk of mushroom and ate it and watched him eat his and stayed silent until his bowl was empty. ‘Why didn’t you add pepper this time?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You didn’t.’

  George shrugged. ‘Guess the wine oiled my tongue.’

  ‘I guess you don’t even want to be here.’

  George sighed, drank more wine. ‘Ali, I’m tired. Can we sleep on this, talk tomorrow?’

  Bastard. Worthless slimy bastard. All the money in the world and not an ounce of compassion for his own family. Ali had had enough. He’d had his chance. She sighed, her shoulders slumped, and she let out a little shudder. ‘You know, darling . . . you’re right,’ she said, her tone calmer, resigned.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Me. I’m needy. I should appreciate what you do. We have no money worries, and Beth’s future is catered for.’

  ‘Got it in one,’ he said. ‘Is it hot in here, or is it just me?’

  The perfect cue, thank you, dear husband. ‘It is warm. I’ll open the big window.’ She got up, noticed she was shaking worse than ever. She squeezed his shoulder as she passed. ‘Love you.’ He didn’t reply. She opened the window and glanced back to the table. He remained with his back to her, slurping on the stew. ‘I’ve – I’ve a surprise for you.’

  He turned his head. ‘Yeah?’ with a mouthful of stew.

  ‘Look away and close your eyes and hold out your hands.’ George turned away and held out his hands.

  The pottery figure on the windowsill had always appealed to Ali. It had a dark quality, a black dog (most appropriate) with three heads and yellow piercing eyes. The middle head provided the perfect grip, chunky and heavy in her hand. Sweat stung her eyes as she approached her bastard husband. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Ready,’ he said.

  ‘You’re going to love this,’ a tremble in her voice as she stepped up behind him.

  George didn’t reply, he was probably bored and wishing her away. She swung the dog high, twisting herself at the waist, and brought it down hard. The heavy base connected with George’s right ear. He seemed to jiggle before he toppled from the chair. His head hit the floor with a thud. There was a lot of blood.

  7

  A kaleidoscopic flurry of stained glass petals and the day is cold and gloomy. Beth knows where they are. The old house stands tall not far away. The hawthorn and bramble aren’t so tall, and the platform with the almond-shaped handle is not here – there’s just a hole in the ground with knotted ropes leading into it that are tied around a fir tree a short distance away.

  Despite the cold, a naked Elizabeth stands with her back to them, looking out into the trees where the figure of the suited Master walks toward them. He’s carrying a woman over his shoulder. She’s dressed in army clothes that look like bushes, her long black hair is in a ponytail and there’s a rucksack hanging from her neck.

  Beth knows it’s the woman with the arm stitched to her mouth; the wriggling fingers.

  ‘You are correct,’ Elizabeth says. Beth doesn’t like her inside her head. ‘It’s Alison Green. Master caught her scent, went looking and soon found her.’ Master puts the girl down. ‘When she comes round she goes crazy, tries to fight him.’ Elizabeth laughs, while naked Elizabeth removes eggs from the woman’s rucksack. ‘We ate the hawk eggs. Good sustenance. Do you know one egg a day is all you need to live on? An egg holds all of life, you see.’

  The wood spirit snatches Beth’s hand and at once they’re down in the hole, the knotted ropes dangling above them. Down here is dampness and the smell of clean earth. One of the ropes sways. Beth looks up to see naked Elizabeth climbing down. On the last knot she jumps to the floor and stares up at the opening where Master’s silhouette appears. He lowers a bundle in chains that Beth soon recognizes as the egg thief; she’s trussed and gagged and naked.

  The naked Elizabeth frees her chains and removes the gag. The egg thief covers her nudity and backs against the wall of the pit.

  Naked Elizabeth holds out a spade. ‘Dig!’

  The egg thief sobs and lowers to a crouching hug.

  ‘Dig or die, simple as that,’ the naked girl says and lobs the spade to land at the woman’s feet.

  They watch awhile as naked Elizabeth and the naked egg thief work on digging out more floor, filling a bucket, Master heaving it up. When Master disappears with the bucket, the egg thief speaks.

  ‘I’ll get you out of here, help you escape.’

  Naked Elizabeth doesn’t reply, just keeps on breaking the floor with her pick and filling the bucket.

  ‘But she didn’t escape,’ Beth says.

  ‘No. I told Master, after work, what she’d said. Master dealt with her.’

  Beth can’t shake the image of the wriggling fingers. Change the subject. ‘What’s the hole for?’

  Elizabeth looks her in the eye. ‘Shit,’ she says and her face fades to see-through. Muscles and veins that look grey and torn work lazily underneath. Beth blinks and the girl’s face is back to normal.

  Beth isn’t liking Elizabeth’s memories very much. She’s also not convinced this is real magic. She thinks of the M&Ms and yearns for a fun do.

  Elizabeth laughs. ‘You’re such a doubter, Bethy. It’s not all work, you know. Master provides me with a lot of fun, too. Would you like some fun, Bethy?’

  The images flash through Beth’s mind so fast – a helter-skelter ride, spinning down the chute, a Ferris wheel click, click, to the top and the wind in her hair, dodgem cars bump-bump, the nun’s spit running down Elizabeth’s stomach. Fingers wriggling.

  ‘Fun
, Bethy!’

  The wood spirit grabs her hand.

  8

  Rose slept a stoned and dead-to-the-world sleep for most of the afternoon and into the evening. A wasted day, but she must have needed it. Wide awake now and feeling as though it was time for breakfast she flicked the kettle on and poured Rice Krispies into a bowl. When she pulled the fridge door open to get some milk, she startled once again at the eye in the lucky cup.

  She took the cup from the fridge and placed it on the side by the breadbin, then settled at the table with coffee and the cereal. Her notepad made her laugh. Silly poems. She thought again of the badger and the encounter with Mr Whittle. Did he tell her his first name? She thought hard. David? Eric? No, Derek, that was it, Derek Whittle, by name and by nature. She turned the page and saw the sketch of her breasts. Her hand sprung to her chest. Thank God the phantoms had not returned.

  She picked up her pen and found a clean page. At the top she wrote: Novel Ideas.

  Then: Darkness. Destruction. Phantoms/Ghosts.

  Torture. A man with a plan.

  She sketched Derek Whittle in his white bathrobe and wearing his glasses. There was something about the man that nagged at the back of her mind. Okay, carving mutilated bodies out of wood might be weird, but the effort and detail as well as his manicured hands were signs of a thoughtful mind not a killer or a rapist. She wondered about his job as an aid worker. He hadn’t elaborated. Then again, she hadn’t probed. Perhaps she should have.

  Imagined images of Whittle at work ran through her mind: ferrying injured from buildings dropped by an earthquake, helping to build shelters or clean up diseased slums, or delicately carving a torture device with beautiful hands. It struck Rose that perhaps this was a decent man with a story to tell – many stories to tell. She made up a joint and went to the porch and leaned against the post at the top step and looked across the loch. A chink of light through the trees set her heart thumping.

  Derek did say she should call back and check on his progress with the cat scratch-post thing, but that was only this morning. She wanted to go but didn’t. What if he was busy? What if he had a woman there? Or a wife she didn’t know about? What if he was lying?

  Too many what-ifs, Rose. He’d called her Rose as she’d left in a hurry. Familiar, friendly. The scales in her mind balanced in favour of a walk round the loch when she remembered lying to him about having a husband. Was that enough to make her feel safe? Apparently so, but using the male of the species for protection irked her. She’d been her own person for long enough.

  The night was clear and cold. No breeze. She took to the path and slowed to a snail’s pace when she neared the spot where she’d seen the badger. Nothing rustled the bushes. Nothing darted out. She walked on, only using the torchlight when the path grew too dark, and even then keeping it low. At the bridge she stopped to appreciate the silence and to watch the light through the trees. She was having second thoughts now, sneaking around like an amateur detective. She had an excuse, yes, a writer looking for inspiration. That old chestnut. He’d warned her someone was snooping. What if he really knew it had been her? What if she sneaked through the trees again and he caught her? He might take offence, break all her limbs and thread her through his cartwheel. What if she strode the path with confidence, torchlight sweeping the trees, marched right on past his front door? What if he invited her in again? What if she went right up to that door and knocked? Then there was his forwardness, something she liked about him, but what if he got too forward?

  Way too many what-ifs, Roseanne. You’re procrastinating again. Make a decision: stride or sneak. Or go back to your cabin and lock the door, a little voice added.

  Sneak, came the answer. She could always stride thereafter. Feeling the familiar buzz of an explorer seeking the treasures of adventure, Rose pocketed the torch and slipped away from the bridge.

  She turned into the cover of the trees a good way before she had yesterday. What if Whittle had the mind to set a trap, a tripwire, a bear pit with spikes? What if? What if? What if?

  One tree at a time, she headed for the light, stopping one tree before the point she’d reached yesterday. Hidden behind the thick trunk, Rose scanned the trees in front, particularly the silver birch he’d relieved himself against . . . what if he was lying in wait? Silly woman, but exciting stuff nonetheless.

  When Whittle’s cabin door opened, Rose almost wet herself. She slowed her breathing, kept herself still, watched the figure in the white bathrobe light up a cig. She considered walking right out and lighting one up and joining him on the porch. Of course not, the man was ready for his bed. A cig would be nice, though, right now.

  She saw herself lying next to him, both of them smoking cigs in post-coital tristesse: a term from the French she’d discovered whilst researching for her dental love triangle novel. The word meant melancholy, which seemed odd to Rose. A cig after a shag was a lovely thing, at least that’s how she remembered it.

  The man in the robe approached the steps and Rose’s heart hitched when he came down them and headed for the silver birch. He puffed at the last of the cig, its end glowed red and lit up his face. He looked to the sky and released a plume of smoke. Rose wondered if he smoked weed. They could share a joint, a laugh, he seemed a cheery sort. It struck her then that he was here to piss, and that she shouldn’t be here to gawp. This was invasion of privacy, wasn’t it? If the boot was on the other foot she’d be horrified, ring the police, condemn him to death and spit on his grave. Although she was hardly likely to go out at night pissing up trees.

  He took a final draw, flicked the cig into the night. She waited for the sound of urine splashing. None came. He was looking to the stars.

  ‘It’s that time again.’

  Rose froze at his words, poised to make a run for it.

  The man sighed. ‘My dearest Mutter . . . my dearest Father . . . great Lord in Heaven.’

  Praying?

  ‘Danke schoen, for replenishing my strength, and for holding my sorry spirit in yours . . . forgive me, for I have sinned.’

  Rose inched out a little to get a better look.

  ‘My healing is good, for which I am truly thankful. Today, however, my thoughts have strayed from the holy path.’

  Holy path? A priest? Silence, as if he’s waiting for a reply.

  ‘Roseanne is her name.’

  Searing hot pain shot through Rose’s right wrist and it took all her measure not to cry out.

  ‘She came from nowhere, Lord, such beauty in her heart. I feel unworthy. A soul made of love. In my mind she holds my hand and I hold hers and we laugh and share the good things of life. I know it is wrong of me. I ask your forgiveness.’

  With a tear in her eye, Rose rubbed her bracelet and had the silly notion of stepping out from behind her hiding place and . . . holding his hand? His dick? She pulled herself back tight to the tree and chastised herself. Chastised?

  ‘Dear Father, which art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name . . .’

  The poor man.

  ‘Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth . . .’

  Rose turned away and tried to close her ears to his words.

  ‘. . . as it is in Heaven . . .’

  She’d never been a believer in any of humanity’s countless gods, particularly the bearded sky fairy, but to listen to this man’s private prayers was humbling, and his thoughts of her – a soul made of love?

  ‘. . . Amen.’

  A short silence and he was pissing again. Rose covered her ears and counted to ten. When she looked again he was gone, strolling back up the steps. She slipped away through the trees to the path and kept the torch off all the way back.

  With the cabin door wide open to let fresh air in, she made tea in the lucky cup and sat at the table, flustered by her stupid feelings. Whittle was making her pant. This was how strange relationships started off: weird German, whittler of the grotesque, a real gem, a saviour to those in need around the world, a true man of honour – meets whacky introv
ert writer who smokes pot and prefers her own company. Not a match made in any Heaven but a coupling that could work, that could go off with a bang: the stuff of novels. How ridiculous. She should write it all down. An overwhelming need for relief begged at her thighs. She thought back to her antics in the shower and those lovely breasts and so badly wanted to feel them again – to see them again. Could she do that? Could she repeat what she did before? All in the name of writerly curiosity, Rose? Fuck off, Roseanne, you’re horny and you know it.

  She loaded a joint, found the one bottle of red she’d paid £14.99 for, changed into her dressing gown and got comfortable on the bed. Whilst getting merry on the deliciously heady red, she sketched Derek in his bathrobe, smoking a spliff. And she couldn’t resist having his cock poking through the gap in his robe. She made it big, curved, proud, dripping with cum, and giggled as she did so.

  9

  . . . fun, fun, fun.

  The greyness of the pit floats away and a misty morning scene enwraps them. They’re standing on the small wooden bridge, looking out at the island on the loch; Beth’s stood here many times on her wanders.

  Hidden in the island’s cove, two silhouetted figures are locked together on the grass. It’s Elizabeth, and the naked man is on top of her. They’re surrounded by hundreds of little birds fluttering about. From here they look like butterflies.

  ‘The plan was to fish for eel and pike sustenance,’ Elizabeth begins, ‘but they just weren’t biting, so Master loved me right there, not once but thrice. It was a fun do, Bethy. And very magical,’ she adds.

  Beth laughs at this, although she doesn’t know why. Elizabeth laughs too and wraps her in a hug. The feeling that comes is not expected, not a hug, more like a crunch-grind of bones. Elizabeth lets go and steps back, her face a picture of hiding.

  ‘There’s more fun. Come,’ she grabs Beth’s hand and the loch curls away in a grey wave. Now they’re on the hill where the water tower stands. Only there is no water tower, just a spring spouting water through grass and rock. Below it stands Elizabeth, lathering her body with soap as the spring water patters around her feet.