Shiver

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘She is an evil old woman,’ my mother said then, ‘and I must take you away from her.’

  My mother and I sat in the cemetery a long while that day. When we finally got back to Suffren we noticed straight away that something was different in the house.

  My mother pointed to the doors. ‘The scissors, she took them all off.’

  It could only mean one thing. We ran outside and found my grandmother sitting on the patio.

  ‘The gendarmes came,’ she said without looking at us. ‘They found him.’

  We didn’t need to ask who she was talking about. She explained that the gendarmes had discovered my father’s remains in a cave in the Chiffa gorges. They were able to identify him thanks to the papers in his wallet. Next to him was a leather bag full of dried up carob seeds.

  ‘Why did he stop in the gorge to pick up carob seeds?’ My mother shook her head and turned to Abuela. ‘Don’t you use carob for some of your remedies?’

  My grandmother shifted on her seat, an uneasy look in her eyes. ‘That’s right. They’re very good to cure melancholy, but they’re expensive and difficult to get hold of, that’s why I asked Armand to gather some for me.’

  ‘So it was your fault,’ my mother said between clenched teeth. ‘He died because of you!’

  There was long silence, then my grandmother turned to stare at my mother.

  ‘Do you remember how ill you were after Paulette was born?’

  ‘Yes, I was tired all the time.’

  ‘I asked Armand to get some carob seeds on his way home because he wanted me to brew one of my remedies for you. He was desperate to see you smile again. So in a way, I suppose we were both to blame for Armand’s death.’

  My mother gasped, pressed her fist to her mouth, and ran into the house.

  My father did come back to Suffren after all, like my grandmother had always predicted, but only to be buried. The gendarmes explained that he’d probably sheltered in the cave from a thunderstorm and suffered a heart attack, although we would never know for sure how he had died there, alone.

  Soon after the funeral, my mother and I moved to a small apartment in Algiers where she found another typist’s job. We occasionally travelled to Suffren for short and uncomfortable visits to my grandmother, and then there was the upheaval of the Algerian independence war and we crossed the sea to settle in Marseille. My grandmother refused to leave her home.

  My mother never mentioned her suspicions again but I often wondered if, like me, she suffered from nightmares about an old woman making bread with a dead man’s hand in a dark and silent house, and with an evil wish in her heart.

  All Hallows

  Andrea Frazer

  31st October – All Hallows Eve

  Definitely a blanket stitch in stout black wool, she thought, surveying the vulnerability of the material as it fell to the hem of the vast floor-length garment. It was only a loose weave, and wouldn’t stand up to the abuse of being dragged roughly over the unforgiving ground for hours on end without fraying away to nothing. The garment coming apart from the bottom upwards would not sustain the illusion necessary for the occasion.

  Kerry Carmichael selected a ball of black nylon, unbreakable by mere human hands, cut a length from it, and threading a large-eyed needle that would work well with the open weave of the costume, she began to stitch round the bottom. Her husband, DS Davey Carmichael of the Market Darley CID, would be the best dressed Frankenstein’s monster on trick or treat duty this Halloween, or she was a Romanian paisley-weaver with purple dandruff.

  He had not used all his considerable powers of persuasion (not to mention begging and whining) to secure this special evening for the children, off duty, to have his appearance spoilt by shoddy needlewoman-ship. She had been certain in her own mind, however, that he would not be needed to uphold the law tonight, as his immediate superior, DI Harry Falconer, although appearing stern and unyielding, was a closet pussycat. He knew full well what the children meant to his sergeant, and how much he had been looking forward to escorting them around their home village of Castle Farthing in fancy dress, hoping for the neighbours’ largesse of sweets, chocolate, and even pieces of fruit from the more health-conscious amongst the inhabitants.

  A roar of despair from the sitting room claimed her attention, and she called out, to find out what was amiss. ‘I can’t find my fake head top,’ floated back a baleful bass voice, in despair. ‘I was sure I’d left it on the dresser, and now I can’t find it anywhere. I can’t be seen out tonight without a tall flat head. I’ll be laughed out of the village and the kids’ll never forgive me.’

  ‘It’s in the right-hand cupboard. I slipped it in there so that one of the dogs wouldn’t mistake it for a plaything and chew it. You know how long it took me to glue all the wool on to it in parallel lines so that it looked like hair.’

  ‘Good work, Mrs Carmichael. That’s the sort of intelligent thinking I’d expect from the wife of an up-and-coming detective sergeant. You will help me stick it on straight, won’t you? I can’t go out with a wonky head,’ he stated with all seriousness, returning to his original task of hanging the evening’s decorations from the ceiling, for the party they had planned for later, an easy job for him, as he was just about six and-a-half feet in height. He was constantly grateful that the ceilings of the two cottages knocked together, in which he and his family lived, had higher-than-average ceilings for the style and age of dwelling it was.

  ‘I will, when it’s time. Honestly, you’ve got hours before you go out, yet. You’re worse than the boys. I’m still working on the costumes.’

  ‘I think I’ll just phone the inspector one more time. He may be working, but he might fancy driving over here on a patrol round, to see the Carmichael gang out doing their stuff. We could always find a black sheet, make a vampire cloak for him, if he’s in the mood when he arrives.’

  ‘I shouldn’t waste your breath, Davey. I really can’t see Inspector Falconer being in the least interested in going tricking or treating with our crew. You forget, Peter Pan, that he actually grew up, and lives in the adult world, as do quite a lot of other people of our acquaintance.’

  ‘Daft rumour, woman: that’s just a daft rumour,’ her husband muttered darkly, as he went off in search of the bolt for his neck.

  In his office in Market Darley Police Station, Inspector Harry Falconer leaned back in his leather chair with his feet up on his desk, and tranquilly sipped a cup of coffee, hot and fragrant and comforting. He’d almost forgotten how peaceful the office could be without the madcap company of that giant jumping spider of a DS, to whom he had granted a night’s leave, to lead his children on a merry dance round the green in Castle Farthing, begging sweetmeats from the neighbours under the dire threat of ‘trick’.

  It seemed the kindlier of two acts. Carmichael would get a great deal of enjoyment from playacting with his two stepsons. Had he given a free evening to DC Roberts – who, unfortunately in Falconer’s eyes, had been seconded back to them for a few weeks as his successor DC Tomlinson was on leave for family matters – that officer would only have gone to the party at the town hall, spending the evening tomcatting around and getting blind drunk. He would then have been late into the office tomorrow, and have proven totally unfit for work then anyway. No, Falconer thought, he had granted the free evening to the most deserving officer, who would cause the least future disruption because of his present free time.

  He’d sent his DC – on duty with a very ill grace – out to interview a homeowner who had suffered an attempted burglary which had originally been investigated by PC Green, but was deemed worthy of a follow-up interview, as it was thought now to be part of a series of break-ins and attempted breakings-and-enterings. And this evening had seemed like a wonderful opportunity, not just to get that re-interview out of the diary, but to claim a little oh-so-rare peace and quiet for himself during working hours. He reckoned that, with the world of parents fully involved with organising their little darlings into bullying the
ir respective neighbourhoods, and everyone else cowering behind their front doors with bowls full of goodies to hand out to whoever rang the bell or knocked the knocker, to avoid anything happening to the exterior of their property, car, or garden, he was guaranteed to be left alone.

  Languidly, and with the keenest anticipation, he reached out a hand towards a paper bag which sat enticingly in the very centre of his desk. Inside its sticky folds nestled the gooiest lardy cake he could find in the baker’s on his way into the office, and he knew, from past experience, that sitting out on his desk for a few hours would not diminish its tacky deliciousness. It would be the perfect accompaniment to his mug of coffee and heap of peace and quiet, and he wriggled into a slightly more comfortable position in his chair, in preparation for this treat.

  He had felt quite resentful, leaving behind a large heap of blissfully dozing cats before the fire when he left the house to report for duty. His home was a 1930s house with three bedrooms and two reception rooms, where he lived alone but for his five cats.

  Until he had been paired with Carmichael at work (although this had nothing to do with the change in his circumstances), he had had only the one cat, a Siamese called Mycroft, but his various cases, and circumstances in general, had conspired to land four more felines on him, and now they all lived together in perfect harmony, for most of the time at least.

  He smiled at the memory of Carmichael’s desperate pleading to have this evening free from work, and, as his route took him past the best bakery in Market Darley, smiled again, as it revealed a golden pile of sticky lardy cakes winking seductively at him through the glass, and the purchase of one of these soon allowed him to look forward to the rest of the evening with greedy anticipation, and generally count his blessings.

  DC Roberts had no sooner said ‘good evening’ to the inspector, than he found himself back outside in the cold and dark, on his way to conduct a second interview with a householder who had surprised a miscreant trying to break into his house, no doubt for nefarious purposes.

  He resented working this evening, as there was a damned good Halloween party going on at the town hall for which he had intended to purchase a ticket, and had even put together the vestiges of a zombie costume. Why should that shambling lump Carmichael get the evening free? He’d’ve thought the man’s wife would have been perfectly capable of dragging a couple of kids round a few houses begging for ‘candy’ – in his mind he used the American word to indicate irony.

  Why did their father need to be present, thus preventing him, DC Chris Roberts – super-sleuth and secret love-machine – from granting the boon of his presence; superb body and amazing mind, to the chicks at the town hall for the evening’s thrash?

  Well, he hoped one of the beleaguered Castle Farthing pensioners took offence at having that great lump on his doorstep, and threw some eggs at him – they say free-range are better for you! It wasn’t that Roberts didn’t get on with Carmichael; he was just so disappointed at not being able to go out on the pull in legitimate disguise, later that evening. It was the one night of the year when a red-blooded male, who was normally recognizable as a representative of the forces of law and order, could carry out lightning snogging attacks and remain unidentified because of make-up and fancy dress.

  Bum! In fact, double bum!

  In his garden shed, Larry Jordan lay back on a pile of dusty sacks which had once held potatoes and bulbs, lifted the scotch bottle to his lips, and poured a generous stream of the fiery amber liquid between them, swallowing, then blinking, at the strength of the spirit.

  He was going to tie-on a good one tonight. There was no way he was staying in the house to be pestered by those bleedin’ irritating estate brats in their pathetic attempts at dressing up, knocking at the door every five minutes and whining after sweets and chocolates. If his so-called loving wife was going to go out with her bit on the side every other night, with the excuse that she was going to her workmate’s for a girls’ night in, then he was getting the hell out of the way and drinking himself into the middle of next week. At least he wouldn’t have anyone sniping and moaning about how much of the Scottish brew he was pouring down his throat, and asking if he’d ever worked out how much he spent on booze in a week. He might even be lucky enough to receive a visit from his own current piece of fluff to liven up the evening’s activities.

  He’d done his bit for the beautification of the neighbourhood on his way down to the shed. His garden was a jungle of weeds that reached to waist-height, and he’d run his hands through all the ripe seed-heads that hadn’t already unburdened their load on to the winds, on his short walk to his hideaway. That should keep all the enthusiastic gardeners busy. It had been quite mild so far this autumn. A few of those seeds should root and prosper, courtesy of his own fair hand. He’d do his bit for the aural in a couple of hours’ time, and give them a damned good drunken singsong with Status Quo on the old CD player. Oh, how he did love his neighbourhood. Carsfold was Paradise indeed!

  DC Roberts slowed down and actually parked within sight of the town hall. The steps were lined with hollowed-out pumpkins’ heads containing lit candles which glowed welcomingly across the road to him. Currently mounting the steps were a coven of honeys variously dressed as witches and the un-dead, and his soul longed to join them and make their evening perfect – not that he was at all vain, of course. The posters on each side of the giant Corinthian columns on each side of the town hall steps proclaimed ‘Giant Halloween Party. Fancy Dress, Prizes,’ and here was he, the Market Darley Casanova, the number one local babe magnet, on his way to Carsfold, to talk to some boring old geezer about something that wasn’t even a real break-in. Truly, there was no justice in life!

  In the houses of the circle that made up the end of Chestnut Close, where Larry Jordan lived at number two, the other residents were settling down to a cosy evening with plenty of young ghoulish visitors, hoping that there would not be any interruption from their most unpopular neighbour, the lazy, unemployed, and drunken Jordan, who neglected his property so disgracefully, and whose wife acted like a right slapper given any opportunity. This was part of a housing association development, and a petition had already been started to have the Jordans moved away from such a respectable close.

  In number one, the house with the attractively immaculate front and back gardens, Dave Weston sat before the television set watching a documentary about the origins of modern Halloween traditions, with the sound turned quite low so that he could hear any rings on the doorbell. His sixteen-year-old daughter Rebecca had gone to the party at the town hall with a couple of her friends, hoping to pass for eighteen and gain entrance, having promised not to (illegally for her age) imbibe a surfeit of alcohol, and return home in the early hours in a state similar to the usual one in which they could find their next door neighbour at roughly the same time – one his mother would have described as ‘stocious’.

  As an echo of past thoughts, it went through his mind how much he disliked his little angel sunbathing in the back garden in the summer months, with that drunken pervert next door watching. The man would actually make a point of planting a deckchair in the wilderness that was his lawn and ogle her, while he poured a can of beer down his throat. It was disgusting for a man of his age to be looking at such a young innocent in such a lascivious way.

  As the doorbell disturbed his thoughts, he rose and went into the hall where, on a side table, he had a large bowl filled with assorted goodies – including tiny bunches of healthy grapes – for the children who came to exhort him to choose ‘trick or treat’.

  Patrick Flanagan, sprawled on the brown corded velvet sofa in the sitting room of number three, was watching the same programme on the television, while idly picking at the bowl of sweets he had on the floor beside him, waiting for young visitors to call for contributions to their goodie bags.

  He had recently retired from the bakery in Market Darley where Inspector Falconer had bought his evening lardy cake, and was enjoying the first few weeks
of not having to get up for work before some young people retired to bed. Since Jordan had lived next door, his life had been a misery of broken and non-existent sleep, as his neighbour was wont to play loud rock music into the small hours of the morning, as an accompaniment to his over-enthusiastic drinking. Not only was the man in no mood to discuss his anti-social and inconsiderate behaviour at the time, but was usually unable to remember it or understand the seriousness of the transgression the following morning.

  The eejit had no idea of the misery of sleep deprivation, and repeated written and telephonic exhortations to the housing association to curb his enthusiasm for Status Quo et al, had not been taken seriously. Even the one visit to the cul-de-sac by the local authority’s noise abatement officer had yielded no proof of anti-social behaviour, as it had happened to coincide with a fault of twenty-four hours’ duration in Jordan’s audio equipment.

  Although Patrick no longer had to get up at a ridiculously early hour to go to work, he still needed to sleep, and still sometimes found himself driving to his sister-in-law’s house after midnight, to beg the use of her spare room. If only the man would disappear, his life would be one of happiness and contentment. With a tut of irritation at this thought, he rose from his sprawled position and headed out of the room, a man on a mission.

  The small band of disguised children currently on their way round the semi-circle of houses that comprised the end of Chestnut Close (supervised from the pavement by a responsible adult, of course) complemented their background perfectly on this particular night of the year. Each household (with the exception of the Jordans’ which was number two) had good-naturedly hollowed out a pumpkin and carved a face in its flesh. In the hollow depths of each of these glowed the yellowish light of a lit candle, lending atmosphere to the normally totally nondescript development.

  From behind a net curtain at the front window of number five, the baleful expression of ‘petrol head’ Leslie Ingram glared with disgust at the dirty, rusting heap that the residents confidently identified as Larry Jordan’s disgraceful excuse for a car.