by Guy N Smith
God, he needed a drink, his throat was on fire, scalding him. Tommy glanced round. He needed water, fast. A whiff of the well had him recoiling. It was poisoned, for sure. The only place where there was any drinking water available was in those containers the Mannions filled up daily down at the garage in the village. He started for the house, his steps unsteady.
‘Hey, where you goin’, Tommy?’
‘To get a drink.’
‘Use yer flask in the truck, lad. We’re busy, we ain’t got time for goin’ in search o’ bloody water.’
Tommy did not reply. He ignored Jim. He was at the back door now, thumping feebly on the peeling paintwork, each knock vibrating through his entire body. Oh, come on! Bloody well answer. I need water!
His knocking grew weaker; he could hear them echoing in the kitchen. Where the fucking hell had that woman got to? He wanted to shout, to curse, to sob. Can’t you see I’m burning up. I’m dying! I’ve got something that looks like the fucking clap.’
‘Can I help you?’ Mike Mannion appeared round the side of the house, an expression of annoyance on his bearded face at this sudden interruption. ‘I’m very busy, you know.’
‘Water … please!’ It was like an old desert movie, Tommy thought, mouthing his plea, his mouth so parched that he could barely get the words out. His saliva had all gone and now there was a dull pain where that inexplicable rash was. He kept it covered with his hands, wondering if he looked like somebody starting appendicitis pains. He didn’t care – anything so long as this bloke gave him water.
‘You sure you’re okay, laddie?’
‘I’m fine. It’s just … the heat.’
‘And that bloody smell.’ Mike pinched his nostrils. ‘Phew, it’s as if something had died and was rotting in the sun. Come on in, I’ll find you a drink. We’ve got some cordial somewhere if I can find it.’
‘Water, please. Just … water.’
‘Here you are, then.’ Colourless liquid glugged into a plastic beaker. ‘You want to watch it out there with that stench. You might get cholera or something.’
Tommy grabbed the beaker, slopping some of the contents. He drank noisily, water running down his chin, dripping on to his chest and on to the quarry-tiled floor. Slurping, an animal at the waterhole, then he sucked on the empty container, head back, trying to drain the last dregs.
‘Here, have some more. Blimey, you’ve got a thirst!’
‘Thanks.’ Tommy emptied the second fill-up and put the beaker on the table. ‘I needed that. It’s the heat.’ He felt slightly better. Now there was just a smarting in his lower regions. Maybe that bloody girl had given him the clap. It wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility; she boasted how she’d been around before she met him, and about all the blokes who had had her. She might just be two-timing him, screwing with some dirty sod on the side. And there were worse things around these days than VD … The thought struck Tommy for the first time and he almost fainted. He had to clutch at the edge of the table to save himself from falling.
‘Look, matey, I think you’re ill. I’ll get the car out and take you home.’ There was real concern in Mike Mannion’s voice. A trace of fear, too. He had just caught sight of those sores on the youth’s abdomen; they looked decidedly nasty. They were weeping thick revolting pus: ‘No, I’m all right. Honest. Please.’
‘All right. But I’m only in the studio round the other side of the house if you want me. And I’ll leave the kitchen open in case you want another drink. Really, though, I think you ought to go home and call a doctor.’
Alone in his bedroom, Tommy confirmed his worst fears. From his navel right down into his crotch, his flesh was just a rash of open sores that oozed matter like burst boils when he squeezed the pus out with finger and thumb. Except that in this case he just went on squeezing; the stuff came out in never-ending syrupy streams, and, God, how it stank! Just like that foul odour that drifted up out of the Mannions’ borehole. He heaved, dashed to the toilet and threw up what little he had eaten earlier in the day.
Standing there, he stared at the putrefying flesh in sheer terror and utter disbelief. It was as though it was decomposing on his bones, a spreading gangrene! Wheezing as he breathed, with the fever hot upon him, he felt dizzy and vomited again, but there was nothing left inside him to throw up.
Thank Jesus his mother was out, he thought. She had gone to bingo and left his supper in the oven. Food! The very thought had him retching bile, which burned his parched throat. He was panicking, crying. Then somehow he got himself under control.
He was going to die, he was certain of it. A terrifying thought, except that when your flesh is being eaten away before your eyes by a stinking spreading cancer you just want to get it over with. He stared at himself in the bedroom mirror with fevered eyes, scarcely recognizing himself.
The bitch, the fucking little whore, she had given him this! The poxy cow had passed on some awful disease. His anger turned to fury, erupting in hoarse, whispered curses; then simmering.
She would pay for this, he swore, oh, by Christ, she would! His sticky hands clenched, he shook his fists in the air. Whatever else, she would get what was coming to her. And, after all, he laughed – a cracked maniacal sound – they couldn’t really do an awful lot to him. He’d be one big festering sore puking out whatever was left inside by the time they caught up with him!
Tommy dressed in a checked shirt and jeans, the feel of the material sore against his burning, festering body but at least it hid the still growing sores. The matter was soaking into his clothes and the stench was overpowering. He slunk out to his van and felt the warm stickiness in the seat of his trousers as he got behind the wheel, like bleeding piles. Driving slowly, erratically in places, twice he kerbed and heard pedestrians shout after him. A horn blared behind him; he ignored it. Fuck ’em! Finally he saw the council estate where Penny lived, took a wide sweep and almost collided with a boy on a bicycle. He saw the rider fall off and sprawl in the road. Serve him bloody well right!
His vision was distorted. He could not determine whether he had parked right up against the kerb or whether he was a yard from it. It did not matter. Trying to walk steadily, he seemed to be weighted down on the one side like a chronic back sufferer with a damaged spine. There was nobody about, or if there was he did not see them.
He opened the back door and stepped inside the small kitchen. There was a roaring in his ears and all he could smell was himself. Just standing there, squinting around him, he had to hold on to the old Belling cooker.
‘Is that you, Tommy?’ The distant shout sounded like a faint echo in underground caverns. Who the fuck do you think it is, you poxy bitch?
‘Yes,’ he tried to shout, but it came out in a strangled wheeze and made him cough and splatter scarlet droplets on the greasy floor. He was aware of the taste of blood. ‘Come on up. I’m upstairs, my love.’
You whore! He pictured her lying there on the cramped single bed, her legs lewdly spread, laughing as she sought to arouse him. One last screw, my darling, he vowed, and I’ll give you something you hadn’t bargained on!
The curtains were closed in the bedroom. The sombre gloom was perhaps meant to hide the untidiness, the strewn clothing, her dirty bras, knickers and sweaty blouses which she was leaving for her mother to gather up and wash. A crumpled bed with the sheets thrown back, and Penny was lying in the middle as he had anticipated, naked and waiting, eyes closed as she played with herself in a crude attempt to arouse him. She laughed softly but did not look at him.
‘I’m in the mood tonight, my darling,’ she breathed, and he saw how her bosom was rising and falling.
So am I, he thought, and fumbled to undress, kicking away his jeans, popping a button on his shirt as he ripped it off. Naked, he clambered up on to the bed and knelt over her, waiting. Feel me, sweetheart.
Her hand came up, fingers stretched and flexing, and made contact with the shadowy silhouette which towered over her. A sharp intake of breath as her fingertips sank into
something soft and spongy, warm and sticky, stroked a slime that gave off nauseating vile vapours. That was when Penny jerked up, saw him and started to scream.
‘Oh, my God! Tommy?’
She wasn't even sure that it was him, and thought at first that it could not possibly be. No, it was surely a demented diseased stranger, some cancerous monstrosity bent on a final depravity before whatever was eating away his body claimed him for its own. Sheer terror almost snapped her mind, then cruelly left her her sanity so that she might suffer.
Her screams were stifled as he flung himself upon her, lowered his body down on to her distorted face and crushed her lips with that stinking morass. A squelch of bursting ulcers, the poison spraying in all directions, spotted the off-white walls with treacly grey and crimson.
He cried out in pain as the fire from his open groin travelled upwards, hastening to take him, and fought against it. His fingers squeezed in between their pressed bodies and slid through the spreading pus until they closed over her throat. Now he had the strength. He held down her kicking, flaying body and felt her gasping for breath underneath him, shuddering as she slowly suffocated.
Through his own agonized writhings he could feel her dying, her futile struggles growing weaker, and then at last she was just lying inert beneath him. He tried to laugh, but nothing came. He could not even see now. Nor hear. A blind, deaf creature sinking down on the corpse under him, he was waiting to join her in blissful death.
He was not even aware of the pounding footsteps on the stairs, the bedroom door crashing open and the screams of terror from those who had pursued him from the street below as they recoiled from the stench and horror of that barely living being which was slumped on the bed, its life oozing steadily from its festering body.
A crowd clustered on the tiny landing, ghouls who might have gathered gleefully at the scene of motorway carnage. But they had suddenly met their ultimate in depraved voyeurism, and their sick minds could not cope. Screaming, they clutched at one another, until finally the siren of an approaching police car quietened them.
7
Holly was upstairs in the bathroom. Mike was still working in his studio; he might be there for another couple of hours, he wasn’t ruled by any timetable. In the beginning this had been difficult to come to terms with but they had reached an amicable arrangement: no set meal times. In the summer months Holly prepared a cold meal and they ate when Mike was ready; in the winter, a stew or something similar which could simmer without spoiling. Learning to live with an artist was not easy, but once she had adjusted to the ways of a creative person it became tolerable. He was touchy when a painting was tricky. Sometimes she did not see him for hours, and when she did the conversation was usually abrupt, sometimes non-existent. Other times he was euphoric. He was unpredictable, but she accepted him as he was, would not have wished him to change.
God, that smell, it was worse than ever! She tipped some water out of a bucket into the basin and washed her hands. A sudden thought occurred to her, logical but disconcerting: perhaps the septic tank was full and needed emptying. Or the soakaway was blocked. This was another problem that they would have to face in the country. But if the stench was coming from the septic tank, then it made her feel a lot easier. Far rather a logical explanation than one connected with their water supply. She shuddered at the thought of the depth of that well. A hundred and thirty feet! Underground places gave her the creeps; it was best not to think about it.
Holly was tired. She had not enjoyed her trip into town, rather she had hated it – crowds, people jostling her on the pavements, queues at every checkout point in the supermarket. It had been a retrograde step, in a way. Here they were, living in a remote area, finally away from the hurly-burly of urban life, and she had gone right back into it. A few hours had seemed an eternity. If she had had the car then she would have come home as soon as she had finished her shopping. But time had dragged as she waited for the bus. She would have to go to town regularly, she accepted that. The village shop only catered for very basic needs; country folk weren’t into things like decaffeinated coffee, pasta, wholegrain rice and natural foods. Anyway, she couldn’t afford to shop at Stortons, however pleasant the elderly couple were.
The phone was ringing. She started, then made for the bathroom door. She had not seen Mike since her return, but she knew better than to go and disturb him with small talk when he was busy. At least, she presumed he was busy.
She was at the top of the stairs when the ringing stopped and she heard her husband’s voice. She stood there, feeling a twinge of guilt because she was, in effect, eavesdropping. Don’t be silly, she told herself, we both make and receive calls when the other’s around. It’s probably business, anyway.
It was. She heard Mike say, ‘Hi, Bob, I half-guessed it might be you.’ Holly knew it was Bob Daniels, Mike’s agent, probably phoning to say he had the money in for the advance on the paintings. Or to say it had not arrived yet. She moved down a few steps, subconsciously letting her husband know she was there. She felt better about it that way, rather than listening in a sneaky fashion up on the landing.
‘Oh, I see.’ Mike sounded pleased, so it had to be good news. ‘No. No problem at all. It’s a bit inconvenient – I was hoping to finish the second landscape tomorrow – but it’s not vital. I’ll have to check the train times, I’ve not travelled to London from here yet. Ten-thirty sounds a bit tight. Maybe I could get a train tonight. Look, I’ll phone the station and call you right back. Give me five minutes. Cheers.’
Mike looked up and saw Holly on the stairs. He was already thumbing through the bulky telephone directory. ‘Won’t be more than a few minutes. I have to go to London. Tonight, maybe.’
‘Oh?’ She felt a sinking in her stomach. She always did when Mike was going away.
‘It was Bob, as you might have guessed. Another firm has come in for me. Book covers. There seems to be some urgency, one of their artists has let them down. They want to see me and my portfolio. I have to be there by ten-thirty tomorrow morning.’ He was already dialling – Holly presumed it was British Rail. She moved on downstairs and put the kettle on the stove. The station might take some time to answer. Or the phone might have been deliberately left off the hook.
Much to her surprise, Mike was talking again. He’d got through. Times of trains to London? The clerk was looking them up. Then Mike said, ‘I’ll have to get the eight-thirty tonight then. Many thanks.’
Holly’s stomach was busy knotting itself up. She glanced at the clock: five-forty. They had plenty of time, but they still had to eat and she would have to pack a few things for him.
A sudden feeling of loneliness almost made her despair. When would he come back? Tomorrow night? It was unlikely. The day after, then? When they lived in the Midlands, London had been just a two-hour train journey – out of the house at eight, home by seven at the latest. Now it seemed so far away, another planet almost. She would be left here in Garth Cottage on her own. Suddenly that was a daunting prospect. Because of … the borehole? How bloody stupid and childish can you get, Holly Mannion?
‘I should be back the day after tomorrow.’ It was as if Mike had read her thoughts. He was piling salad on to a plate, cutting a slice of bread off the loaf, it’s a bloody nuisance, having to go, but I can’t afford not to. One day you’re wondering where the work is coming from, the next it’s piling in on you. Mustn’t complain. Oh, by the way’ – he was talking with his mouth full, something which annoyed her intensely at other times – ‘that lad, Bennion’s workman, he looked really ill this afternoon, as if he’d got a fever. I gave him some water, offered to take him home but he went back to work. Must have been okay, though, because they both left at five. They must be coming back tomorrow because they’ve gone home in the Land Rover and left the rest of the tack here. They seem to have put the liner back in the well. I hope to God everything’s all right now. You’ll be okay whilst I’m away, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’ She hardly trusted
herself to speak and her eyes were misty. ‘I just wish they’d given you a bit more notice, though.’
‘That’s the way it goes in this business; they sit around on their backsides and then decide that they want something by tomorrow at the latest, if not sooner. You’d better run me into the station and bring the car back. I’ll phone you sometime tomorrow and let you know when I’m coming back so that you can pick me up. Must dash.’ He pushed his empty plate away, scraped his chair back and made for the stairs. ‘Pack me the essentials, will you, darling?’
Holly watched the train pull out of the station, waved until it was out of sight, then walked slowly back to the car. The loneliness crowded in on her. She almost thought about making the long drive to her mother’s on the outskirts of Birmingham, then decided that was stupid, she and her mother would only argue for the evening and long into the night. About Mike. Her mother would never accept him, because he had left his first wife for Holly and might take a fancy to a third woman! Pull yourself together and get back to Garth Cottage, she told herself. You’ve enough work there to keep you busy for months, and it’ll pass the time.
It was as she approached the cottage that she saw the police Metro parked on the verge behind the big yellow truck. Her stomach really knotted this time, her heart started to pound wildly. Something was wrong. Mike? No, she had only left him twenty minutes ago. Her mother? What?
‘Mrs Mannion?’ A plain-clothes detective got out of the car together with a uniformed constable. They smiled reassuringly. They always did that before they broke bad news to you, she thought. ‘May we come inside and have a word with you?’
‘Of course.’ Her voice trembled, her legs seemed barely capable of supporting her weight as she led them to the door, and she almost dropped her key. In the uneasy silence, she had a feeling of fear, and guilt. Had she unknowingly broken the law in some way? She would soon find out.
‘A young man was working here today, by the name of Tommy Eaton.’ The detective stood by the window, forming a silhouette so that Holly was unable to see his features. ‘Was he … did he seem all right to you?’