Sacrifice (Sulham Close Part 1)

by Lisa C Hinsley

  They climbed out of the car. Mark slung his rucksack over a shoulder and grabbed his guitar case. He followed Pete across the lawn to the cottage. The building looked like it had once been an old milking shed. It was red brick, similar to the other houses on the yard, but just one story. Creepers climbed the walls and up and over a slate roof.

  Pete slotted a key in the lock, and turned it. He let the door swing open.

  “Welcome to your new abode.” Pete stood aside.

  Mark stepped into a small hallway and looked about.

  “This is your lounge,” Pete said, sidestepping Mark, and leading him to the left.

  It was a huge room, with a fireplace, cut wood at the side and… Mark’s eyes lit up. A flat screen television and a stack of electronic equipment were to the right of the hearth, alongside a unit stuffed full of CDs and DVDs.

  “Nice,” Mark murmured. He put his guitar and rucksack down, hesitating before leaving his belongings, and followed Pete to the next room – the kitchen, where the younger man filled the kettle under the cold tap.

  “You’ll probably want a cup of tea.” He took a mug from the cabinet. “I stocked up. Wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I got a little of a lot. Make me a list when you have a moment.”

  “Thanks…”

  “Here, take these.” Pete handed him a couple of tablets.

  “What’re they for?” Mark turned them over in his palm.

  “Thiamin and valium. Helps with the alcohol dependency. I’ll trust you to take one of the vitamin pills each day. But I’ll be doling out the valium.” Pete handed him a glass of water. “Swallow these before the shakes set in.”

  Mark popped the tablets in his mouth and slipped them under his tongue. He took a long drink, waiting for Pete to turn his back.

  “Bathroom’s in here,” Pete called out. He’d left, and was in the hallway. Mark spat the pills into his palm and stuffed them in his jeans’ pocket before following. The door was already swinging shut. Mark glanced in, before following Pete down the hall. The lad was waiting in the bedroom, where a large bed had been stacked high with cushions.

  “Billy liked all the pillows. Said after sleeping rough for so long, he couldn’t get enough of the softness. If you don’t want all the padding, throw them in the second wardrobe. Your new clothes are in this one.” Pete opened one of two slatted doors. A few shirts and t-shirts hung from a rail. Underneath, a chest of drawers had been squeezed in to the space. “There are jeans, underwear and pajamas… all the basics. If you decide to stay, I’ll take you shopping for more next week.”

  Mark took a deep breath. “Thank you, mate.” He tested the mattress. “Got a place in heaven picked?” Mark could see where Pete’s pocket bulged from his wallet. He tore his eyes away.

  “Ha-ha,” Pete turned to go. “Enjoy your stay in the cottage.” Seconds later, the front door slammed shut.

  “Fucking struck gold.” Mark sat on the edge of the bed, and gazed around the room.

  He fetched his rucksack and took a few old photos from a side pocket and put them on one of the bedside cabinets. Another compartment contained a tatty wallet, his tobacco tin and Zippo. He added those to the pile. Then he emptied the rest of the rucksack onto the bed, shaking the pack until all his clothes fell out.

  He pulled a worn jacket out of the pile. One pocket had a rip, the other a large hole at the bottom. He tossed it in the corner and picked up an old t-shirt. He’d nicked it from a pile of bags outside a charity shop. Slowly he worked his way through a couple more shirts, mangy underwear and holey socks before taking the remains and chucking everything in the corner. Maybe Pete would let him burn it all. The dirt itched on his skin, and his stomach ached for food.

  He searched the kitchen cabinets first, and grabbed a pack of Maryland cookies. He went to the bathroom next, put in the plug and turned on the taps. He tested the temperature to be sure the water ran nice and hot. Cookie crumbs dropped in the water as he munched his way through the packet. Along the side of the tub, a high shelf held all sorts of shampoos and soaps. He picked through some bottles of bubble bath, opening the caps and sniffing. The scent of lavender filled the small room as he poured thick liquid into the running water. His fingers trembled as he put the cap back on. Time for a little pick me up. Normally by now he’d be curled up in a doorway, a two liter bottle of cider to keep him company – along with his sweet Louisa. He hoped she’d found somewhere warm for the night. He didn’t like to think of her out on the street alone.

  As Mark pulled his shirt over his head, he heard the sound of a revving engine. He dropped the shirt on the floor, left the bathroom and crossed the hall to a small window. After waiting a few seconds to be sure the car was past the cottage, he twitched the net curtain aside. Pete’s black BMW purred up the drive.

  Mark stood there musing for a few moments. Then he returned to the bathroom, picked his shirt off the tiles, and redressed. He opened the front door and peered out into the yard. Nothing moved. No sounds other than birds twittering. He put the lock on the latch and quietly pulled the door closed as he left the cottage. With his hands stuffed in his pockets he strolled across the lawns and up to the farmhouse. He tried the handle. Bingo. The knob moved smoothly in his grasp. After a quick glance behind, Mark slipped into the house.

  Cool air surrounded Mark as he entered a wide hall. Dark wood paneling decorated the walls to dado level, silky wallpaper covering the rest up to the picture rail. A dusty oil painting hung between two oak doors. He took note immediately of the half round table up against the side of a wide staircase. On the marble surface sat an old-fashioned telephone. Mark pulled the front door gently closed, and for a few seconds he did nothing but listen. Deciding he was alone, he approached the phone, running his fingertips over the smooth stone as he picked up the handset.

  The telephone looked so old, he half-expected it to be ornamental, but a dial tone, crisp and sharp, greeted his ear. He stuck his index finger in the number zero and pulled the dial around to a series of clicks and a high-pitched ringing noise as the dial returned to its original position. The house remained silent. Mark dialed one, another one, and an eight. He continued until the number was complete, and after a click in the earpiece a phone on the other side of Reading began to ring.

  “What?” A deep male voice answered.

  “Hey Cliff, what’s up? It’s Mark,” he spoke in a low voice, keeping a vigil for the sound of squealing tires or a revving engine.

  “Marky-Mark, what’s up bro? We’re missing you here. Your lady friend has been waiting for you. She got slim pickings and doesn’t have enough to get a room.”

  There was a sucking sound on the other end of the phone. No doubt Cliff was smoking a joint. He was always smoking a joint. Mark allowed his eyes to flutter shut for a moment. He wanted a drink, he didn’t care what: beer, cider, whisky. His mouth went dry just thinking about it.

  “Louisa there?”

  “Yeah, bro. She’s sunk so far into my sofa, I’m not sure if she’s ever coming out. You know what I mean?” Cliff broke into a laugh which ended in a hacking cough.

  “Put her on, would you, mate?”

  “Sure thing. I’ll go pull her out of the cushions.” He started laughing again, the laugh-cough combination growing fainter after he put the phone down. A few seconds later, there was the higher-pitched laugh of his girlfriend. Then she picked up the handset.

  “Hey babe, where are you? I’ve been waiting ages.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Come quick, Cliff’s trying to get his dirty mitts on me again. I need you to get over here and claim possession.”

  Mark could almost hear her frown down the line.

  “Louisa. I know. I’m sorry I’m not there. Something came up…”

  “Like what? What could be more important than coming to get me? I can’t stand Cliff. I think he finds the humpty-bump sexy.”

  “I can’t do much about that right now.”

  “He’s sidling up to me, and keeps putting a hand
on my knee and asking if the baby’s kicking. I can’t stand it! Come get me now, I don’t care what you’re up to. Me and babs is more important.”

  “Just stop talking and listen for a moment. You’ll never believe what’s happened to me…”

  “You’ve got to the cider already, haven’t you?”

  “No, I’m not drunk! Just listen, will you. Go to the bus stop on Cheapside, and take the 133 towards Goring and Streatley, but get off at the first stop in Pangbourne.”

  “Why would I want to go all the way out to Pangbourne?”

  “I’m not done. Get a piece of paper and a pen.”

  “Alright, babe. Hang on a second.”

  There were a few scuffling sounds, perhaps a drawer being opened and slammed shut.

  “I’m back, babe. I’ve got it written down – the 133 to Pangbourne.”

  “There’s a speed camera almost opposite the bus stop and a road leading into the woods behind it. Go up there. You’ll be walking for a bit, sorry Lou. Go over a little bridge and look for a rough track on your left. Follow it around until you see a great big red brick wall – that’s where you want to go. Inside are a few houses on your right. I’m in the cottage at the end.”

  “What the hell are you doing all the way out there?” She sounded annoyed.

  “You won’t believe what I got myself into, babe. You and me and the little one are going to be all right. No more rumbling tummies. Trust me?”

  She didn’t speak for a moment. “I trust you.”

  “I’ll see you later then.”

  “Bye, babe.”

  He started to put the handset down. Changing his mind, he put it back up to his ear. “Oh, Lou? Lou? You still there?”

  “Yeees,” she answered.

  “Got any tobacco with you?” Mark tapped his fingers on the marble tabletop.

  “Might have. You out?”

  “Got enough for two more. Don’t want to go out here. It’s the middle of bloody nowhere.” Mark needed a fag right now. He’d roll one up when he got back to the cottage, but only after he had done a little bit of exploring.

  “See you soon then, babe,” Louisa said.

  Mark hung up. He surveyed the hall, and picked a door at random.

  He entered a living room that was surprisingly sparse. More wood paneling adorned the walls with crimson colored wallpaper on the upper half. A couple of plush brown leather sofas crowded the fireplace. And beyond them, almost hidden from view was a liquor cabinet.

  “Oh yes.” Mark crossed the room. Inside were at least a dozen bottles. He chose a half-full bottle of whisky. “Hello, beautiful,” he said. “Springbank – thirty years old. Can’t wait to taste you.” He twisted the cork out and took a long drink. His hands had the shakes and tremors. He’d be waiting a long time for that to subside, he reckoned and took another swig. As he let the bottle drop from his lips, he let out a protracted sigh.

  “Now,” he said, holding the bottle of amber liquid up to the light. “Now, I am going to get drunk.”

  Mark left the living room, one hand wrapped firmly around the neck, the contents of the bottle sloshing as he walked. He took another drink and stuffed the cork back in. As he crossed the hall he paused to examine the oil painting. There was a formal arrangement with what Mark assumed to be the parents sitting on a padded love seat while two teenaged boys stood behind. All were dressed in old-fashioned clothes – maybe from the forties or fifties. The man wore a suit and waistcoat. A monocle was clenched in front of his left eye, dark hair swept to the side. The woman’s expression was possibly a little stern, with her blonde hair pulled into a bun. But the patterned dress gave her a flatteringly slim appearance. Mark made to walk by when his eye caught the lads behind. He raised the whisky, un-stoppered it and took a mouthful.

  One of the kids was the spitting image of Pete. Must be his father, Mark decided. No longer interested in the family portrait, he made for the door on his right.

  He entered a long room. Bookshelves covered every wall, each shelf full to bursting. The roof space was open with thick beams crossing at ceiling height.

  Something hung from the last beam.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Mark walked to the end of the library, the bottle at his side.

  “What the hell…?”

  He reached up and swiped at the length of rope so it swayed. A loop had been fashioned from the thick cord – a noose. Below a chair had been positioned. Ready for someone to stand on, he thought. He noticed a note left on the seat.

  A sense of dread filled his belly. His attitude, only moments ago so confident swung the opposite way. He wiped his palm on his jeans, swapped the whisky over and dried the other. Without pause, he took a long drink from the bottle.

  Here you go little brother. Someone’s neat handwriting explained. Ready and waiting for you.

  Something crinkled underfoot. Mark backed away, the whisky in his blood starting to loosen his limbs and make him clumsy. He staggered back and fell hard on his backside. Under the chair a large sheet of plastic tarp had been spread.

  Mark gazed up at the noose, unable to blink. A young man, the knot slipped around his neck, filled his vision. The apparition kicked the chair aside and dropped. The body jerked, the arms and legs jiggling about, the movement spinning the man in slow circles.

  Stop, Mark thought.

  Just die!

  But spasms kept racking the body. Then the vision worsened. The man twisted around so the face came back into view. His skin had turned dark purple, both eyes bulged out of their sockets, and his swollen tongue had flopped out from between blue lips.

  “Oh Jesus.” He crab-walked backwards until he bumped against a shelf. And then, in an instant, he understood what the tarp was for. The body ceased its shudders, and a moment later the man’s crotch darkened. Trickles of urine flowed down the legs and dripped off the man’s toes onto the plastic sheet.

  Mark forced himself to blink. When he opened his eyes the man was gone, only the gently swaying noose remained.

  “Jesus-fucking-Christ.” Mark scrambled up and bolted from the room, still clutching the whisky bottle. Seconds later, he was out of the farm and sprinting across the lawn and back to the cottage. He slammed the door closed, the lock clunking home as he yanked it off the latch. Years of smoking caught up with him as he wheezed, struggling to catch his breath. He remembered the liquor in his hand and raised it to see how much he’d already drunk. The bottle was almost empty. For almost a minute, he stared at the remaining amber liquid. Then slowly a deep rumbling laugh built, escaping from him in waves, until he was bent over in the middle, sides splitting, eyes watering and gasping for breath.

  He’d had them before, the drunken hallucinations. That’s all the body and the noose had been. He wiped at the tears streaming down his cheeks, still chuckling to himself. No more of this, he decided and put the bottle away in the kitchen. The scent of lavender filled the air, and after a moment he remembered the bath. A long soak would do him good. He went to the bathroom and dipped a hand in the tub. The water was still warm.

  Excellent, Mark thought and stripped off his clothes. Louisa was on her way. He should be ready for her. Plans needed to be reflected upon, discussed, and decided. Clean the place out or doss down for a year?

  Chapter 2

  Eloise sat in the recess created by the dormer window in her bedroom. Harold had built a seat in the alcove what seemed like a hundred years ago, in a different lifetime. The old woman rested her feet on the padding, legs drawn up, her arms looped loosely around her thin limbs.

  An enormous black cat with long shiny fur slept curled up at the other end of the seat. A small tabby lay draped over her shoulder, purring softly as she ran a hand through his fur.

  The sun was setting on another August thirty-first, staining the sky blood-red above the entrance to Sulham Farm.

  How appropriate, Eloise thought.

  Wouldn’t be long before the gates swung closed. Then tick-tock, time slides by un
til midnight comes. Always too soon.

  The door behind her creaked open. That would be her guard. He’d been locking all the windows and doors to make sure she couldn’t escape.

  “It’s okay, Tibbs,” she told the cat on her shoulder.

  The guard came and stood by her side.

  “Where’s Harold?” she asked.

  The man’s smile faded. He ran a hand though his silver hair, and opened his mouth, as if to speak.

  Eloise sat up straight, and fixed him with her eyes. “What have you done to my Harold? I want him back this instant!”

  “Sorry… I’ve got to…” He shook his head sadly and left.

  “Fool.” Eloise turned to face the setting sun once more.

  An hour earlier, that horrible Peter had driven past in his swanky black car. She’d watched him speed into the farmyard and saw the evil smirk on his face as he led the sacrifice up the path. Her guard had locked her window in the morning, so she couldn’t open it to shout a warning.

  Not long after they’d disappeared inside, Peter had emerged alone and strolled back to his house. He always strolled. Everywhere. With his sun-bleached locks, and everlasting youthful looks, he’d fared better than anyone else. But how could they have known the curse would be so cruel?

  The sun held her interest for now. The orb was enlarged, swollen with flames. Painful light burned her pupils until tears streamed down her cheeks.

  She closed her eyes.

  White spots filled the darkness behind her eyelids. Reopening them was difficult, but she forced them wide and let the sun burn into her vision a second time.

  The sun crept down towards the horizon. She stroked the black cat by her feet along with a third black and white moggy that had come in with her guard, and finally giving in to the warmth of the sunlight, her eyelids closed.

  She’d been dozing – dreaming of her youth – when she suddenly woke. Startled, Tibbs jumped from her shoulder, landing with a meow. What was it? Eloise looked up and down the length of the farmyard, but nothing seemed out of place. The sun was close to the top of the wall now, lighting up the shards of glass cemented there. Once again, she stared intently at the orb. If she went blind, would it make things better? Or just different?