White Walls and Straitjackets

by David Owain Hughes

  The barmaid began giving him funny looks, accusing looks. Looks that could only mean one thing – you going to buy anything, butty, or are you just going to sit there having a nice warm?

  “Pint of Worthington please, beaut,” he called. And thought, get them eyes off me. Norm managed a thin smile as he again shuffled in his jean’s pocket, producing a beat-up, brown leather wallet. “Don’t go bringing it over, love. I’ll come and get it.”

  Norm shambled over to the bar, collected his pint, and moved back to his corner seat. Again, he looked at his watch – quarter to. He took a good swallow of his pint, replaced it on the table and began to drum his fingers on the tabletop. Norm couldn’t help but keep his eyes on his watch, and the barflies at the bar who he thought were giving him odd looks. Come on Steph, where in the hell are you? he thought.

  Three pints in and still no sign; should I text or ring? Maybe she’s broken down, got jumped, mugged, raped, beat. No. Now I am just jumping to nasty little delusions. He calmed himself with soothing reassurances. Give her a chance. It takes a good thirty minutes to get from Llantrisant…Then, the lounge door creaked open and Norm squinted through the thin smoke; it was her all right. Her unmistakably leggy figure. Bloody hell, how he had dreamed of having those long legs of Stephanie’s wrapped around him like two Boas, squeezing his body like a vice…A split developed in Norm’s plastic pint glass, and fluid seeped out over his hand.

  “Norm, your hand is bleeding.”

  He looked down, having hardly heard her. Reddish brown liquid ran freely over the tabletop, and trickled over the edges.

  “Damn,” he cursed as he sprang to his feet, clipping the table as he did. This sent it into a semi-wobble that threw his emptying glass to the floor. Just like a bucking bronco throwing its cowboy rider to the ground. Small flecks of beer found their way onto Stephanie’s blue jeans. Now the barflies were looking. “S…s…s…sorry Stephanie, I…I…I, errr, emm. L..l..l..let me get a cloth from behind the bar for you.”

  His yammering got her smiling, and she put a hand to his solid shoulder. “Calm down Norm, and sit yourself down. The jeans are not a problem, and I can go to the bar myself. What are…” she stopped herself, “what were you drinking?” She smiled at him, and waited for his reply.

  He looked about the bar. The barflies had gone back to their business which put him at a slight ease, enabling him to answer her. “Pint of Worthington, please. Though I really shouldn’t drink many more, I’m driving.” He managed a weak smile.

  “Well then, maybe we could have one here then slip back to your place? We could crack open a bottle or something, and grab a takeaway, if that’s okay with you?” She had a devious little grin on her face.

  “Sounds great,” he said, managing a half smile.

  “Sit yourself down then, whilst I go and get us some drinks, and something for your hand.” She returned his smile.

  She came back from the bar with a cloth and plaster for him, before going back to the bar for their drinks. Norm mopped his wound clean and free of blood before putting the plaster on. The slice across his hand was no more than an inch long, with little depth. A mere nick compared to some of the accidents he’d seen at work. His mind drifted back to poor Gene Hughes, who’d cut off four of his fingers by accident with his own chainsaw. Gene had placed the saw down by his side with the motor still running. He’d then circled the tree he’d been cutting for some unknown reason, before coming back around to collect the chainsaw to finish the job. But Gene lost his footing, stumbled forward and onto the running teeth of the power tool. They’d rushed him down to the hospital, but it had been too late. The fingers could not be reattached.

  “So, Norm, how long have you been waiting for me? I felt awfully bad making you wait, really I did.”

  She broke his thoughts about poor Gene, or Mean Gene Hughes as he was known to the guys at work, for he used to drive a Harley Davidson Chopper. He also drank hard, and womanised even harder. He was one of the good guys; helped anyone if he could.

  “Not long, really. About thirty to forty minutes.”

  She set the drinks down on the table, and sat by his side. She tenderly put a hand on his knee. Norm bucked slightly at the contact: never had a woman touched him so tenderly since…

  Stephanie smiled.

  “That’s okay then. I hope you were not sat here worrying whether I was going to turn up or not?”

  He blushed, and avoided her eye contact.

  “No, Stephanie, don’t be silly. I…I…”

  “It’s okay, Norm. I’m not going to bite.”

  He turned to face her and managed a smile, then gulped just under half of his bitter. She also took a sip of her drink. It looked like lemonade.

  “Just fizzy pop for you then is it, Steph?” Norm said.

  “Yep, I don’t want to get too sloshed. I’d rather have a couple of bottles of wine back at your place, Norm.” She smiled at him. Her teeth perfect, and white. Stephanie’s lips were glossed with a pink lipstick which smelt flowery. “Besides, I have work tomorrow, and if I drink here and at yours, then I will never make it in.”

  “Aw, I see.” He drank the rest of his pint.

  “Ready?”

  He nodded his head. She had only drunk just over half of her soft drink. But she wasn’t going to complain about that.

  She followed close behind Norm’s battered pick-up. He had told her that he only lived around the corner, not far. Less than two miles. When they came to a set of traffic lights, Norm stopped. When they pulled off again, Norm turned right. Then followed a stretch of road that went past a hospital. After around a few hundred yards, he turned left and climbed a steep hill into a private looking street. All the houses looked the same: red coloured bricks with steps at the front that wound around the gardens. Some had lights revealing the flagstone steps, with gnomes dotted here and there. Others had built small picket fences, with garden ornaments arranged in front of the wooden spikes. Norm stopped right at the end of the street. His home was the last house on the left. He pulled into the driveway, got out, and signalled Stephanie in, beside his jeep. No streetlights lit this half of the street.

  “The builders haven’t finished up here yet,” Norm told her.

  “Lovely house, Norm. And you live here all by yourself?”

  “Yes, it used to belong to my mother. But she passed away and left it to me.”

  “Aw, I’m sorry to hear about your mother, Norm. I…”

  “Don’t be sorry, It was a while ago now and you weren’t to know.”

  Inside Norm guided Stephanie to the living room. The sofa was soft, and was a rich red colour. No TV could be found in the room, just a dining table and another chair which matched the sofa. The walls were bare, no family photos or quirky art. The room did however have a large hearth and a wood burning stove, which Norm lit and stoked with a poker. He added wood to the flames.

  “Wine,” he asked?

  “Yes please. You have a lovely home, Norm, you really do. Do you mind if I use the bathroom?”

  “Yeah, just go out here, and follow the corridor to the end. It’s the first door on the right. You could have used the one upstairs, but the flush has broken.”

  “That was a gorgeous meal, Norm. Thanks for paying. The next one is on me, hey?”

  “No need for that, Steph. After all, you paid for the drinks earlier in the pub.”

  “How about I repay you in another way?” She pointed her eyes to the upstairs. “Would you like that, Norm?” She smiled.

  Norm tried to avert his eyes, as a blush rouged his cheeks. He nodded slowly.

  “M…may…maybe we should go upstairs,” he spluttered. He began to rub at his thighs, trying to fight back the excitement.

  She got up from the seat at the table, caught a hold of Norm by his rough, paw-like hand and gently pulled.

  “Come on, come and show me your room and them big muscles of yours, Norm. Bet you take some containing in bed?”

  He lowered his head
as he smiled, then sat up and allowed her to lead the way to the second floor of the house. They turned lights off as they went, as Norm directed her to the master bedroom at the end of the landing.

  Once in the room, she shoved him to the bed, and gave him a striptease that he would never forget. Firstly she ran her fingers through her hair, turning it into a shock as she slowly rolled her tongue around her lips. Then she unbuttoned her jeans and slid out of them as Norm watched on. He watched as her legs became exposed and revealed white stockings and skimpy knickers. His heart began to beat so hard that he felt it might punch through his chest.

  “Are you enjoying it, Norm?” she said as she continued to gyrate in front of him, grinding her hips and shoving her chest out. He could do nothing but stare. “Are you okay, Norm. You’re looking a bit flustered?” she teased.

  “Ye...yeah.” He managed.

  She unbuttoned her blouse and strutted over to Norm. Slowly she lowered herself onto him, kissing him softly as she undid the buttons to his shirt. She ran her nails through the matted hair on his chest, and straddled him. Stephanie guided his hands to her breasts, and helped him to caresses them. Just to get him started. But Norm didn’t have the feel of a man who was out of practice, she thought, and tilted her head back as she worked her pelvis back and forth, teasing Norm’s dick under his clothes.

  He started panting at her movements, and rolled her off. Then he was on top. Kissing and nuzzling her in between her cupped tits. He clamped his teeth on her front clasp bra, and pulled it free with one yank. He then got off her, and started to slide her stockings free, one at a time. Her legs were smooth, and long.

  He used the stockings to tie her hands to the bed. She giggled with anticipation, as Norm stood up, and eyed his handiwork.

  “Come on then, Norm. Don’t be nervous,” she said. “Come and hold me.”

  Norm bent over her, going in for another go, but suddenly stopped. Steph saw a vague expression mist over his eyes, as his cheeks flushed. He unbent and said, “I’ll be right back.”

  “Norm?” she said with a slight worry in her tone.

  “I need a drink.”

  “Umm, okay then. Would you bring me one, please?”

  “Yeah, sure thing.”

  Then he was gone out the door. As Norm headed down to the kitchen he turned the landing light on as he went.

  Stephanie put her head back against the pillow and listened to Norm walk through the house. She settled down, and tried not to think of what had just happened. Why Norm had suddenly stopped and gone blank.

  For the first time she took a look around the room. She could make out a couple of things by the landing light coming through the door. Again, this room was empty, much like the living room downstairs. No photos on the dresser or on the walls. Nothing but a book on the bedside table.

  “Norm,” she cried softly.

  “There in a minute,” he called from the kitchen.

  She heard the taps to the sink flowing then switch off, which put her at a slight ease. Then she heard his footsteps coming up the stairs; then a door somewhere in the house open, then close. Then the faint sound of two voices in the corridor accompanied by an eerie squeak of unoiled wheels. Stephanie could see shadows growing on the walls outside of the room as the awful sound grew louder, and closer.

  “Norm,” she said, “this isn’t funny anymore. Norm, please. Stop it.”

  Then, she gasped and bit down hard on a yell which tried to escape her mouth. In the doorway stood Norm, dressed in a yellow rain mac. In front of him he pushed a wheelchair-bound woman. At least it looked like a woman. Its yellow/brown face was covered in stitch marks. The eyes were rolled upward; the tongue lolled out of the slack jaw. Some of its hair looked like it had been stapled to the skull. The arms looked like brown sticks, and one was covered in small nicks and gashes. They appeared to be of different sizes, as though they didn’t belong to the same person. The thing in the chair didn’t have legs, just stumps. And the stumps looked like they had been singed with fire, cauterised wounds.

  “I’d like you to meet Angharad,” Norm said. “I can speak for myself thank you, Norm. So this is the little slut you have been telling me about? The one whose legs belong to me? hmm? Well, speak up man. Don’t just fucking stand there like a concrete statue. Answer me man!” Norm lowered his head. “Yes, Angharad, she is.”

  As Stephanie watched Norm talk to himself, she screamed. She screamed until her lungs burned for air. Then she thrashed her arms and legs, trying desperately to free herself. But Norm had tied her down too tight.

  “You see, Stephanie. My wife had a nasty accident whilst climbing with me in North Wales a few years back. She fell from a rock face.”

  He looked sad. Then he left the room for a brief moment, only to enter again with a wood cutting axe. The shaft must have been a good three feet long, and the steel glinted.

  “It’s no good screaming, nobody will hear you. They never heard the last one. The one whose arm I took for Angharad.”

  “Your wife is dead. Dead, you fucking lunatic! Help, somebody, help!”

  “How can she be dead, when she is here with us, talking to you and I?”

  “She isn’t talking to us, it’s all in your head, you psycho.”

  He walked over to the side of the bed, and lashed one of her legs down, using a length of wire taken from his coat pocket.

  “I’ll try to make it as quick and painless as I can.”

  “Oh, get the fuck on with it, Norm. Or do I have to come over there and do it myself.”

  “Please, Norm, don…”

  Her head flew back against the pillow as the hilt of the axe slammed into her teeth. A thin spray of blood shot up the wall behind her. “Shut up, bitch.” She could see two of Norm and his axe, but only felt it the once as it punched into the top of her thigh.

  “That’s it, Norm. Chop it off, chop ‘em both off. I want my legs back…”

  * * * *

  “Hey, Harry, we get a mention in that story!”

  “Well fuck me, we’re celebs and didn’t even know it,” Harry said.

  “The author of that book must know us. Seen our act around the place – how cool is that?”

  “Alright, alright - don’t soil yourself, woman.”

  “Yeah, but think of the publicity this writer could give us, Harry!”

  “We don’t know where this book has come from, or if there are any more of them out there – wake up, will you.”

  Crystal began to pout. She knew he was right. “But we don’t know,” she said, sulkily.

  “Huh, okay, okay. So we don’t really know. Not sure I like all the attention, anyway,” Harry admitted. “Not after the trail of distraction we’ve left behind.”

  “Oh, Harry. You worry too much. Nobody is ever going to suspect a thing from us two.”

  “I guess. We’ve left no traces. No stones unturned.”

  “I couldn’t have done it all without you, my love,” she said, chucking him under the chin.

  “Get fucking off me, woman,” Harry said, slapping at Crystal. She giggled. Just then, they came to the bottom of the Rhigos mountain, in the distance, just behind the abandoned colliery of Hirwaun – Castell Hirwaun could be seen in the distance. Crystal grew cold, and Harry’s next words cut her to the marrow. “You sure she’s going to want to see you, my dear?”

  Crystal gulped. “Of course,” she said, her arms shaking as her hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Why wouldn’t she want to? She’s still my sister, no matter what.”

  “Do I really need to answer that one?” Harry asked.

  “Tell me a story, Harry. It may help me keep my mind off it all. Please?” she asked, as they drove past the shutdown colliery. The pit wheels motionless – the iron tow bar of the wheel corroded. Crows had gathered on and around it, pecking and squawking.

  “The next one is a comic, again. And it goes by the name of “Hob’s””.

  “Hob’s?” Crystal asked. “That name rings a
bell…”

  HOB’S

  She passed a young man smoking, whilst sitting in his car. He stared into the café. She hadn’t seen him here before. Even though he was somewhat handsome, he gave her the creeps the way he just kept looking intently at what was going on inside.

  The café was a clean well-lighted place, she thought to herself. One woman worked the counter, whilst two waited on the tables. The place looked like one of those old-fashioned American diners; the ones that have padded red stools at the counter, with booths and tables here and there. A jukebox clung to one of the walls. The windows were big, plate-glass, with the name of the joint written across them in giant red lettering – Hob’s Café. But this café was different – because it also doubled as a bar.

  A pool table could be seen jutting out from around the farthest corner, next to the bar, where the barman was being kept busy by an old gent who was ordering a brandy. A neon sign above the optics read – Carling Black Label, which coincided with the lights that lit up the pumps. A squalid looking dude fed the jukebox pound coins, which in return, whispered to life.

  Others are strange

  when you are strange

  others look ugly

  when you are lonely

  women seem sinful

  when you're unloved

  roads are uneven

  when you are losing.

  Three of his mates stood around the green baize table. Their clothing suggested that they were indeed bikers or individuals who were into rock music, or both. “Death by Crowbar”, was etched into the jacket of one of them; his hair long, blond and shaggy. The one who had put money into the jukebox had an Iron Maiden patch on the left breast of his coat. They looked like lost souls – young boys with no homes to go home to – just their bikes and the open road.