The Bitter End

by Ann Evans

  ‘Oh, it's a horrendous story if it was true,’ Sally continued, perched on the edge of her chair. ‘I did some research on the area when I first moved here. The Communion hosts had been poisoned. People died in agony.’

  Paul frowned as something jabbed in his brain, disturbing some long, lost memory. Yes, he did vaguely recollect something about a massacre in their local church. It was a tale he’d heard long ago, before he was nine and a half and his world turned black.

  ‘As I just said, evil is never far away,’ said the priest. ‘You must be on your guard. That one incident, terrible though it was, had far reaching consequences. It made everyone for miles around too afraid to take Holy Communion. It's taken generations to rebuild confidence in the Sacraments. The devil was certainly doing a jig for joy in those days.’

  ‘Did they find out who did it?’ Sally asked, frowning.

  ‘Some say it was the priest himself. That he’d gone insane.’ Father Willoughby dunked another biscuit in his coffee and left it to dissolve into a floating scum. ‘Personally, I believe it was the work of Lucifer himself.’

  Paul raised his eyebrows. He’d heard enough of this religious mumbo jumbo. ‘It’s more likely to be the work of man than mystic.’

  ‘Man, yes!’ said the priest. ‘Absolutely a man – or a woman – who administered that poison, but under whose influence? Who was the controlling force behind those actions?’ His voice rose to its usual bellow. ‘Ask yourselves that question. Who – or what – was the controlling force?’

  Paul didn't know the answer, besides he'd got better things to think about. But the priest was getting into a stride. Paul heaved a sigh, guessing he was in for an afternoon of preaching. There was no avoiding it. He hadn't gone to church, so the church had come to him.

  9

  August 2018, Oakwood Residential Home

  Her breathing was shallow, her skin wrinkled, sagging, cold and clammy to the touch. The nurse brushed a strand of long grey hair from Petronella's sleeping face. She doubted the old lady would still be alive by morning – although she'd thought that practically every night since she started working here. Petronella was a tough old bird, that was for sure. Not one to give in. ‘Good night, dear,’ the nurse whispered, turning off the light, and closing the bedroom door.

  * * *

  Not asleep – never asleep. Vacating for a while that old decaying body. Leaving it sleeping, Lamia moved silently and freely.

  * * *

  As the raven I look upon thee in the day and in the night. Always, always there. Always seeing. I am all creatures and all creatures are me. I see everything through their eyes. I am all that is of this earth. My Lord has given me the power to move between all living things. One touch and you are mine and I am you. I shall shatter your mind. Fear me.

  * * *

  It was during the week that Sally went to London, showing her designer bags to more upmarket stores, when Paul’s woodcarvings really took off. The halogen lamp had been an absolute necessity, enabling him to work long into the night. Like some demon barber, he had shorn the locks from chunks of wood in a frenzy of delight. Loving every movement, especially the cutting action of his chisels. He delighted in selecting the right tool for each job with infinite care and breathing in the smell of wood like some heady perfume.

  Cracks had appeared in some pieces, as the wood had dried out. But somehow that added to the character of the objects. He hadn't taken Father Willoughby's advice and made matching crosses for him and Sally, but now – along a shelf in the barn – stood a row of carved oak wooden ornaments; a dormouse with a wedge of holey cheese, a pair of clogs and a horse with a decidedly delicate tail. His current project was his most ambitious so far, a head and shoulders bust.

  At the moment it could be male or female, it hadn’t yet revealed itself. More and more he was feeling that it wasn’t he who was creating these objects. It was as if they were there all along, it was just his job to smooth away the wood shavings to reveal what was inside each chunk of wood.

  His forages into the forest were almost daily, and always to the fallen oak, loving being able to bring useless pieces of wood back to life in other incarnations. Creating something from almost nothing was as powerful as a drug.

  Working under the warm intense light of the halogen lamp, he delicately shaped the crown of the head. There was a smoothness to its high forehead and a natural rise as if that was where the hairline began. As he worked he could see the way the hair would be swept back, forming wings over the ears – even though he hadn’t started on the ears yet. He sensed there would be short thick sideburns. So, male it was. For a while he'd wondered if he was subconsciously creating a bust of Sally. He prayed it wasn’t an effigy of Helena. Though he doubted it would look like anyone in particular when he’d finished.

  Moths were fluttering around the lamp, and then came another sound from the open barn door. He looked, but saw nothing beyond the dazzle of light that encircled him. For a second he felt the total isolation of his position, and the fact that he could be seen so clearly, yet unable to see a thing beyond his spotlight of illumination. Years of training were back in an instant.

  His hand tightened around the chisel’s handle and he swivelled the lamp on its pivot towards the door. Then he stood, before calmly walking through the barn to the back door. Quietly opening it, he stepped out into the semi darkness. He trod silently, making his way around the side of the barn, keeping close to the walls. Peeping around the corner, the beam from his lamp lit up a tree and the glow of two pairs of eyes became apparent.

  As his own eyes adjusted he could make out the shape of a cat, sitting stock still at the base of the tree, while on a branch sat an owl.

  ‘Bloody cat!’ He laughed to himself. It was an odd hollow sound in the silence surrounding him. ‘Hello Bluebell, if you’re looking for Sally, she’s not back till tomorrow.’

  He’d been putting food down for her as instructed, although this was the first time since Sally left for London that he’d actually seen the cat, even though the food had been duly eaten twice a day.

  ‘So, who’s your friend?’ He chuckled to himself, as a thought struck him, and he recited the nursery rhyme to his audience. ‘The owl and the pussy-cat … didn’t they go to sea in a beautiful pea green boat? They took some honey and plenty of money wrapped up in a five-pound note … Hey, how about that? Another memory from when I was a kid. You need to scare the crap out of me more often.’

  Unimpressed, Bluebell stood up, turned and strolled away, tail high. As if the show was over, the owl also took flight, spreading its magnificent wings in a silent flapping of feathers, soaring off into the night, vanishing like a ghost.

  * * *

  The following day he finished work and his woodcarving early. With a deliberate and conscious effort, he placed his tools away, left the bust amid its wood shavings and closed the barn door.

  Showered and changed, he set about making dinner for Sally’s return. Spaghetti bolognaise was something he could do decently. While frying the mince, he checked the time. Sally had texted him just before leaving London. He guessed she would be nearly home now, just hitting the narrow winding lanes.

  His head ached suddenly. Not the agonising shooting pains he’d felt on his arrival. They, thank God, hadn’t returned. This was just a twinge of pressure, a bit of stress that came with worry.

  He concentrated on the food, adding herbs, bringing a pan of water to the boil for the spaghetti. This had been one of Helena’s favourite meals. He remembered then, they’d had spaghetti bolognaise the night before the accident. It had been their last supper.

  A steel-like band tightened around his head and Paul’s thoughts flashed back. He was in his car, following Helena. He saw the tanker hurtle around the bend, and the driver’s expression as he fought to control the vehicle. Standing rigid at the cooker, Paul saw with utter clarity Helena's car slamming into the lorry, metal compacting. Then he was running towards the carnage. Her face … dear God
, her face. Why couldn’t she have died instantly if she’d had to die at all?

  He'd cursed the tanker driver. Cursed him for having a cat in his cab – a fact that had come out at the inquest. Cursed him for dragging him away before the whole thing exploded. For years afterwards, he'd wished he'd died with Helena. It was only since meeting Sally that life had become bearable again.

  What he thought was the smell of fuel burning turned out to be the mince, baking itself to the bottom of the saucepan. He scraped it off before it was totally ruined.

  He put the spaghetti back in the cupboard and reached for rice and chilli flakes instead. Chilli con carne would be good for their supper tonight. Helena had never liked spicy food.

  The table was set, and the kitchen filled with a delicious aroma of chilli when Sally came in loaded down with large plastic boxes that held her leather bags. Although she looked tired, there was a huge smile on her face.

  He relieved her of the boxes then took her in his arms. ‘God, you smell nice,’ he said between kisses.

  ‘Oh wow! What a lovely welcome home. I’ll have to go away more often.’

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said, which wasn’t exactly the truth. The fact was his woodwork and office work had occupied him so much he’d barely given Sally a thought.

  ‘And I’ve missed you,’ she said, her eyes sparkling. ‘But I’ve had such a fantastic week. I've negotiated loads of new deals with shops – some really upmarket ones, too.’

  ‘That's wonderful!’ He tried to match her excitement, tried to banish Helena’s screams from his head which had agonisingly turned to Sally’s screams as the minutes had ticked by before she'd arrived home. ‘I’m so pleased for you – and proud of you. You deserve it.’

  She kissed him again and broke free. ‘It’s brilliant, isn’t it? Anyway, I’ll give you all the juicy details in a mo. I need a shower, and am I right in thinking you’ve cooked? Something smells delish!’

  ‘It’s just chilli con carne.’

  ‘Fantastic! Will it wait another ten minutes?’

  He forced a smile. ‘It can … I can’t. Hurry back.’

  Sally laughed, and then looking up into his face, threw herself back into his arms and hugged him tightly.

  As she showered, Paul took some deep steadying breaths. She was home, all was well. The past was well and truly in the past. He had to let it go.

  He uncorked a bottle of rich, fruity burgundy and drank half a glass as he stirred the chilli. Listening to her movements upstairs, he timed the meal perfectly for her returning back down.

  She looked like an angel. She’d put on a flowing, ankle length dress, which could have been a nightdress. He hadn’t seen it before. He loved the way it moulded itself to her body. It was so light and see-through, presumably a negligee. He wasn’t that well up on women’s fashions. Helena generally wore pyj– he stopped himself. Sally wore see-through negligees and that’s what was important now.

  He looked her slowly up and down and gave an appreciative wolf whistle.

  She giggled. ‘I bought it in Oxford Street. Gorgeous, isn’t it?’

  He had an urgent desire to feel it – or rather to feel her. She felt as good as she looked, and he struggled not to make love to her right then and there on the kitchen table.

  But he guessed she was hungry, and besides, the night was young, and they had the rest of their lives together, didn’t they?

  * * *

  Take all the pleasures you have been given. I know you will, as all your kind have always assumed that pleasure is free. Nothing is free. Nothing. You will end up paying for everything. Happiness is a short-lived thing. But my happiness will be their bitter end. I go in the Devil's name.

  * * *

  When Sally saw the array of wood carvings the following morning, she beamed with delight. Paul tried to see them through her eyes, but only saw the mistakes and the faults that a real craftsman wouldn’t have made. He'd done some research online, and waxed the ends, leaving just a small patch at the bases to act as a kind of drain for the moisture to seep out. And he'd varnished them. Nevertheless, he was bemused by her reaction.

  ‘I can’t believe this?’ she said, picking up each object and examining it. ‘I knew you were improving, but this is just amazing.’ Then she looked at him and gave him a playful jab. ‘Oh, I get it. You’ve gone out and bought these as a joke.’

  ‘No, not at all,’ he answered, taking the carving of the horse from her. ‘They aren't that good. Look, its tail is far too thin at the base of its rump, it’ll probably snap off. And the clogs, one’s bigger than the other – not that they’re meant for wearing. I thought you could plant flowers in them or something.’

  She continued to look incredulously at them. ‘You could sell these. People would pay good money for them.’

  He laughed. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘But they would.’

  His arm slid around her shoulder. ‘I haven’t made them to sell. It’s just a bit of fun. My way of relaxing, a break from the daily grind.’

  ‘I’m surprised you’ve had time to do any work. You must have spent hours beavering away in here.’

  ‘Don’t worry, nothing's being neglected. They aren’t going to fire me for skiving off.’

  She shook her head. ‘As if! No, I’m just so impressed. Tell you what, we’ll take these into the village this afternoon. Juliet, the woman who owns the craft shop and stocks some of my stuff, will absolutely love these.’

  ‘I bet she doesn’t!’

  ‘Trust me, Paul, she’s going to snap them up.’

  ‘Fifty pence says she doesn’t.’

  Sally pretended to spit in her hand then they shook on it. ‘Right! You’re on.’

  ‘Did you really spit?’

  She poked him and smiled.

  * * *

  Sally’s hand fitted perfectly into his as they strolled through the woods later that day, although she was forever flitting off like some wood nymph, picking wild flowers, examining some strange piece of fungi or beetle.

  Paul had been coerced into putting his carvings, bubble wrapped, into a holdall which he dutifully carried, knowing full well that no one in their right mind would want to stock them. This truly was a case of beauty being in the eye of the beholder.

  Sally had intended sticking to the path, but Paul was keen to show her his fallen oak first. It was way off the beaten track, and he marvelled at how he'd come across it in the first place.

  The sight of the stricken tree stopped Sally in her tracks. She stared at the tangle of roots horribly exposed to the elements. ‘Oh, my goodness! How tragic.’

  ‘Isn’t it,’ he agreed, although he had long since stopped seeing this as a tragedy. Instead he saw it as a perfect source for the raw materials he needed for his carvings. Almost at once he spotted a branch with a knot in the bark that looked curiously like a face. If he cut that piece out and then sawed downwards he could make a kind of picture from it. It was an old face, or maybe it just looked old because of the wrinkles in the bark. A spark of excitement ignited deep within him and he could hardly wait to start working on it.

  Sally walked the length of the fallen oak. ‘There was a storm the winter before last. We had a sort of freak mini tornado. It must have happened then. Although you’d think it would have been protected from the wind, being in the middle of the forest like this. Diseased, I suppose.’

  Paul stooped down, letting his hand smooth over the grooves and cracks of the face in the wood. Closer, it lost some of its impact. Best viewed from afar, he figured … like an oil painting.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Sally screamed suddenly, jumping back as if she’d been stung.

  ‘What? What is it?’ He ran around the tree to where she stood, hands clasped to her mouth.

  She was still backing away. ‘Careful! Careful, Paul, there’s a snake.’

  ‘A snake. I thought you’d seen a …’ he didn’t know what he’d thought. Something horrible. But it was just a snake. ‘It’
ll be a grass snake. It won’t hurt you.’

  ‘It was an adder,’ she argued. ‘I saw its zig-zag markings. It’s gone under the trunk. Look you can just see its head. It’s peeping out at us.’

  He crouched down and peered to where Sally was pointing. He couldn’t see it at first, the way its brownish-red skin blended in with the forest floor. And then he spotted two eyes watching him with their tell-tale vertical pupils and the V-shaped pattern on the back of its head.

  ‘You’re right! How fantastic! God, it’s been years since I saw an adder. In fact, I’ve only ever seen one once before, when I was a kid and Owen wanted to …’

  A memory opened up. So vivid it could have been from a moment ago. He could picture himself pointing excitedly. ‘Owen look! It’s an adder.’

  But Owen hadn’t shared his excitement. ‘Kill it!’ he’d yelled back. ‘Kill it! Get a rock, smash it!’

  ‘No!’ he’d cried, horrified that Owen would want to kill anything so beautiful.

  ‘You're chicken!’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Kill it, then!’ And Owen had thrust a rock into his hand. ‘Go on, prove you ain’t chicken, crush its skull in. Go on, kill it!’

  ‘No, why should I? It isn’t doing any harm.’

  ‘They’re poisonous. Kill it!’

  He could picture it now coiling its way through the long grass and all the while Owen yelling chicken, chicken, Christian is a chicken!

  So, he’d raised his arm, took aim and sent the rock hurtling – deliberately aiming to miss. ‘Shit! Missed it! Find me another rock, Owen, quick.’

  Owen’s freckled face faded into the past again, and Sally’s snake recoiled deeper under the fallen tree and out of sight.

  She clutched his arm, pulling him away. ‘Leave it, Paul, it might come after us.’