by Park, J. R.
‘Are you okay?’ Martin asked a shocked looking Polly.
She tried to wipe the smear of food from her clothes but they had already stained.
‘Oh dear,’ she said in horror, ‘look at me!’
She held her arm up to reveal a cut just below the elbow. A piece of flying glass had sliced her forearm!
Anger swirled in his stomach. He could put up with the abuse that came his way, but Polly didn’t deserve this. How dare they bring her into it! How dare they hurt her! He turned to the sofa where his Punch costume had been drying from its earlier cleaning. Perched against its outstretched hand rested the wooden bat. The costume’s face grinned, unflinchingly at Martin as if it offered him the weapon with an evil smile. Angrily he took hold of the bat and ran to the front door, prepared to take on whoever might be out there.
‘You fucking bastards,’ he shouted as he made his way onto the street, ‘I’ll get you, you bastards!’
But as he stepped out into the cold air the road appeared deserted. No one was there. Whoever had thrown the brick must have run off or be hiding. Martin didn’t care if they were still in the street or not, if they were hiding he was going to show them a thing or two. He swung the bat around wildly through the air, screaming as he did so.
‘Come on you cowards,’ he screamed as if possessed by a nature far more malevolent that his own, ‘I’ll rip your heads off! Come and face me! I’ll beat you to a pulp! I’ll kill you all, you hear me? I’ll kill you all! You destroyed my life once. Are you determined to do it again? Is that what you want? I’ll destroy yours! Just leave me alone. Leave me alone!’
He broke into a sob as he continued to swing his weapon and didn’t notice Polly as she came out to comfort him. Before he realised she was there he felt his bat strike her on the shoulder, knocking her to the ground. The sickening feel of his weapon hitting his lover immediately drained his anger from his body, leaving him with a gut wrenching remorse.
‘Polly! Polly! Are you okay?’ he cried in a weak and pathetic voice.
He took her by the arm and helped her to her feet. His head span with adrenalin and his ears rang as he tried to centre himself, to give his lover the attention she needed.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he pleaded to her, ‘I’ve been hounded by some yobs for a few days. I’m so sorry.’
‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ Polly said as she straightened herself out, ‘but I think I’ll be going home.’
‘Polly,’ he called out after her as she stormed off, ‘please let me walk you.’
‘No,’ she called back angrily, ‘I’ll be safe enough. More safe than I would be if I stayed here. Goodnight!’
As Martin watched her walk down the street he knew it would be useless to follow. She didn’t look back once, and when she was out of sight he turned to the house, went inside and slumped on the sofa. He looked at the mess around the room and tears began to trickle down his cheeks once more.
Not Polly as well, he thought. Please not Polly. I can’t lose it all. Not again.
Sleep began to drag him from consciousness as the sorrowful man fell forward onto the sofa. He crashed into the soft cushions and disturbed the Punch costume that slipped down the back rest.
Its arm fell on top of Martin’s head, softly, like it was offering him comfort. As if it was the only friend he had.
Martin couldn’t remember going to bed but that’s where he found himself when he woke up with a start. Looking around the room it was still nighttime and the rain rapped gently against the window. As usual his skin was damp with sweat, a symptom of the nightmares he had endured. But this time it was different. The room wasn’t as still as it normally was. The shadows seemed to restlessly undulate from the corners of his eyes and the air felt thin in his lungs. As he came to he could hear an incessant clicking sound, over and over. He strained to listen through the ringing of silence realising it wasn’t a clicking at all. No, this was laughing.
It was faint but sounded like it was in the house, like it was coming from downstairs.
Martin slowly crept down the dark staircase, the laughter growing louder and more distinct as he got closer to its source. He made his way through the living room and noticed the bat by the sofa. He picked it up for protection and immediately felt more comfortable. The brown bat looked grey in the dark light but the end seemed black. As Martin studied the end he watched the blackness drip from the bat onto the floor. It ran like liquid, pooling on the carpet. He dipped his fingers into the puddle and, bringing them to his nostrils, he smelt the metallic aroma of blood. Looking up he noticed the same black blood had made a trail, snaking across the floor and into the reception room. He thought it strange that no fear entered his mind as he followed the gory trail and found Pippa lying dead on the floor. Her eyes had rolled back and blood trickled from her mouth. He tried to feel shocked, to feel disgusted at the sight before him but his emotions remained Prozac flat.
He eyed the bat in his hand.
This was the weapon that killed the poor girl. The weapon that I am holding, he thought.
Instinctively he dropped the bludgeoning device as if the carved wooden stick was the evil somehow responsible for the death of the girl that lay before him.
The laughter grew louder and more manic as it began to echo in his head. Turning his back on the corpse he followed the sound of the crazed hysterics. Was he going mad? Was that the laughter of Mr Punch?
Making his way into the kitchen he found a wooden chest positioned in the middle of the floor. Martin had never seen this chest before and approached it with caution. Kneeling down he pulled back the latch that kept it shut and slowly opened the lid. The laughter grew louder as the lid came back.
Inside the chest his Punch and Judy dolls were neatly packed away, one on top of the other. As he eyed the expertly carved puppets the laughter grew louder still and shook through his brain. Pain surged across his forehead. He clenched his cranium and fell to the floor, his legs giving way under the strain of the torture that pounded inside his skull.
Just at the moment it became almost too unbearable the laughter seemed to melt away, being replaced by a chant of a hundred voices that looped round and round.
‘Make them pay, make them pay, make them pay,’ the voices chanted with vengeful abandon.
The window beside him smashed and glass fragments rained down around him. This time it was not a brick however as he watched the missile continue its trajectory across the room and roll onto the floor. This time it was Polly’s severed head! Her lips were still bright red with this evening’s lipstick and there was no mistaking those blue, feathered earrings.
‘Make them pay, make them pay,’ the chanting grew louder.
He tried to get to his feet but found all strength had vanished from his body. He turned his gaze back to the chest and watched, wide-eyed, as the puppets stood up, one by one, and began to walk towards him.
As they got closer he could see their mouths moving, mimicking the chants.
‘Make them pay, make them pay.’
The puppets formed a circle around their paralysed master. He tried again to stand, to thrash his arms, to make a sound, but nothing was forthcoming. All he could do was watch as the Punch puppet climbed out of the chest and walked with uneven steps towards him. It climbed up on his body and along his chest until it met his gaze, eyeball to wooden, painted eyeball.
‘Make them pay, make them pay,’ the others chanted louder and louder.
The Punch puppet opened Martin’s mouth wide and, head first, began to crawl in. Martin gagged and choked as his breathing was cut short whilst the mischievous character of make believe dragged itself down his throat.
The phone bellowed across the house and freed Martin from his horrific vision. He sat upright in bed and gasped large breaths of air. He picked up the phone receiver and glanced at the clock. It read half past nine.
‘Hello?’ Martin answered.
‘Hello Martin, it’s Polly,’ came the unexpected but f
amiliar voice.
‘Polly!’ he gasped again. ‘I’m so sorry about yesterday. Are you okay?’
His apology stumbled over itself as he tried to get it out before she might hang up.
‘Look Martin,’ she spoke calmly but with authority, ‘I’m sorry about last night as well, I shouldn’t have left you like I did. I used to be in a violent relationship and your outburst brought back some horrific memories.’
His stomach contracted as he understood her reaction, ‘I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. It’s been strange for me coming back and getting used to life here. I should keep my temper under control. You must know that I would never intentionally hurt you.’
‘Everything happened so fast yesterday,’ she explained sympathetically, ‘I’ve been up all night thinking about how badly I acted. You clearly needed me and I shouldn’t have left. Why don’t we meet up at the pier today?’
‘That would be good,’ he swallowed a lump in his throat.
‘Shall we say twelve o’clock?’ Polly suggested.
‘Twelve o’clock it is.’
This was the news Martin had hoped for. Mistakes can happen, people can do bad things, but people can also be forgiven. They could be offered another chance. He felt himself weep a little, like he had over the last few years, but this time it was for a very different reason.
It was the day of the carnival and the town was buzzing with excitement and preparations. Martin soaked up the atmosphere of the townsfolk as he made his way to the pier. This was the Stanswick Sands he remembered. He heard his name being called across the street and looked around, fearful following the events of the last few days. To his pleasant surprise he saw the pretty figure of Grete innocently waving at him from the entrance to the pier. He crossed the street and bounded towards her.
‘Hello Martin,’ she called out, ‘how are you?’
‘Hello Grete, I’m fine,’ he responded to her greeting, ‘I’m just taking in the local scenery. You’ve found the joys of the pier then?’
‘Oh yes,’ Grete was always so nice and friendly, ‘it really is a lovely place. And thank you so much for the other night. Is everything okay?’
‘Yes it’s fine,’ Martin brushed her concerns aside with a little lie, ‘haven’t had any more trouble. Just kids messing about.’
Kaspar came running up to his mother excitedly pleading.
‘Mum, mum, can I go again?’ he begged.
‘Of course you can, but afterwards you’re going to take me on the big wheel, right?’ Grete instructed as she handed her son some coins.
Kaspar agreed and dashed off to the entrance for the Maze of Mirrors. The two adults watched him run with an excitable charge and they smiled for his youth.
‘You were right about the Maze of Mirrors,’ Grete explained, ‘Kaspar loves it. I think he’s been in five times now.’
Martin gave a triumphant grin, ‘Like I always say, they can make computer games as realistic and complicated as they like but nothing beats a good old fashioned bit of real life fun.’ He turned back to Grete, ‘If you have time later on today I could show you my old Punch and Judy tent. I could give Kaspar a taste of the real British seaside.’
‘Kaspar so loved the puppets, but our day is quite full,’ she said apologetically.
‘What about the end of the day,’ Martin persisted, eager to get back behind the tent and perform, ‘straight after the carnival?’
‘Really?’ Grete sounded genuinely pleased. ‘If it’s no problem.’
‘It’s no problem. My old storage room is here on the pier. The tent may need a little cleaning but it’s all still here,’ he explained. ‘I’ll get it set up. It would be a nice way to end the evening for the little boy. Meet me here.’
He pointed to the ground they stood on.
‘Okay, it’s a date,’ Grete winked.
‘Excellent. Speaking of dates I have one shortly, with a very pretty lady,’ Martin looked at his watch and it read one minute to twelve.
The two said their goodbyes. Grete went to wait for Kaspar at the exit of the Maze of Mirrors whilst Martin took a spot to view the waves rolling gently in the surprisingly mild weather.
He didn’t have to wait for long as Polly arrived in a flourish of blue and purple velvets, unusually punctual. He waved to her and beamed as he mused over her beauty.
‘Polly,’ he called as she approached, ‘thank you so much for meeting me, you look lovely today. Would you like a-’
His offer was cut short when her face changed to a scowl and her palm slapped him, hard across the face. Martin was taken aback and looked at her, open mouthed and dumb founded; his face glowing red from the contact.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ she demanded as she threw a local newspaper down at his feet.
The front page had a picture of Martin Powell on it and the headline beside the unflattering and out of date portrait read Convicted Paedophile Returns.
Jo held the same edition of the newspaper in her hand as she stormed frantically round Pippa’s living room, overwhelmed and pulling at her hair.
‘You said they would forget about it!’ she whined to Pippa. ‘That no one here was bothered! This article seems pretty bothered.’
She threw the newspaper to the floor, disgusted to look at it any more.
Pippa was calm and collected, ‘I’ll admit I was shocked to see him and I may have over reacted but this is tomorrow’s chip paper. Forget about it.’
Her calming demeanor had no effect on her best friend who continued to pace up and down the length of the room.
‘Forget about it?’ Jo cried. ‘It’s such a mess. So long ago, so much trouble and for what? How much did we take? Thirty, forty quid?’
‘Forty quid,’ Pippa answered coldly, ‘and we didn’t even spend it! You went and burned it didn’t you? Saying you felt so guilty.’ Her voice still held tones of resentment for something so historic.
‘And the guilt has been eating away at me for all these years,’ Jo knew this day would come, ‘I wish we had just fessed up to our parents about stealing the money when Mr Powell caught us.’
Pippa sounded angry as she recounted the past. ‘He caught us! He didn’t have to threaten to tell our parents!’ She took her friend by the arms and guided her to a seating position on the sofa, her voice soft and gentle once more, ‘Look it was bad, I know. But we were young. How were we to know what would happen? It’s too late to go back now.’
Jo nodded and looked at her feet, ashamed of herself and unable to look Pippa in the eye. Pippa rose to her feet and picked up the paper that had been tossed to the floor, glancing over the article.
‘He’s here,’ she said, ‘but the paper is still siding with us, and that means so is the town.’ She began to read the article in a mocking tone, ‘Poor Phillippa Starr was startled when she came face to face with Martin Powell. Poor. Phillippa. Starr.’ She hung on every word, over emphasizing the pronunciation of each syllable until it sounded ludicrous.
Jo giggled at her friend’s comic interpretation and wiped away the moisture from her cheeks. From the next room a baby began crying. Pippa left Jo for a moment then came back holding her son in her arms. She cooed and spoke softly to him.
‘Did we wake you Danny? Are you hungry?’ She turned back to Jo, ‘Forget about it. We’ll have fun tonight at the carnival and tomorrow no one will care about Martin bloody Powell.’
‘Yeah you’re right,’ Jo sounded more cheery by the minute. ‘I have to finish work first.’
‘You have a shift tonight?’ Pippa asked.
‘Nothing I could do about it. But I’ll be out afterwards.’
Pippa cradled her child and sat next to her friend, giving her a reassuring smile.
‘Good. Everyone will have a great time at the carnival and this sorry mess will all be forgotten,’ she purred. ‘Everything will be fine.’
‘Everything is not fine!’ Polly screamed to Martin as they stood arguing on the pier. ‘We go out and have fun, I let you
kiss me. You lose it last night and I forgive you. I come to meet you here and see this on the front page of the local paper! Now I know where you’ve been for the last ten years. Prison!’
‘Polly you have to listen to me,’ he pleaded, ‘I was set up by a couple of kids.’
She turned and began to walk away, unwilling to listen, but this time Martin did not just watch her storm off and instead followed behind.
‘Listen,’ he implored, ‘I caught them stealing some money from me on the beach. I chased them off and threatened I would speak to their parents. The next thing I know I have an angry mob outside my house and the police come and arrest me saying I had sexually abused the girls. Polly…’
She continued to march on, uninterested in his cries for innocence. His frustration grew, if only she would give him a chance and listen. Out of desperation he held her arms and stood in front of her, blocking her path.
‘Please listen. Please believe me,’ he begged, ‘the town had made their mind up. I didn’t stand a chance. I would never have done such a thing. I was hap-’
‘Get off me Martin!’ she screamed.
Her protests where loud enough to attract three young men that were walking by. To Pete, Jordan and Paul the pier was their territory and all the young kids in the town knew it. It seemed this old man needed to be educated.
‘Are you okay, Miss? Is he bothering you?’ Pete asked, sounding concerned but really just grateful for a bit of action.
‘Hey,’ said Jordan pointing at Martin, ‘I recognise you. You were on the front of the paper this morning.’
The third member of the gang, Paul, stepped close to Martin and began pushing him violently.
‘Yeah,’ Paul scoffed as he pushed Martin clear of Polly, ‘you’re that paedo Punch and Judy guy. Come back to find some more kids have you?’