“Come off it Nate, you and I both know the closest your uncle got to this chair was that someone the same age as him once sat in it. Forty dollars, take it or leave it.”
“Fine. Forty it is, but throw in another five for the cushions and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
Tom Williams, the waistcoated dealer pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and peeled off two twenties and a ten dollar note, handing them to Nate Blackwell, a player in the local secondhand trade. Dealing with people like Nate was distasteful but an essential part of the trade. They say every antique has been stolen property at least once in its life, even half a dozen times depending on what it is, but he didn’t want to think Nate sold him stolen goods. Given the age and quality of the stuff Nate sent his way, he had his suspicions as to the source of an unending supply of Lladro, rocking chairs, walking sticks and silver photo frames. Only one sector of society owned that many silver photo frames and cane walking sticks - the surplus of old folks who retired here for the weather. Whether Nate tricked them out of their treasures or whether he was a financial saviour to every pensioner within a fifty mile radius, Tom didn’t want to think too much on.
Tom’s normal clientele came from the well-heeled side of town and having someone like Nate Blackwell flogging his wares in his elegant and air conditioned store wasn’t the look he desired. He’d started out just like Nate, turning up to every yard sale, scouring the smaller auction rooms for gems hidden in box lots, buying direct from the classifieds in the local paper, but now he did most of his buying at more prestigious auctions, where being seen to bid was as much a part of his persona as the huge premises on the high street in the best part of town.
Tom Williams massaged his reputation like a cruise ship masseuse, and courted publicity, good publicity, so getting tied up with anything shady would be the death knell to his business. And yet he still bought off Nate, because he did well out of the stuff Nate sold him, mainly due to the silverware. His clients had the appetite of a bear preparing for hibernation. They devoured anything sterling silver, as if owning silverware was a badge of rank, a requirement for their entry into the upper class. Anyone could buy a flash car — second hand or on finance, but not everyone had mantlepieces stuffed with family photos grinning from polished silver frames, nor could they serve their Canadian salmon on silver plates underneath gleaming silver candelabra. What Nate sold him flew out the door which is why Tom asked him what was in the box on the floor.
“Ah, there’s good stuff in here. The best stuff. Thought about keeping it for myself. Shame about the lady who owned it, had a bad fall and has to move into a home so can’t take it all with her. Hospital bills are a killer.” Nate tried to put on a sad face but the dollar signs in his eyes made him look like a speed addict as he hiked the box onto a gleaming rosewood table almost sighing with pleasure as he opened the lid.
Tom pushed his glasses further up his nose and peered into the box. Nestled amongst layers of old newsprint lay a fine Georgian tea service, complete and in perfect condition. Tom purred. More than any cameo brooch, or eclectic sword stick, these old sets were impossible to get in such good condition.
“It’s a nice one, eh?”
“It’s okay, a little dated compared to what I’d prefer, but it’s okay,” Tom replied, his glasses slipping back down his nose as he looked at Nate over the frames.
“Dated? Come off it, Tom. It doesn’t get any better. Two hundred dollars and it’s yours. A bargain. I’ve done my homework see. The lady who’s selling needs the cash, you know what healthcare is like, worse than the roads.”
Tom mulled over the other man’s offer. Two hundred was a bargain. He didn’t for a moment buy the story about the woman and her healthcare bills but it was part of their dance. But this time Nate wasn’t lying, he was telling the truth — the truth as far as the good Doctor Perry had told him.
“Two hundred is a little steep but I’ll pay it this time,” and pulled out a wad of cash. He knew it was worth at least five times what he was about to pay, possibly more depending on the makers mark, but he’d check after Nate took his filthy self out of his shop.
“As always, it’s been a pleasure, Tom. I’ll be by again next week. Any requests?”
Nate always asked. In the beginning Tom hesitated to ask for specific items, worried Nate was stealing to order. But their relationship had been going on for years with no interest from the law, so he’d got into the habit of obliquely asking for items which Nate produced, sooner or later.
“Cufflinks, preferably gold, Father’s Day is coming up, so some of those would go down well…”
Nate nodded and the cash in his hand vanished into his already bulging jeans pocket and sauntered out the door.
Nate cast a quick glance up and down the street. He didn’t expect to see a stream of cop cars or a detective dangling a pair of handcuffs, but he always checked. A steady stream of blonde diamond-bedecked women flitting in and out of the high end shops littering the street and not a single one of them looked his way. To them he played no part in their perfect world. Although he was the one who sourced all their fancy antiques and jewellery, he was as invisible as the gardener and the nanny and the housekeeper. He was nothing to them, but the cash in his pocket was real enough, a security blanket. Underneath his filthy jeans and faded sweatshirt he had a head for numbers, which he always made work for him. He was careful with his money and his accounts. The taxman got you in the end, not the local sheriff, just ask Al Capone or Bernie Madoff. He declared enough to keep the taxman happy and hid enough to keep himself comfortable in his retirement. He had enough to keep him out of those godforsaken waiting rooms they called old folks homes; God’s Waiting Room is what he called them. He would retire somewhere flash, somewhere five star, that was his plan, and the good Doctor Perry was his meal ticket. So far the clients the good doctor sent his way had been more than enough to finance his retirement plans. That was Florida in a nutshell, you were either retired or planning for your retirement.
He whistled to himself as he walked down the road satisfied with his efforts for the day. The rest of the stuff he’d picked up from the old lady’s house was on its way to Havisham’s Auction House, all rubbish from Walmart and Ikea. Cheap junk. Pointing his keys at his beat up Land Rover, the beast beeped satisfactorily, and he slid into the drivers seat. He couldn’t see out the rear windows due to the mountain of boxes in the back. He had a big job ahead of him farming this lot out, all the boxes earmarked for the right dealer. It never paid to put all your eggs in the one basket which is why he spread the love around. Kept them all happy and hungry for more. Sure the best stuff went to Tom Williams because he had the most money, but others would spend just as much depending on what it was he was selling, stuff Tom wouldn’t even give a second glance to — medals, linen, old records. He couldn’t believe the price old vinyl commanded now. He used to chuck the stuff into the trash, but he’d paid a little more attention to record collections he bought after reading a few articles online and had held a couple back here and there, so had a nice selection in his storage locker, the one no one knew about, the one he paid cash for no questions asked.
Changing his whistle to a decent David Bowie melody, he drove off to his next appointment, another house clearance from Doctor Perry. This first visit just an appraisal — he had to see how much time he’d need to clear out the estate. Being a doctor to old people paid off, for him anyway, although he didn’t want to be a patient of the good doctor’s — they tended to die with great regularity.
28
Myra stood at the kitchen window, a feather duster in her hands watching the twins climbing the tree. They weren’t yelling or screaming like normal little boys but communicated silently with knowing looks, which made her uneasy. Instead of climbing or swinging on the branches they’d settled together on the branch brushing against the upstairs corner of the house. Myra twisted to head to see what they were looking at and her blood ran cold — the boys were watching the window
of the nursery, as still as statues.
Myra filled a glass with water, chugging it back to quell the nauseating thoughts running through her mind. Just little boys playing in a tree, making faces in the window, playing their own little game, inventing a world far more exciting that the one they inhabited. They were just little boys she told herself again. Still, she turned from the window and dropping the duster on the table, hurried to the nursery, taking the stairs two at a time, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she stumbled into the quiet room.
The sleepy snuffles of the baby in the crib met her winded gasps, but she still placed her hand on his chest to feel the rise and fall of his breaths for herself. Satisfied, she turned towards the window. She’d left it open a fraction, to allow the breeze to circulate but now she shut it, sliding the bolt. The boys had vanished from the branch.
Myra pressed her face against the glass, scouting the lawn for any sign of the boys. Two pairs of shoes remained at the bottom of the tree, so they hadn’t gone far then. She turned back towards the crib and tumbled backwards into the window with a cry.
The twins stood either side of the crib, hands by their sides, watching Myra as she struggled to regain her composure. How had they made it upstairs so fast and so quietly?
“Hello, boys,” she said, the windowsill pressing into her back, too unsettled to move away from the wooden support.
“We’re hungry,” said one.
Myra still couldn’t tell them apart so nodded, her mouth dry. She didn’t trust trying to answer them coherently.
“Why is the baby still sleeping?” asked the other one, reaching out to poke the sleeping child.
“Don’t touch him!” Myra shrieked, darting forward.
The boy dropped his hand and tilted his head to the side.
“I wouldn’t hurt him, he reminds me of my brother. He’s dead too.”
He’d said it so honestly that Myra questioned her irrational fear. Just little boys who’d lost their mother and a baby brother. Her husband had said nothing about a brother but maybe he didn’t know? Had she misjudged them? Guilt stole over her. She wasn’t herself since she’d tipped out the tonic her husband left on the bench for her. Was the paranoia a result of not drinking it? Either way she felt her grasp on life slipping away bit by bit.
“I didn’t know, I’m sorry. What was his name?” She still stood over the crib not trusting the innocence she saw on the face in front of her.
“His name was Peter, he cried lots, not like this one. He’s quiet for a baby,” Jesse replied.
“Peter is in heaven now with your mommy and as sad as that is, at least they’re together, with your daddy too.”
“Our daddy is-” Jesse started until James elbowed him in the ribs.
“Your father is what?” Myra asked.
“Gone,” James replied, taking his brother’s identical hand in his and walking him downstairs. The clicking of their bedroom door sounded more than ominous to Myra. Gone wasn’t the same as dead. What were the boys doing in her house when it sounded like they had a father? She couldn’t leave the house but she had access to the internet and until the baby needed her, she planned to do her own research.
Myra never got round to searching the internet. The baby woke up screaming, the twins turned up hungry, and her husband came home earlier than usual. Myra prepped snacks and dinner and bottles and baths and changing sheets and wiping up spills and a hundred other things a mother normally did. She wasn’t a mother, had never been a mother. They’d tried but she’d never conceived and her husband had suggested fostering children as a solution to her barrenness. They’d fostered dozens of babies, the occasional toddler, but this was the first time they’d fostered children who didn’t rely on her for their every need.
“Why are they still here?” she asked her husband after settling the children for the night. Myra wished there was a lock on the twin’s bedroom door but had persuaded herself she was being foolish so tried not to think about the baby alone upstairs in its crib while the twins were asleep in their room. There’d been no more blood noses or anything else of concern. She’d rescued their shoes from under the tree, sliding them into the shoe rack in the laundry. She might not have been so relaxed if she’d seen the spread of feathers decorating the lawn under the tree, or if she’d noticed the wad of feathers stuffed into the toe of Jesse’s trainer, put there for entertainment later. Feathers plucked from the breasts of the chicks the boys had found in a nest high in the tree. No, she wouldn’t have been sitting tucked up in the armchair talking to her husband about the boys sleeping in the room down the hall.
Doctor Perry sighed, turning his dark eyes towards his wife. She’d interrupted his viewing of a wildlife programme and she could tell he was less than pleased. He was busy, with little downtime, but she was more responsible for the boys until the child welfare people found a new home for them.
Myra always found saying goodbye to the children they fostered difficult. Her husband took them away and they never spoke of them again. She’d tried remembering their names, but there were too many, so she kept a journal recording their names and the dates she’d cared for them and important milestones she’d been privileged to witness, in case their adoptive parents ever asked. Also for her own gratification. She knew she was a great mom and her journal reassured her of that. Some babies had only been with them for a day or too which she’d forgotten to add in, but overall she’d kept a comprehensive record of all the babies who had passed through their home. She’d long given up any thought of persuading her husband they should adopt one. She’d raised it several times in the beginning and his response was almost violent.
Her husband didn’t answer her straight away but she could see him weighing up his answer. He chose his words like a chemist dispensing pills, never saying anymore than he needed to, as if each syllable a treasure, as if he only had a limited supply of words and refused to spend more than necessary.
“It is complicated. The coroner hasn’t release their mother’s body. After that, the child welfare agency will step in, but until then they will stay here. Are you having trouble with them?”
Myra shook her head. She’d long given up wasting words on her husband as well. She spoke more to the cat and the babies than she spoke to her husband.
“I’ll need more things for them if they’re staying with us a while. Toys and clothing, I should take them to the mall…”
“No, order what you need online. There’s no need to take them out, they need stability not crowds of shoppers jostling them in a Walmart aisle.”
“But they should choose what they want—”
“Online, Myra. There’s no need to go out. I won’t discuss it any more. I think I’ll head off to bed, today was long, and a patient died. Goodnight.”
She watched her husband retreat. He never spoke about his work so it was a surprise he’d mentioned the patient dying. Myra presumed every doctor had patients die during their careers, but if her husband’s patients ever died, this was the first she’d heard of. She sipped the cooling cup of tea she’d made — camomile, although now the brew tasted foul, like cold dish water mixed with turps. She’d make a fresh one because she needed all the help with sleeping tonight. Staying in the nursery tickled at the back of her brain. Her husband wouldn’t appreciate that, he liked her in his bed or he had, now she wasn’t so sure.
Waiting for the kettle to boil, Myra peered out the kitchen window. The yard was pitch black, the surrounding neighbours choosing to be as parsimonious with their electricity as Myra and her husband. No point paying for electricity you aren’t using he’d told her from the moment she’d first crossed the threshold. That had been in a different house in a another state but it was a lesson she hadn’t forgotten. If she’d been able to see the lawn in the dark, she might have seen the wind picking up the downy feathers and dance them across the lawn. A macabre dance of many.
Taking her camomile tea to the nursery, Myra didn’t see the desecrated nest slip from i
ts precarious perch spilling its decaying contents onto the lawn. Four freshly plucked chicks, two with a noose of woven wool around their necks. The other two had no heads.
If Myra knew the two missing avian heads were wrapped in plastic and hidden in Jesse’s pocket for further investigation, she’d have barricaded the twin’s bedroom door. And it was fortunate James hadn’t told her he wanted to see what connected the sparrow’s gelatinous eyes and what would happen if he poked Myra’s sewing needle into them…
Myra’s ginger cat padded over to the nest and flattened himself to the ground, ears back against his head as he smelt the boys — the stench of evil enveloping the broken nest and its mutilated occupants.
29
Pungent gasoline filled the air and the drip drip of water echoed in his ear together with the cries of the night birds. With his arm numb, he couldn’t feel the shattered glass embedded in his skin. The ticking of the cooling engine added to the evening’s symphony. They’d won the final and the post-game celebrations were massive but he was getting too old to party with the players and the hangers-on. So many sycophantic girls, who got younger and prettier every year, and the way they threw themselves at the boys… Elijah hated to think how many fathers his players would be by the end of the year. He stayed at the party to chaperone, even though the players were old enough not to need a one, but the parents laid their trust on his shoulders and he took that seriously. He’d only had one bourbon, just a small nip, half a cup, he could handle it and it made the torturous party bearable.
Elijah woke up with a start, sweat plastering his hair to his face and his body to the sheets, his arm tingling with pins and needles from sleeping on it. He struggled to sit up, the memories of his dreams strangling him as much as the sheets were. He didn’t realise he’d cried out in his sleep — crying for a life he’d lost and the lives he’d destroyed. The dream was nothing new; he had it every night, a hellish reminder of the end of his life. Only half remembered, other than the smell of fuel mingling with bourbon, and the blackness. A blackness which swallowed him whole and then regurgitated him like the figurative Moby Dick, leaving him to relive the night over and over. A purgatory only death would release him from.
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