Sudden Death. Phil Kurthausen
he said.
‘Mark, I wanted you to know … ’, and then she decided no more words, to say it was to unmake it. She let her hands drop to her sides and smiled at him. She revealed herself to him.
He folded his arms and looked at something behind her.
Someone started to laugh but it wasn’t him.
‘Oh my fucking God, she only went and did it. Hey Alison, smile for the camera! Nice scars. Fuck!’
She wheeled around and there sitting on the top of the mill wall were three demons, black plastic faces with red lips painted in evil grins. The Witches, for that was how she thought of them, were laughing hysterically. One of them was holding a camera and the flash exploded into diamond hard light.
She turned back to Mark, her face flushed, her throat as compressed as a strangler’s victim.
‘Why?’ escaped from the clutches of her throat.
Mark stopped laughing and suddenly he looked unsure. Maybe he saw something, the murder he had committed, the innocence he had killed, but he looked like a frightened boy now and not the man he had been moments before. He was staring in horror at the white scars that covered her arms, shoulder and stomach.
A hand pushed her to the floor.
‘Because we’ve seen you, we’ve all seen you mooning over him as if you’d ever have a chance and you needed to be told.’
The tallest witch was standing back taking picture after picture, the sound of the camera’s motor seemed as loud as a jet engine.
‘So have a guess what pictures are going to be all over the fence tomorrow and in every class room and posted to your dad!’
The girls laughed as one.
Alison scrambled away at the same time she tried to cover herself up. She picked up her blouse but it was snatched away by the girl with red hair.
The camera kept on clicking, the film turning.
Alison rolled over in the dirt and snatched up her bra and bag. She got to her feet and she ran.
‘Oi, where do you think you’re going!’ shouted the witch holding the camera.
Alison ran straight at her sending the camera tumbling to the ground. There was a screech of anger.
‘You’ll fucking pay for that. Get her!’
Alison ran and the beasts followed.
They had been no match for her speed though and after she fell on the cinder path she had run with every part of her mind and body and soon they and their cries had fallen behind. As she ran, she sobbed, but when she came to the front door of her house, the sobs fell silent, the fear disappeared and a cold, emotionless calm settled upon her.
She let herself into the house with her key and stood silently for a moment. The house was quiet. That afternoon quiet, when the only sounds were the distant rustle of her father’s paper coming from the study where he locked himself away, and from where she knew he would not venture until the late summer evening darkness descended like a shroud over the house. She couldn’t let him see her like this so slipped off her shoes and walked as quietly as she could through the house. As she passed the door to his study the sweet smell of black cherry tobacco seeped through the closed door, and the sound of a stifled sob.
She took the stairs one at a time, her bare feet soft and noiseless on the carpet. Creeping past her father’s bedroom she thought she heard a noise, and for a second she thought it sounded like a brush being pulled through long hair. It was a memory of a sound she had last heard many years before. Still, she froze by the open doorway, one foot suspended in the air, straining to catch the memory of that sound but there was nothing save for a far away crow’s caw.
Next to her father’s room was her bedroom and as soon as she was inside she shut the door softly behind her.
She flopped exhausted into the chair in front of her desk. She caught sight of herself in the mirror. The mascara she had applied so carefully only forty minutes previously now marked the track of each tear.
But the tears had stopped now. Something else had replaced the shame, the anguish and the heartbreak. This new feeling was hard and resolute, like the sharp edge of a steel blade.
Alison opened a drawer and took out a small black doll. The doll was wearing a black felt coat and a square black hat. The cloak was covered in thin, spiky gold stars. She called it Sleeping Beauty because the doll’s face was as white as ice just like the princess in the story. It was a troll. It had been made by her Icelandic grandmother for Alison’s mother when she was a child. When she was small Alison had imagined she could still smell her mother on the felt. She held it to her nose and inhaled deeply.
After a few seconds she returned it to the drawer. She opened another drawer and took out an extension cord that she used to plug in her hairdryer when the one socket was overloaded with other plugs. Her father had given her it only the week before and mumbled something about his little girl being grown up now.
She stood up and pulled the chair she had been sitting on into the middle of the room. She stood on the chair.
There was a noise from downstairs or maybe closer. She looked around. Her wardrobe door had slipped open revealing the darkness of its interior stuffed with clothes and the old toys that had recently been relegated there. She would have to hurry as soon her father would be calling her to dinner and when she didn’t come he would look for her.
She reached up and slipped the extension cord around the light fitting. She had to push to one side the Paddington Bear lampshade that hung from the fitting but this was easily done. Quickly now, she tied a knot and then looped the plug end into a simple granny knot. She placed the loop around her neck.
There was another noise, a rustling like rats under the floorboards. She ignored it and kicked the chair away.
Alison dropped two feet, her toes lightly brushing against the carpet. She pirouetted like a broken jewellery box ballerina, twisting as the cord spun her around. And as the breath began to leave her for the last time she looked directly into the darkness of the old wardrobe and there she saw, unmistakably, a pair of red bloodshot eyes looking straight back at her.
She span once more and then was gone.
The girl sucked in her bottom lip and looked at Erasmus with as lascivious a glare as he had ever received. She was young, early twenties he would have guessed if he was inclined to give it much thought, which he wasn’t. Her short denim skirt had ridden even higher up her slim thighs than he thought physics would allow, and now she placed a tanned hand under his shirt and on his chest, and then ran it, long manicured nails digging into his skin, slowly down his torso, stopping just above his groin. She paused for a moment and then slipped her fingers underneath his belt
Erasmus groaned, a groan of pleasure but also of despair. He thought of his mobile phone tucked away in his inside jacket pocket. Martha’s number was in there. It wasn’t too late, he could take a step back, look at his behaviour objectively for a second – that’s all it would take. Enough time for him to recognise the old behaviours for what they were, call Martha, and tell her he needed her help. He had done it before and she had never failed to pick up, as he had never failed to pick up when she had called on the diminishing number of occasions when she had succumbed.
His right hand moved towards his jacket and his phone. The girl’s large green-flecked eyes, pupils dilated, flickered and she grabbed his hand and took his fingers between her lips, sucking and biting the nails.
This time his groan was pure lust. All thoughts of calling Martha departed. He was lost. He moved forward and placed his left hand on her buttocks and drew her near to him.
She laughed and then pushed him back against the sink. Slowly she undid the three buttons on her tight electric blue blouse, revealing a black silk bra, and